[Illustration: On the Automobile Boulevard Around Lake Tahoe]

[Illustration: Atlantic to Pacific Automobile Party, Premier Tour,
1911, Stopping at Tahoe Tavern]

[Illustration: Copyright 1910, by Harold A. Parker. Cascade Lake
and Mt. Tallac]

Thus in storm and stress was this road born, and in the winter time
of our day it is still a road of storm and stress, as are all of the
roads over the High Sierras. It must be remembered that while the
elevation at Sacramento is but thirty feet above sea level, at Summit
it is 7018 feet, and even at Truckee, where the turn is made for
Tahoe, it is 5819 feet. Naturally such high altitudes receive
considerable snow, which render the roads impassable during the winter
season. In 1914 I went from Truckee to the Summit on the 10th of June,
and save for two or three patches of snow which were rapidly melting,
there were no serious obstacles that any good motor could not
overcome.


FROM SACRAMENTO TO TAHOE ON THE EMIGRANT GAP AND DONNER LAKE ROUTE,
135 MILES

From Sacramento the grade is easy and the country fairly open until
Auburn is reached (35-1/2 miles.) The roads are excellent, the
disintegrated granite affording local material close at hand for
perfect road building. The Sierras stretch away to the east in gently
ascending billows, covered over with richest verdure of native trees
of every variety, and of the thousands of orchard trees that are
making this region as famous for its fruits as it used to be for its
mines. For from 1849 until the hydraulic mines were closed down by
the anti-débris decision in the U.S. Supreme Court, this section and
beyond was one of the richest gold mining regions of California, and
historically, one of the greatest importance to the State. Such places
as Auburn, Illinoistown (Colfax), Gold Run and Dutch Flat, were rich
producing camps and branch roads reached to Yankee Jim, Todd's Valley,
Forest Hill, Michigan Bluffs, Bath, and other towns on what is known
as the Forest Hill Divide, a divide being a local term, to signify the
rocky, mountainous mass,--nearly always having a level grade on its
summit,--that separates two forks of the same stream, or two different
streams. From Colfax another road led to Grass Valley, Nevada City,
and North Bloomfield in Nevada County, and Iowa Hill, Wisconsin Hill,
Monona Flat, and Damascus on the Iowa Hill Divide. All these were
centers of rich mining districts which were scenes of the greatest
activity in the days of their productivity. Now, however, most of them
are abandoned, except Auburn, Colfax, and Nevada City which have other
resources, and Grass Valley, which maintains its high standing owing
to its rich quartz mines. Forest Hill, Iowa Hill, and Michigan Bluff
have drift mines which maintain small and meager populations compared
with those of the early and prosperous days. In the 'fifties Yankee
Jim and its tributary mines had a population of 3000, while to-day it
is entirely deserted. Todd's Valley, which was also a flourishing camp
has suffered the same fate.

_Auburn to Colfax 16 Miles, Colfax to Emigrant Gap, 30-1/2
Miles_. Leaving Auburn the road ascends more rapidly until Colfax
(16 miles) is reached (elevation 2422 feet). Then ten miles further
one is in the heart of the most extensive hydraulic mining operations
of California. Thousands of acres are passed which yet bear the scars
of the "washing down" for the precious mineral hid away during the
centuries until the Argonauts of '49 and later unearthed it by their
gigantic hydraulic nozzles. Millions of dollars were extracted from
these placers, but now the villages are deserted and all mining
operations have ceased. The time is not far distant when automobile
parties will arrange to stop over in one of these little places, and
with a competent guide, go over the deserted placers. It is hard to
realize that by the mere power of water mountains were washed away,
leaving the denuded country on the one hand, a land of mounds and
hummocks, like the Bad Lands in miniature, and on the other hand of
masses of débris, too heavy to be washed away into the streams.

The wildest portions of the Sierras are revealed in ascending from
Dutch Flat to the Summit. The snowsheds of the Southern Pacific
Railway come into sight, perched like peculiar long black boxes, with
peep-holes, along an impossible ledge of the massive granite cliffs,
and the Sierran trees tower upright from every possible vantage ground
in the granite beneath.

