Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway - Effie Price Gladding

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      Ah well! one cannot stay forever on the Monterey Peninsula to hear the sighing of the wind in the pines and the lapping of the waves on the shore. One cannot take the Seventeen Mile Drive day after day to see the wind-twisted cypresses, to come upon the lovely curve of Carmel Bay, and to look down from "the high drive" upon the Bay and town of Monterey far below, for all the world like a Riviera scene. Once more we turn our faces southward and drive through the broad streets of Pacific Grove along the mile of coast road to Monterey, and from Monterey into the country where masses of lupine paint the hills blue on the right, and live oaks dot the green valley stretches on the left. Coming into Salinas Valley we drive through hundreds of acres of level beet fields, south of the town of Salinas. We meet a redheaded, shock-bearded man with his sun-hat tied on, walking alongside a rickety moving-wagon drawn by two poor horses. He responds most cheerfully to our question concerning directions. As we pass his wagon a big family of little children crane their young necks to see us. The mother in their midst, a thin, shabby looking woman, holds up her tiny baby for me to see as I look back, and I wave congratulations in response. Later, near Santa Maria, we pass another moving party eating supper. They are prosperous looking people, very different from the forlorn, toiling little party outside of Salinas. They are comfortably encamped in a grassy spot, and the woman waves to me with a big loaf of bread in one hand and her bread knife in the other. I wave with equal heartiness to her. This is part of the charm of the open road, these salutations and this jolly passing exchange of sympathy, not between two ships that pass in the night, but between two parties who enjoy the air and the open, and who are one in gypsy spirit. It all belongs in the happy day.

      Salinas Valley is very different from the lovely valleys which we have thus far seen. Sonoma Valley is a rolling, irregular valley, part grain fields, part rough, hilly pasturage. Napa Valley, narrow at the south, wide toward the north, with orchards and pleasant homes, breathes of order and shut-in prosperity. Santa Clara Valley is a Napa Valley on a grander scale. Its surrounding hills are higher, its spaces are wider. Salinas Valley is a grain-growing valley, its fields of grain stretching away up into the foothills. As we proceed south we observe that the fields encroach more and more upon the hills, their rich greenness running quite far up on the hill slopes. The line of demarcation between the growing grain and the rough pasture slopes is as clean as if drawn by a pencil. It is here in Salinas Valley that we first notice the park-like appearance of many green stretches of field with live oaks growing here and there. It would almost seem that the oaks had been planted with a view to park effects, instead of being part of the original forest which had been cut down to make way for the grain fields. We pass through the little town of Soledad (Solitude) near which are the poor ruins of the Mission of our Lady of Soledad. We judge that Soledad must have a cosmopolitan population when we read such names as Sneible, Tavernetti, and Espinosa on the town's signs. Here and there we see where the Salinas River has eaten great pieces out of its banks, during the spring freshets. We had seen the same thing in Carmel Valley, where a man lost a large piece of his orchard by its falling bodily into the raging Carmel river. The streams of California are not like the streams of New England, clear and deep with winey brown depths. They are shallow streams with earth banks, but in the time of the spring rains they become wild torrents. Late in the afternoon we pass King City on the opposite bank of the river, glorified by the afternoon sunshine. It looks like a picture town, its buildings taking on castle-like proportions from a distance. We then come over the Jolon Grade, and descend through a little wooded valley that has a particular charm. I do not know its name, but it cast a certain spell that lingers with me. It is a narrow valley with stretches of thick green grass under forest trees, and has a quality of seclusion that I have not felt in the wide acres of grain in the great Salinas Valley. It is as if the forest had been only partly cut away and the advance of the grazier and the grain grower were but partly accomplished.

      We come into Jolon, a country crossroads hamlet, past "Dutton's," a most comfortable and homelike country hotel, if one may judge by appearances. I am sorry not to stop for the night. I am always attracted to these country inns when they have hospitable porches and a general look of homely comfort. I should be glad, too, to take the six mile detour from the main road in order to see the ruins of the San Antonio Mission. But we have been told that the Mission is in such a ruined state, one of the thick walls having fallen in, that it is as well not to see it.

      Our next valley, even lovelier than the others, is Lockwood's Valley, a beautiful stretch of grain fields. By a bend in the road we are driving east with the western sun setting behind us. High hills form a background for the green fields of oats and barley. The whole valley with its few ranch houses and its great fields breathes a country peace. Looking back, I still regret that we could not have had time to go half a mile off the main road and try the merits of the Lockwood Inn.

      But we drive on through the valley over a slight pass and come to an adobe ranch house on the left, sitting modestly back on a slight knoll against a background of bare hills. At the ranch gate is a sign to the effect that this is Aloha Ranch Inn, and that meals can be had at all hours. It is the word Aloha that catches us. Surely someone must live here who knows the lovely Hawaiian Islands with their curving cocoanut palms, and their emerald shores. So we turn into the drive and find a kindly farmer, master of his six hundred acres in this lone valley, who with his wife gives us warm welcome. He does indeed know Hawaii, having lived and worked on the famous Ewa sugar plantation for nearly twenty years. We have a homely but appetizing supper, and a dreamless night's sleep in one of the farmhouse bedrooms. The next morning is gloriously beautiful, and we drive on our way. In order to avoid fording the Salinas river, which is very high, we make our journey by way of Indian Valley, through hilly, rather lonely country. All along the river there are signs of the devastation made by the unusual spring rains. The river banks are gouged out and the railroad bridges are down, the rails being twisted into fantastic shapes. In passing San Miguel we stop to see the Mission, which is in a fair state of repair and in constant use. One of the beautiful toned old bells of the Mission is hung in a framework outside the church, where the visitor may sound it. The new bell is unfortunately suspended from the top of an immense iron, derrick-like structure which stands outside the church, and is unsightly. The interior of the church is very fine. It is a lofty structure, fifty feet high and one hundred and fifty feet long, its walls covered with frescoes in rich blues and reds, the work of the Indians. There are niches for holy water in the thick old walls and a large niche which was used for the confessional. Above the altar is painted the "All-Seeing Eye." The heavy rafters of the roof extend through the walls and long wooden pins are fitted through the ends to bind the walls together. Not a nail was used in the entire structure.

      We take luncheon at Paso Robles (Pass of the Oaks), famed for its healing waters. The hotel is pleasant and the new bath house with its handsome marble and tiling is very fine. Many sojourn here for the medicinal uses of the waters. Between Paso Robles and San Luis Obispo we come through a stretch of very beautiful country, part open forest land, part richly pastoral, the property of the Atascadero Company. The Atascadero settlement is one of those Utopian plans for happiness and prosperity which bids fair to be realized. The climate is almost ideal, the scenery is charming, the country is richly fertile. They tell us that people are pouring in from the East and that the colony is growing constantly. At the north end of the Atascadero territory we pass a handsome sign swinging over the road, which reads: "Atascadero Colony. North End. Ten Miles Long and Seven Miles wide. Welcome." As we approach the south end of the ten mile stretch we come upon another sign whose legend is: "Come again." Turning back as we pass under the sign we see that its reverse legend is the same as that of the north end sign, save that it is for the south end. So whoever passes along the main road through Atascadero property is bound to have the uplifting welcome and to receive, as he passes on, the kindly farewell. We congratulate the Atascadero colonists on the lovely rolling country in whose midst they are to dwell and on the magnificent live oaks that dot their park-like fields. San Luis Obispo is quite a large town, but the Mission of San Luis Obispo has been spoiled by being incorporated into the new church and school plant. One catches only a glimpse of broken cloisters within the school enclosure. I stepped into the church as we drove by in the late afternoon,

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