Spring on the Pacific Coast

k$'& £>%&y*&* - •L,:-<. "^ i :- 3Er Ubeul'Slb. I'M " '4t ' - - . _ ■ TEE LONG, DAMP, PENDANT MOSSES RESTLESS SWAY Spring on the Pacific Coast BY ALFRED LAMBOURNE I have passed a day in a most delightsome walk — a red-letter day I must really call it. The walk was quite lengthy, though so many objects of interest presented themselves for consideration along its course, that I scarcely realized the miles I had traversed until it was over. It was from the quiet hotel on the outskirts of the town (Monterey) to the old Mission building, standing at the edge of Carmel Bay, and thence along the shore of Still-Water Bay to Lobos Point, its southern horn. Spring comes very early here, and throughout the year there appears no frost to sear the garden leaves. Geraniums grow head-tall, hanging in heavy masses over the oaken paling; cottage eaves are hidden by clambering honeysuckles, and by the garden path the creamy calla lilies bloom through all the misty days of winter. . Monterey is a quaint old town. We call such places old in America. It is nestled into one corner of Monterey Bay, and was

SPRING ON THE PACIFIC COAST 25 once picturesque with low adobe buildings, roofed with big red tiles, and with gardens surrounded by white-washed, plastered walls. Even at the present date there is not wanting attractive nooks and bits to remind one of its placid, bygone days, and, for that matter, unquiet ones as well. The vesper bell still sounds each evening from the mission church, and close to a cross which marks the landing spot of Father Junipero Serra, the zealous founder of the first-named place, a long, black cannon rusts away amid the weeds and grass. Yes, the place is attractive yet; for beside these relics of priest and soldier, the picture side of labor can be seen there daily — fishermen spreading their nets in the sunshine, patching anew the well-worn sail, or, with their labors done, idling in the boat's shade or by the tavern door. From the hill-top where the cannon lies rusting, red-faced whalemen keep constant watch. Not more than a mile away, along the shore, a cluster of smoke-begrimed sheds, boats upturned under canvas covers, huge iron hooks and sooty pots, and all sorts of other nondescript, indescribable belongings, proclaim a whaling village. Nothing could be more charmingly varied than the scenery of this peninsula. There is just enough of the works of man among the scenes to relieve, without disturbing their wildness. A light-house stands upon one of the rocky points, whilst farmhouses, dairy farms and fishermen's homes fill up available spaces between the sea and the woods. Long roads are cut through the latter, leading from bay to bay, and they are just near enough to the sea to make us never quite certain if the lulling sounds we hear are made by the wind in the branches of the trees, or by the beating of the surf on the shore. Meeting overhead, the trees form endless vistas, the long, gray pendant mosses gently swayed by the currents of air. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the waves, but more often the back of a wind-blown dune. We have a chance for a solitary walk or ride on the almost unused bridle-paths, and perhaps may get lost on the way. Often the paths dwindle out altogether, or lose themselves among low, marshy ground. Sometimes they dip into quiet glens, deeply shaded by oak and spruce, and there, by the side of the gentle stream, a fleur de luce is sure to be found. More scenic diversity it would be hard to find. Though the coast has no such lofty cliffs as can be found elsewhere, it has