At Towle, three miles beyond Dutch Flat, the shipping point is reached
from which much of the material was hauled for the building of Lake
Spaulding dam. Hundreds of teams were employed in this work, and the
road showed an almost unbroken procession for months. This was in
1912-13. A side trip to this remarkable dam, impounding the waters of
the High Sierras for the generation of electric power to be used not
only in the Sacramento Valley but in far away San Francisco, cannot
fail to be of interest. The area of the Lake, with the dam at its
present elevation, is such as to justify the assertion that it is next
to if not the largest artificial lake in the world.

_Emigrant Gap to Cisco, 14 Miles_.--Fourteen miles from Towle,
after enjoying the rich blue haze of Blue Canyon, the road passes
through the natural Sierran pass at Emigrant Gap which gives its name
to the route. Here one who has not been over the road before must not
fail to note the following: As he passes through the Gap the massive
granite wall towers in dominant power to the right and leads one to
feel that miles of rugged peaks are there. _Yet not more than a
hundred yards farther on_, the wall fades away, and if he stops
here, and turns off the road slightly to the right, he will glimpse
a vision of glory and sublimity that will take away his breath. Here,
from a thousand or two thousand feet almost sheer above it, one gazes
down to where in peaceful repose lies Bear Valley, a rich emerald
green meadow, on the right side of which flows the South Fork of the
Yuba River, and on the left heads Bear Creek, which empties into the
Sacramento at Marysville. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes are alway
spent here by those who know of this delectable surprise, yet many
come over the road unheeding and are never aware of what they have
missed.

Eight miles beyond Emigrant Gap, at Cisco, one sees a branch road
which leads to the old Meadow Lake Mining District, which in the
'sixties had a population of several thousands. A large town was built
there, which is now totally abandoned.

_Cisco to Summit, 13 Miles_. At Summit a marvelous view is had in
both directions, east and west. Westward the fall of the Sierras into
the Sacramento Valley is apparently so gentle and easy as to lead one
to wonder that he has risen so high, but eastward the descent is
much more steep and abrupt. The rude granite in many places is almost
barren though Sierran trees abound. The grade is easy, and the new
grade and tunnel under the Southern Pacific tracks makes an added
improvement. Almost immediately on emerging from this tunnel the full
glory of the eastern view is forced upon the attention. At one's feet,
apparently, lies the placid surface of Donner Lake, its pure blue
giving one a premonitory foretaste of the richer blues that await him
at Tahoe, while beyond are the mountains that overlook the Great Basin
of Nevada.

_Summit to Truckee, 11 Miles_. Rapidly the road descends, well
engineered and easy to negotiate to any responsible driver, and before
one is aware he is bowling along on the level Donner Boulevard, which
is as perfect a piece of country road as can be found anywhere on
earth. The Monument (not yet completed) erected by the Native Sons
to the memory of the Donner Lake pioneers, and the Memorial Cross,
erected on the spot where the unhappy party camped, are passed and
in a few minutes Truckee is reached. This was once the scene of great
lumber activities but now much reduced, although it is the shipping
point for Hobarts Mills, which is one of the largest lumber camps of
the West.

Here the road to Tahoe turns sharply to the south, and the fifteen
miles run to the Tavern is made in the picturesque canyon of the
Truckee River fully described in another chapter.

The elevations are Sacramento, 32 feet; Auburn, 1360; Colfax, 2422;
Emigrant Gap, 5225; Cisco, 5940; Summit, 7018; Truckee, 5819; Tahoe
Tavern, 6240.


FROM TAHOE TAVERN TO TALLAC

On Tuesday, June 9, 1914, I had the pleasure of making the first trip
of the season over the new Tahoe Boulevard from Tahoe to Tallac. Let
me here quote the account written at the time:

It was a fine morning, clear and just cool enough to be pleasant,
no wind, sun shining through the trees, the Lake glistening in its
richest morning glory, the air like wine, birds singing everywhere,
chipmunks chattering as they ran up and down the trees, and we as full
of life as they, when we made the start. Our machine was a Chalmers
20, a first-class chauffeur at the wheel, with instructions to go
slow, let us see all there was, and to run no risks if the winter's
snows and storms had interfered with the safety of the road. We didn't
even wear overcoats, though all the peaks were covered with snow.

The first mile or two from the Tavern is through avenues of second
growth timber just tall enough to be delightful. In turn we passed
many of the choice residences that are making Tahoe growingly popular
as a summer home, and then crossed Ward Creek and Blackwood Creek.
This latter is one of the principal trout spawning streams of Tahoe,
and to prevent fishermen from catching the fish that seek the stream
at the spawning season the Fish Commissioners have placed a buoy out
in the Lake, some twenty-five hundred feet away, within which bound it
is illegal to catch fish.

While many trees have been logged from this region there are still
enough to make it forest-like, and as the road winds and turns it
affords glimpses and full views, sometimes for only a moment or two,
and again for a minute or more, of the placid-faced blue Lake on the
left, or the snowy mountain summits straight ahead or on the right.
What rich contrasts of color, what revelations of majesty and
sublimity each new turn affords!

The first eight miles is fairly level road and close to the Lake, but
eight miles out, just before reaching McKinney's, the new portion of
the State Highway begins, and it has been engineered to give scenic
and romantic effect all along the way. In road building no longer is
it necessary to consider the cheapest and nearest way. "Give us the
most scenic," cry the motorists, "we'll pay the bills and our machines
will speedily eat up any extra distance we may be required to travel
to obtain the best scenery of the country." From now on the whole trip
is one of carefully engineered surprises and revelations. Colwell's
Moana Villa, and Pomin's new and beautiful place are passed and then
we ascend, and suddenly Meek's Bay is revealed to us, a glorious
symphony in blues, deepening and richening into pure amethyst, with
lines, patches and borders of emerald and lapis lazuli. Beyond rise
hill-studded slopes leading the eye higher and higher until, anchored
in a sky as blue as is the Lake below, are the snowy-white crowns of
the Rubicon Peaks, with here and there a craggy mass protruding as
though it were a Franciscan's scalp surrounded by pure white hair.
Up and down we glide, the soft purring of the motor as we run on the
level changing to the chug-chugging of the up-pulls, or the grip
of the brake as we descend. Every few feet new vistas of beauty are
projected before us. The moving pictures are all exquisite. Indeed,
after many studies of this incomparable Lake Tahoe I verily believe
there is no more beautiful spot on it than Meek's Bay seen from this
road.

To get its full charm we stop the machine for a while. Looking back we
discover that the curve where we rest is a marvelous outlook point. We
have ascended to a good height and look down upon the Lake. There
are light blue, emerald green, deep blue in patches and in long
irregularly shaped points. Here are Como, Maggiore, Lugano and
Windermere all in one, though as yet free from the houses and
artificial gardens on the slopes. But Nature such as this needs none
of man's adornment to make it perfect.

Starting the engine again we circle around the point and come
immediately into another charming circlet of views. Between Meek's Bay
and Rubicon Point is another little recess in the lakeshore,
Grecian Bay, a good second to the one I have just described. Here we
particularly notice the effect of the many varieties of trees, their
dark trunks, branches and foliage set out almost in silhouette against
the pure color of the Lake below. These elevated stretches of road are
a constant joy and delight. They afford us glad surprises every few
moments in such views of the Lake as we could not otherwise obtain.

Crossing Lonely Gulch, watched over by the serene pure loveliness of
the snowy peaks above, a good climb up a steep stretch of road brings
us to the shoulder of Rubicon Point. Winding in and out, twining and
twisting around and around, we reach Rubicon Park, from which place we
get a perfect view of the whole Lake from one end to the other.

To-day there are a score or more of fishermen out in their little
boats, and strange to say, all of them near enough to be seen, are
fishing in a patch of deep blue. The water there must be deeper than
elsewhere, for there is where they invariably get their best catches.

In marked contrast to the blue is a great finger of emerald thrust out
from a nearby point, as if in warning not to dare pass its mysterious
border.

Now we come to the wild and rugged scenery. We are hemmed in on the
right by towering crags and walls of massive gray rock. Shattered and
seamed, scarred and disintegrated, they look as though earthquake and
lightning shock and the storms of a thousand years had battled with
them. They give a new touch of grandeur and almost awesome sublimity
to the scene.