26 IMPROVEMENT ERA beetling rocks that are grand in form, and a background of lofty hills makes up for their deficiency in height. A granite coast, washed by a pellucid sea, must necessarily be beautiful. Here nothing could exceed the white purity of the sandy beaches, or that of the drifted dunes between the green hills. Some of the beaches are composed of huge boulders, smoothly polished, and laid side by side, as are the cobbles in a city street, only these are tilted at a sharp angle, and the interstices filled with pearly sand, the grinding up of countless millions of shells. Reefs, ledges and stacks are clothed to tide-mark with richly colored sea-weeds ; the sea anemone unfolds its petals in the dark rock pools ; there are isolated stacks where the seals disport themselves in sunlight ; or, in lieu of these, their surface is whitened with resting gulls, or sombered with dun-brown shags. At every fresh turn the scene has changed, and each new picture seems more attractive to the eye than the one just passed. It is not, however, in the rock scenery, or the numerous aquatic life that the most attractive feature of this coast is to be found. That is to be seen in the presence of an ancient cypress grove, growing on the very brink of the land, so close to the sea, in fact, that when the waves are rough they wash its very roots, and drench the heavy crowns of foliage with flying spray. About this growth of venerable trees there is that which strangely stirs the imagination. The beholder feels a spell that is exerted by the darkened, mossy aisles, the dense, drooping masses of sombre foliage, and the pale, under-glimpses of spumeflecked sea. Hardly could that more famous wood at Ravenna affect us more than this. The huge trunks and twisted boughs seem the pillars and groins of some heathen temple, and the crimson light of evening stealing among them, the blood of unknown victims. Sadness inexpressible reigns through the grove when the mists roll in from the sea. The scene becomes limited to a few of the nearest trees, the more distant showing only as spectral shadows. Melancholy, dim, is the light that rests on the blackened trunks steaming with moisture. Darker and richer in color becomes the foliage, and more vividly green the moss that mottles the trunks and limbs. Encouraged by the universal drippiness, the frogs begin an all-day concert, and ghostly from distant alleys

SPRING ON THE PACIFIC COAST 27 comes, at measured intervals, the tap of the busy woodpecker. No other sound is heard, and hardly a motion is to be seen, save now and then, when the cup of a fleur de luce or the rim of a scarlet aster becomes too heavily weighted and sideways spills its watery burden. As a contrast to this, there is no effect so captivating in its beauty, on this coast, during the springtime of the year, as that when the cold morning mists are being dispelled by the rising sun. Floating away in soft, white wreaths, the mists pass across the hills and let the sun pour down his rays, hot through the humid atmosphere. Foliage, grass and flowers, all dripping wet, glisten beneath the light. There is a brilliant flash and sparkle on the waves, as they break in emerald and topaz over the purple-weeded rocks. Creatures of land and main, rejoicing in the transition from dark to light, are all abroad. Across the lawn the partridge leads her covey of young ; the humming-bird passes by, a flash of colored fire ; for a moment the brown, shining heads of the seals show above the waves, then dip again. Even among the shags there is unwonted commotion as, craning their long necks, they stare stupidly, or drop from their rock and skim across to some other group of their equally stupid neighbors. Overhead the gulls are describing lines of infinite grace, the sunlight bright on their snowy wings. Once the mists lifted, the fishing boats are seen out on the bay, and if our eyes are good we may discern a dark, moving speck, far out on the ocean, either a passing vessel or the whale-boat out on a cruise. But now to begin the walk. The morning was foggy and threatened rain, so much so that I hardly cared to start. Trees and grass were already drenching wet with dew, and a showery day in the woods fronting the shore promised but little comfort. Later on, however, a yellow ray or two, struggling through the drift, argued well for the turn of the weather, so, with the chances in favor of sunshine, I started forth. Hardly an hour had elapsed before patches of blue sky began to appear, and soon the greater part of the vault was clear, and the consequent flood of sunshine made grass and foliage glitter as though they had been sprinkled with diamond dust. On reaching a turn in the road my eyes instinctively sought the old Mission building, standing on its lonely hill. As it has

INCOMING TIDE, CYPRESS POINT recently undergone what is mistermed a restoration, I feared that its pleasing effect on the surrounding landscape might be impaired. But the fear was groundless ; its cream-colored towers rose as ever, in graceful contrast to the level, deep-blue waters of the Carmel Bay, and its star-shaped window (though the light came through it no longer) and its many other quaint and suggestive forms of ornamentation made it still a precious object, externally, to the sketcher's eye. There is something remarkable in the fulness of beauty given to a landscape by the presence of a goodly time-worn building, especially if its history provides material for the meditative mood. It is no more its effect, pictorially, in the scene, than the part it plays in the more subtle, changing picture that the mind weaves out of the present hours, mingled with stories of days that are past. Though the Mission Carmel can hardly be spoken of as a noble building, yet it is massive and bold, and in its history there is that which gives it both importance and romance. On the northern shore of the Carmel Bay I stopped at the home of a dairy farmer to ask the purchase of a bowl of milk. It was a long, rickety-looking building, with high-peaked gables, facing to east and west. Rather a forbidding house, as seen from without, its timbers blackened and bent, and tufts of moss mottling its sun-warped shingles, but inside it was all cheerfulness and homely plenty. Not only did I get the bowl of milk, but a boun-