For a mile or two we play at hide and seek with the Lake. It seems
as though we were in the hands of a wizard. "Now you see it, now you
don't." Query: "Where is the Lake?" Mountains, snowbanks, granite
walls, trees galore, creeks flashing their white crests dashing down
their stony courses toward the Lake, but only now and then do we catch
fleeting glimpses of it. All at once it bursts full and clear again
upon our enraptured vision, but only to give us a full taste of its
supernal beauty before we are whirled around a curve where the eye
rests upon nothing but the rugged majesty of the Sierras. Change and
contrast, the picturesque, beautiful, delicate and exquisite in close
touch and harmonious relationship with the majestic and the sublime.
Travel the whole world over and nothing surpassing this can be found.

Now we curve around high up above Emerald Bay, that small glacial
Lake, the eastern terminal moraine of which was unfortunately torn
through, so that the _lake_ disappeared and became a _bay_
of the great Lake itself. Every moment of this portion of the ride is
a delight. The senses are kept keenly alert, for not only have we the
Lake, the bay and the mountains, but part of the way we have flowers
and shrubs by the thousands, bees and butterflies flit to and fro, and
singing streams come foaming white from the snowbanks above, eager to
reach the Lake. As our car-wheels dash across these streamlets they
splash up the water on each side into sparkling diamonds and on every
hand come up the sweet scents of growing, living things. Now Mt.
Tallac, in all his serene majesty, looms ahead. Snow a hundred or
more feet deep in places covers his rocky sides. Here we can see where
glaciers were born in the early days when Tallac was several thousand
feet higher than it now is.

Below us is the emerald-ringed bay, with its romantic little island
at the west end, and nearby the joyously-shouting Eagle Creek as it
plunges over the precipice and makes the foam-flecked Eagle Falls. Our
road here was blasted through some fiercely solid and hostile rock.
One boulder alone that stood in the way weighed (it was estimated by
the engineers) from 800 to 1000 tons. Fifty cases of highly explosive
powder were suitably placed all around it. Excursion steamers took
hundreds of people from all parts of the Lake to see the explosion,
and at the proper moment, while everybody held his breath, the fuses
were fired, the blasts took effect, the rock flew down to the level
beneath, shattered into four great masses. A new El Capitan now rises
above us, though it lacks the smooth unbroken dignity of the great
Yosemite cliff, yet it is sublime in its sudden rise and vast height.
Nestling at its feet is Eagle Lake, and beyond are the Velmas and a
score of other glacial jewels calling for visitors to rhapsodize over
their beauty. Maggie's Peaks are to our right, Eagle Falls to our
left, with Emerald Bay, the Island, the Point and the Lake beyond all
calling upon us to enjoy them to the full.

We decide to stay here for lunch, and under the shelter of a giant
sugar pine a thousand years old, listening to the eternally buoyant
song of Eagle Falls, we refresh ourselves with the good lunch put up
for us at the Tavern.

Again we push ahead and soon have our first adventure: The road
gang was at work, and we did not expect to go much farther, but they
assured us that, save for a few rough places here and there, which
they would speedily correct, we need have no fear but that we could
get through with ease. In a score of places, since we left the Tavern,
we had crossed little streams of snow-water that had come tumbling
down from the banks above. Suddenly we came to one with a larger
volume than most of the others, and the road bed a little softer,
so it had cut quite a deep little passage for itself. Easily our
chauffeur dropped the front wheels into the cut, and to his surprise
he found they stuck there. It did not take us long to jack up the
wheels and put rocks underneath them, and we were about ready to get
out when the road gang came along with a wagon and a pair of sturdy
mules. As quickly as it takes me to tell it the mules were attached to
our back axle and we were pulled out. A few more rocks and a couple
of planks placed over the cut and we were honking on our way with
triumph.

Half a mile farther we came upon the ridge that separates Emerald Bay
from Cascade Lake. Both are in clear View at the same time, while to
the west we can hear the joyous song of Cascade Falls in its grand
leap down from the foot of the snow-banks of Mt. Tallac into the
tree-clad stream-course below.

Now the road brings us almost directly above the Lake, with a rapid
slope down, covered with dainty trees and shrubs of recent growth.
From here we gain a fine view of the south end of the lakeshore.
Tallac, the Grove, Bijou, Al Tahoe and clear across to Lakeside, with
the deep green of the meadows above, and the snowy crowns of Freel's,
Job's, and Job's sister, with Monument Peak combine to give the proper
setting to the Lake.

Soon we are racing across the level to the Fish Hatchery, between
avenues of quaking aspens and young tamaracks and pines. Suddenly
we come upon a mired car, the driver of which had just crossed the
Sierras from Placerville, with little or no difficulty, but coming to
a soft piece of road here when going a trifle faster than he should,
and the side of the road having caught a lot of snow-water, he had
bogged and was working like a beaver to extricate himself. We had a
stout rope along and it was the work of two or three minutes to get
him out and we again pushed forward, gratified and smiling at the
warmly expressed thanks of himself and his three happy women-folks
who were enjoying their first trip into the Tahoe country, and already
confessing their complete subjection to its thrall.

Passing the Hatchery we were only a few more minutes in reaching
Tallac House, the first to complete the auto-trip this season.
Except for a few short stretches of scarcely completed road it is in
excellent condition, and the road gang now at work will have all the
rough portions smoothed down in a few days.

It should here be noted that side trips may be made in automobiles to
Glen Alpine Springs and Fallen Leaf Lodge. Both resorts use their own
automobile stages daily during the season, hence keep the roads in
good condition.

We made the return trip from Tallac House to the Tavern in two hours
exactly. The distance is 26 miles. The road gang had already put a
bridge over the place that had delayed us on coming out, and the road
throughout was easy and safe. Naturally it is not as easy to negotiate
as a San Francisco boulevard, but with the wheel in the hands of a
careful chauffeur there is perfect safety and a trip that need give
not a moment's fear to the most timorous.


FROM TALLAC TO SACRAMENTO, BY THE PLACERVILLE ROUTE, 108 MILES

This is practically the first historic route into California, for, as
I have shown in the chapter on Frémont's Explorations, it was the one
the Pathfinder practically followed on his memorable trip that led to
the discovery of Lake Tahoe.

Hence, when the gold excitement attracted its thousands to California,
many of the argonauts took this road, following the Humboldt River and
turning south at the Humboldt "Sink," crossing to the Carson "Sink"
and then ascending to the headwaters of the Carson River, over into
Hope Valley and thence down to Strawberry Valley and on to the mines.
This was the origin of the road, and it was in steady and continuous
use until the startling news of the discovery of the Comstock Lode in
Virginia City aroused the mining world. From every camp in California
rude and stalwart men eagerly set forth to reach the new Camp. It was
a genuine stampede. The chief question was: "Will the new Camp make
good?" It answered this question by transcending the expectations
of the most sanguine. Silver and gold were taken out in fabulous
quantities. Chunks of almost pure native silver, weighing scores of
pounds, were hewed out of the chambers where they were found, and
men went wild with excitement. Houses sprang up over-night. A vast
population soon clung to the slopes of Mt. Davidson. Mining and
milling machinery was needed, and demanded with tremendous urgency, to
reap the richer harvest. There was no railroad, and the old Emigrant
Road was not in condition to meet the needs. Few people can realize
the wild excitement that reigned and the string of teams, men riding
on horseback, or afoot, stage-coaches, freight wagons, that poured in
endless procession over the road. Nothing like it has been seen since,
except during the Klondike rush. As soon, however, as it was possible
to secure the proper authority newer and easier grades were surveyed
and private individuals undertook to build certain sections of the
road under the condition that they were to be granted the right to
collect toll for so many years. These rights have long since lapsed,
and the road is now a part of the excellent system of El Dorado
County, which, though a mountain county, boasts some of the best roads
in California.

_Tallac to Echo, 11-1/2 Miles_. Leaving Tallac, an easy and
pleasant eight-mile run on almost level roads through Tallac Meadows
brings one to Celios, once Myers' Station (6500 feet). Now begins the
upgrade, winding its way up the mountain side to the crest from which
Starr King wrote his exquisite description, elsewhere quoted. This
is one of the superb outlook-points where the full sweep of Lake and
encircling mountains is in full and complete view.

After a few minutes for gazing the journey is resumed, soon crossing
a bridge, near which stand the remnants of the old toll-house. On the
right a foot-trail or bridle-path leads to Glen Alpine. A few miles
of fairly rapid descent and Echo is reached, 49-1/2 miles from
Placerville.