SPRING ON THE PACIFIC COAST 29 teous meal besides, for which the generous inmates refused all offers of remuneration. John Martin is the name of the gudeman, and he is a person with a quiet, almost abstracted manner, yet with a shrewd gray eye that brightens wonderfully whenever a topic is discussed in which he takes an especial interest. He first pointed out to me the grassy mounds, defining the foundations of the earliest enclosures of the Mission, "and the plow," he said, "often struck against the stones where an altar had stood." Near there he was inclined to believe the true burial place of Junipero Serra to be. Among the articles he had reclaimed from the ground were a pair of silver candlesticks, a silver bell and the bowl of a silver censer. Dinner over, my host walked with me while I retraced my steps to the door of the Mission. But I shall not describe it as now it looks ; its interest has gone. A bright-eyed little Portuguese girl once carried the keys to unlock the wicket-gate ; but she has also changed. Her father it was who, in 1882, lifted the stone slabs near the altar, uncovering three coffins, one of which was supposed to contain the remains of Serra, the building's founder. We crossed the enclosure, passed by the foot of the southern tower, and entered in at the eastern door. There is something ghastly in the first stages of decay in a noble building, before the fallen beam is coated with moss, or before flowers have taken root in the gaping chinks in the wall. Time, though it may wreck the works of man, yet often bids nature deck the vanquished with her many beauties. The old Mission in its ruined state filled me with pleasing emotions. The raggedness of ruin was being hidden away by the growth of years. Bushes grew thickly along the nave and on the choir arch. The flagging, the altar steps were concealed beneath a carpet of bright green grass, mingled with the yellow blossoms of some lowly flower. It was so peaceful, so quietly beautiful, that although we might differ from, we could not sneer at, the faith that built it. Now that charm has gone. We miss the yellow sunlight that, streaming in through the broken roof, fell on wall and arches ; the soft carpeting of verdue on the earth-covered floor, and the white doves that flew in and out of the star-shaped window. But more than all we miss the lulling voice of the sea, that filled the place with solemn murmurs. Then it reminded of a gentle message — "Love ye one another." Now

30 IMPROVEMENT ERA when the door swings open there is no such thrill. The tawdry nature of the restored parts, the stern, austere, menacing words written upon the walls, and the absence of any object telling of a simple faith, free from superstition, are quite as painful as is the quick, bold demand for money, made by the young woman standing guard at the door, as compared with her former shy and winsome manner. There is a writer, whose name I can not just now recall, who, in his attempts to prove the theory of transmigration of souls, brings forward as evidence of the truth of the theory, the feeling of recognition, with which we often look on places seen by us for the first time ; a feeling of familiarity as though we had known them all our lives. Should we not attribute this to the scenes themselves being en rapport with our mental development, making them seem a part of our being, and which had always a part in our lives? Or, perhaps, it is the past pleasure of an ancestor transmitted to us in some mysterious way, to be again a pleasure of earth. Whatever the cause may be, such a feeling was mine as I rambled by the shore of the sea this day; a sense of enjoyment such as comes but rarely in a life time. The trampling of the waves ; the silent, sunny hillsides ; the flowery meadows, swept by brine-scented winds, and the quiet loneliness of the woods, awoke in me sensations that seemed to have their origin in my inmost being. Gaily I went along the path ; sometimes walking, more often running. How exhilarating was the fresh sea breeze, the noisy surf and the gay tossing of the countless flowers ! It was like a draught of rich old wine. Glorious, too, the colors around ! Nature ignores the canons of art ; her contrasts are most vivid, sometimes most violently given. Such, for instance, was that combination of deep blue sky, a sunlit bank of grass, a flaming line of poppies dividing them — unapproachable in brilliance by any method of art, and yet how gloriously beautiful ! So, also, was a mass of purple verbenas, on a white sand dune ; the flowers burning like spots of fire against the shining emerald of the incoming waves. From Point Lobos there is a view of unusual grandeur. Well did it repay for the trouble in reaching it. Though approaching the sombre in style, the richness of the sea coloring prevents it from being too gloomy. The cliff, a coarse conglomerate, fronts