The stream here, during the snow-melting season must be a dashing,
roaring, sparkling mass of foam, for it is a bowlder-strewn rocky way,
suggesting the wild stream it becomes when the snows melt and spring's
freshets come.

_Echo to Strawberry, 7 Miles_. The next mile and a half is a
rapid descent, for elevation declines five hundred feet, ere we reach
Phillips, near which, in Audrian Lake, is the chief source of the
South Fork of the American River.

The Water Company that controls the flow has here tampered with
primitive physiography, in that it has cut a tunnel or channel from
the Echo Lakes, tapping their water supply and conveying it to Audrian
Lake. Hence strictly speaking the Echo Lakes are now the headwaters of
the South Fork.

Soon we pass Hay Press Meadows, so called from the fact that hay was
cut here in the old stage-coach days, baled with an old-fashioned
press, and sold for $90 to $100 per ton, after being hauled to
Virginia City.

Down we go into Strawberry Valley, where 42-1/2 miles from
Placerville, we reach Strawberry, at 5700 feet elevation. This used to
be a noted stopping-place in the olden days, sometimes the whole flat
area being covered with loaded wagons bound for the mines.

There is a rugged majesty about this Valley that has always made its
impression on men. To the right is the southern end of the Crystal
Range, and to the left the Yosemite-like cliff known as Lover's Leap,
6985 feet elevation. As the station at Strawberry is 5700 feet, this
cliff is 1285 feet in sheer ascent. Leading up it are strange columnar
towers and structures of Egyptian appearance that remind us of those
lines of Joaquin Miller's:

Great massive rocks that near us lay,
Deep nestled in the grass untrod
By aught save wild beasts of the wood--
Great, massive, squared, and chisel'd stone,
Like columns that had toppled down
From temple dome or tower crown,
Along some drifted, silent way
Of desolate and desert town
Built by the children of the Sun.

We pass under the great cliff, and past a glacially-polished dome on
the left. The cliff is all cross-hatched and seamed with infiltrations
of quartz. Ahead of us to the right is a canyon that is the southern
extension of Desolation Valley.

_Strawberry to Kyburgs, 10 Miles_. A few miles below Strawberry
we pass Georgetown Junction (where the road from Georgetown enters the
main road), and ten miles brings us to Kyburgs, 4000 feet elevation,
the canyon narrowing as we descend. On the right we pass Sugar Loaf
(6500 feet).

At Kyburgs the water is taken out for the domestic and irrigation
water-supply of Placerville--8000 inches of water. The station is
located at a break in the mountains where a cone-shaped rock, covered
with trees, is a striking feature.

_Kyburgs, Through Riverton, to Pacific House, 14 Miles_. Passing
the South Fork of the American on the left, nine and a half miles
brings us to Riverton, a charming river resort where many visitors
stop during the season for a day or a week, as this is a noted center
for fishing and hunting. Here we cross over an excellent bridge,
surrounded by a mountain amphitheater lined with trees, and our road
follows the course of the bowlder-strewn river-bed. Yonder is the
scene of a noted "hold-up" in the old mining days.

If we cared to go over the files of the newspapers of the days when
bullion was being shipped daily by stage to Placerville, how many
accounts might we not find of "hold-ups" by daring "road-agents." And
it does not take much imagination to picture in this secluded spot or
that, the sudden appearance of a masked bandit, gun in hand, and to
hear the sharp quick commands, "Halt! and Hands up!" and to hear the
"squeesch" of the brake on the wheel, to see the hands of driver,
express-messenger, and passengers go up in helpless anger and furious
impotence.

Then the "Stand down here!" or "Come off of that quick, and line up
alongside!" and the immediate obedience of all concerned, and the
sharp "keep _them_ hands up, gentlemen, or somebody'll be gettin'
hurt," or perhaps a fierce imprecation, if the bandit was less of the
"Gentleman George" type than has so often been described.

And what a scene it would make for an artist--the most indignant
passenger of them all made to hold the hat and collect the "swag," as
the alert-eyed bandit stands by, gun in hand, ready to shoot down the
first person who makes any show of resistance!

Then the permission given to get aboard, accompanied by the rude
order: "Throw out that express-box, and drive on, and don't look this
way or some one'll have a hole blown through the top of his head!"
and the mixture of dejection and relief shown in the faces of driver,
messenger and passengers as the coach rolled on again.

What a panorama of quickly acted scenes it must have been, and how
often it occurred on this road! Not even history has recorded a half
of the times it happened.

Soon, almost hidden in the dense foliage of the tree-lined slopes, we
pass Esmeralda Fall, whose waters dash in foam over 60 feet, to unite
with the river far beneath.

As we near Pacific House, 4-1/2 miles further on, we come to where the
new road diverges a little from the old one. It used to descend to the
river, but we preserve a fairly even grade, solidly built, wide and
well kept.

_Pacific House to Placerville, 18-1/2 Miles_. Then for a mile or
so the road hangs over the yawning chasm of the river. It is wide and
in fine condition so we dash along to where, on the up trip, the first
glimpse is gained of the Crystal Range, its two chief peaks, Pyramid
and Agassiz, dominating the landscape from this side as they do from
Desolation Valley on the eastern side of the range.

[Illustration: Casino at Tahoe Tavern, From Pier]

[Illustration: Pier, Steamer Tahoe, and Lake Tahoe from Casino]

In nine more miles Camino is reached, through clusters of pines,
with perfectly level stretches for speeding and--dreaming. One's mind
unconsciously goes back to the old days and he sees as in a
moving-picture film the "days of '49." For this road is a road of
memories. One shuts his eyes and muses, and immediately there troops
before him a rushing, bustling, hurrying throng. These were the modern
argonauts, the seekers for the Golden Fleece:

Great horny-handed men and tall;
Men blown from many a barren land
Beyond the sea; men red of hand,
And men in love, and men in debt,
Like David's men in battle set--
And every man somehow a man.
They push'd the mailèd wood aside,
They toss'd the forest like a toy,
That grand forgotten race of men--
The boldest band that yet has been
Together since the Siege of Troy.

Some carried packs on their backs, with pick and shovel, drill and
pan. Others rode, leading their burden-bearing burros or mules. Wagon
after wagon creaked along, laden to the full with supplies, food, or
machinery.

As we push along and come to the river, Joaquin Miller's words make
the memory pictures for us:

I look along each gaping gorge,
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like giants rending giant oaks,
Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;
I see pickaxes flash and shine;
Hear great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A moss'd and silver stream instead;
And trout that leap'd its riffled tide
Have turn'd upon their sides and died.

Below Camino we pass near to Pino Grande, where the great cable
railway carries loaded cars of logs across the deep canyon of the
American River.

Rapidly we reach Smith's Flat, 4 miles, a famous mining-camp in the
days gone by, but now consisting of a general store, a few houses, and
a gnarled old log fashioned into a glorious water-trough fit for the
Vikings.

Three more miles and Placerville is reached, the quaint old reminder
of "the days of '49, the days of old, the days of gold," when men
flocked to California from all parts of the earth eager with the lust
for gold. In those memorable days it was called "Hangtown," a name
some of its present-day citizens would fain forget, oblivious, in
their own small-mindedness that they are neither responsible for its
history nor its nomenclature.

Built primarily in the somewhat shut-in walls of a small canyon, it
winds and curves around in a happy-go-lucky fashion, and when the
canyon widens out, spills over into irregular streets and up and down
hills that were once clad with pines, firs, spruces and junipers. That
wealth and prosperity have smiled upon it in late years is evidenced
by its comfortable lawn-girdled homes, its thriving orchards, its
active business streets, and its truly beautiful, because simple,
chaste and dignified, county court-house.

_Placerville to Sacramento, 47 Miles_. This is a well-known road,
via Diamond Springs, 2-1/2 miles; El Dorado, 6 miles; Shingle Springs,
11 miles, and Folsom, 25 miles.

The elevation at Tallac is 6225 feet; at Echo, 7500 feet; Strawberry,
5700 feet; Kyburgs, 4000 feet; Riverton, 3300 feet; Pacific House,
3400 feet; Sportsman's Hall, 3600 feet; Camino, 3000 feet; Smith's
Flat, 2250 feet; Placerville, 1830 feet; El Dorado, 1610 feet; Folsom,
198 feet, and Sacramento, 32 feet.