SPRING ON THE PACIFIC COAST 31 the sea in great circular shelves, which at the water line are hollowed out into holes and caves, where the waves resound with an astonishing roar. Its whole front is stained with earth tints of a deep red and yellow, and below the upper tide line. The sea weeds cover shore rocks and stacks with gorgeous coloring. Looming up in the distance of this scene, to the south, was a dome of rock — dim, pale and almost colorless, a grand object to the sight, but also one of dread to the passing mariner. Of wild life there was enough to have lent animation to a far less attractive scene ; shags, gulls, seals, all busy in their several ways ; some great bird — a sea-eagle, perhaps, gyrated overhead, and its circling shadow fell, now on the land, now on the main. Dispersed over the top of the cliff was a herd of wild-looking cattle. My emerging from the wood had been the signal for a surprise on their part and a retreat on mine. Congregated across the path they had stared wildly at me, half in anger, half in fear, ready on the instant to dash at the intruder or away from his path as the first movement of their leader should dictate. I was well content to leave them unprovoked. Abandoning the path, I skirted along the cliff edge, leaving the glossy creatures victors without dispute. Before we say good-bye, let us linger awhile upon that tongue of land, forming a protecting bulwark between the river and the sea, and view from its top the broad, panoramic view that stretches up and down the coast. First, let us look northward up the coast. Little else can be seen at first glance, save the long, glistening rollers, busy at their endless toil of denuding the land and being themselves torn into shreds by reef and ledge, the projecting ribs of the old earth skeleton, as noble, but unfortunate, Hugh Miller so tersely has put it. On the furthest point stands the whitetowered lighthouse, and nearer the drooping, darksome masses of foliage at the cypress grove. To southward the hills slope gently down to the sea, their lower swells fretted with tusks of granite, smoothed by the waves of long ago — a piece of land reclaimed from the sea, to be covered now with lupins and poppies. Winding across it a path is seen leading to a nest of weather-warped houses, among them the village schoolhouse "o'er the bit o' rolling hill," and further yet to the south, the huge, rocky headlands breasting the force of incoming waves. Looking inland the eye sees for miles up the wooded Carmello Valley, with curves of the

32 IMPROVEMENT ERA river flashing in the sun; a tender haze from hillside to hillside, blending all the shadows into loveliest blue. Quite near to the hill where we stand is the Mission garden, with the cream-colored towers of the Mission showing above, and on the opposite side of the river, checkered with sunlight and shadow, are the white plastered walls of the Padre's cottage. Shall we once more supply the landscape with the figures that it knew but a few years ago — the zealous friars in their rough, gray garbs passing to toil in the Mission fields, or, obedient to the solemn tones of the bell, the simple-minded Indians hastening to see the last of the mortal remains of their beloved Father Serra ? How, in spite of their austere lives, the hearts of those friars must have yearned to look once more on their native land ! How often, even with such courage as theirs, they must have repined among the poor, ignorant Indians of the coast! Here, from this spot, we can see, with little change, the place as their eyes beheld it. The dark blue-gum trees shading the farm-house would be strange to their eyes, as well as the distant village; but little else has changed. The river creeping along in its sandy bed, the garden in the river bend ; the orchard, with its rows of pear trees, and the sweeping curve of surf and sands — these were all the same. So, too, the deep blue waters of the bay, the purple rocks of the distant headland with that alluring stretch of ocean beyond; and those gold-white clouds rolling overhead like angels' chariots, they are always the same with each recurrence of the gentle spring. Of the return walk there is little more to say. I had been invited to remain over night at the farm-house, and retraced my steps but slowly. In the bush where I had hidden Goliath's boots, I found a stupid old owl asleep, who took the disturbance with a very ill grace. Twilight over the sea, with Venus shining like Hero's torch across the purple water, ended my red-letter day.