A well equipped auto stage is run daily between Tallac House and
Placerville. Experienced and careful drivers and first class cars
only are used. They are owned by the Richardson Garage, of Pasadena,
Calif., long known to the exacting population of that city as a
thoroughly reliable, prompt and efficient house.




CHAPTER XIV

TAHOE TAVERN


Swinging around to the south from the course of the Truckee River
on to the Lake, the railway deposits the traveler at Tahoe Tavern,
preeminently the chief resort for those who demand luxurious comfort
in all its varied manifestations. Yet at the outset let it be clearly
understood that it is not a fashionable resort, in the sense that
every one, men and women alike, must dress in fashionable garb to be
welcomed and made at home. It is a place of common sense and rational
freedom. If one comes in from a hunting or fishing trip at dinner
time, he is expected to enter the dining room as he is. If one has
taken a walk in his white flannels he is as welcome to a dance in the
Casino, the dining-room, or the social-hall as if he wore the most
conventional evening dress. Indeed, visitors are urged to bring their
old clothes that they may indulge to the full their _penchants_
for mountain-climbing, riding, rowing, fishing, horse-back-riding,
botanizing in the woods, or any other out-of-door occupation where old
clothes are the only suitable ones.

The building itself is completely embowered in pine, cedar, spruce
and firs of differing ages, sizes and qualities of color. Though far
enough from the Lake to allow of a large untrimmed grass-plot where
innumerable swing seats, reclining chairs, "lazy rests," etc., invite
to lounging and loafing, the trees have been so trimmed out as to give
exquisite glimpses of the dazzling blue of the water from every hand.

The Tavern is especially appropriate to its surroundings. It is three
full stories high, with many gables relieving the regularity of the
roof, which is steep-pitched, to throw off the winter's snows. The
whole structure is covered with shingles, stained or oiled to a dark
brown, and as climbing and clinging vines have wreathed themselves
about every corner, and up many posts of the veranda, and there is a
wealth of cultivated wild flowers banked up in beds around it, nothing
could be more pleasing and harmonious. Roads, walks and trails radiate
from the Tavern in all directions, except directly across the Lake,
and numerous boats and launches make this as accessible as any other
direction. Near enough to be interesting is the wharf, with its daily
bustle of the arrival and departure of trains, launches and steamers.

For all the indoor sports a Casino has been erected, far enough away
so that the music, dancing, the sharp clangor of bowling, the singing
of extemporized glee-clubs, and the enthusiasm of audiences at amateur
theatricals and the like do not disturb the peaceful slumbers of those
who retire early. While Tahoe Tavern itself is _sui generis_ in
that it is the most wonderful combination of primitive simplicity
with twentieth century luxury, the Casino is even more remarkable.
Its interior finish is the work of a nature artist. Its porches
immediately overlook the Lake, and when one has wearied of dancing
there is a witchery as rare and subtle as it is delightful to sit
in the subdued light overlooking the ripples of the moonlit water,
sipping some liquid refreshment, eating an ice or chatting with a
suitable partner.

Here a fine orchestra discourses sweet music, moving pictures are
regularly shown, lectures and concerts occasionally provided, besides
all the conveniences for private card-parties and other pleasures that
fashionable visitors expect for their entertainment.

[Illustration: Ballroom in the Casino, Tahoe Tavern]

[Illustration: Tahoe Tavern from Lake Tahoe]

[Illustration: Path in the Woods by Lake Tahoe, Tahoe Tavern]

[Illustration: Morning Service at the _Chapel of the
Transfiguration_, Tahoe Tavern]

Ruskin has somewhere brought out the idea in his finest phraseology
that nowhere can man so readily worship God as in the presence of the
most beautiful of His works in Nature. This is readily apparent at
Tahoe, hence the summer visitors and others of religious trend will
delight to learn that churches for both Catholic and Episcopal
worshipers have been erected not far from the Tavern. The Catholic
Church was dedicated Sept. 10, 1911. It has a seating capacity of a
hundred and seventy-five. Its location was chosen with an eye to the
beautiful, being on Tahoe Heights, and is less than fifteen minutes'
walk from the Tavern.

The Episcopal "Church of the Transfiguration" is unique in that it
is an open air building, the altar only being roofed. Towering pines