The Slower Road

… [continued from yesterday] …

“The doctor turned to his visitors and said, ‘Gentlemen, this man is from the northwestern part of the state, Eureka city, and is going to Massachusetts with a horse, carriage, cow, and dog; a long journey.’ ‘Yes, a very long journey; do you think you can make it?’ ‘I do.’ ‘You will never be able to take that cow all that distance; if you do, you will stand on the top ladder of fame.’ ‘Sirs, if I can get the cow shod with iron shoes, I shall succeed; but if not I am afraid I shall not succeed. I have not been able to get her shod as yet. I have had her feet seared four times and they are getting small.’ ‘What do you mean by getting her feet seared?’

“[I explained,] ‘Take a flat piece of hoop iron, heat it red hot, then take up the foot and rub the red hot iron over the bottom of the hoof; that is the way the Spaniards shoe their cattle.’ ‘Now, friend, I will tell you where you will get your cow shod. But a few days ago, when passing a blacksmith’s shop in Reno, I saw the blacksmith shoeing an ox; this I know, for I saw it done. When you get there you can have your cow shod with iron shoes.’ ‘How far is it to Reno?’ ‘It is about forty-five miles.’ ‘It will take me two days to travel thereto; what kind of a road is it?’ ‘It is a good road. When you get to the four corners, take your left and you will have a good road to the valley. Do not keep straight on as that is the old trail; when you get there you will come into the turnpike that leads to Truckee, as you strike this road turn sharp to your left.’

“‘Doctor, are you troubled with wild game at night?’ ‘There are some around, but seldom come near here. If we kept sheep we should have them around continually; the coyote and wolf are terrors for sheep.’ ‘How is the wildcat?’ ‘The wildcat is the smartest animal we have; they will drive the wolf away every time, they are not as heavy but very quick and active; I have seen the wolf and cat fight. The cat will jump on and off the wolf and the wolf does not care to be scratched to pieces by the cat.’ I now left the doctor, went to camp and made ready for the night, securing my cattle, and went to bed.”

When we left Mr. Johnson, he was still in Graniteville, California. He’s since left that town and is on his way toward Reno, Nevada.

“Webber’s Lake — In reaching this place, about midway is an old log cabin, built of handsome timber, the logs of which it is composed are dove-tailed at the corners, making a very strong and durable building. When the stages formerly ran over this road from Virginia City to Marysville, before the Central Pacific Railroad was built, this trail was a good road, but since the building of the railroad this, as well as many another good road, has been neglected, especially the part running through the Sardinian Valley, a distance of seventy miles.

“About two miles distant from this log cabin is the summit of the mountain, which rises from the lake to a height of two thousand feet. The scenery from the summit is lovely, in fact everything around was beautiful, while on my right are the Sierras covered with snow. In traveling along, the lake is on my right going east, on my left were many buildings, one was large, and evidently a hotel, situated directly in front of the lake. The road passed between the lake and the buildings; from the hotel to the water was only about four rods. The length of the lake is one mile; the width about half a mile, many boats were on the shore. On my arrival, I asked for ‘Dr. Webber.’

“A tall man, about seventy-five years of age, answered me, saying, ‘My name is Webber, I answer to Doctor Webber.’ ‘I stopped at a hotel about four miles from Grass Valley, and the proprietor gave me this note to give you on my arrival, here it is.’ The doctor read aloud: ‘This traveler called at my hotel and said that he was from Eureka, with horse, carriage, and cow going East, to Massachusetts. I told him to follow the old Fermis trail to Reno, and on reaching Webber’s Lake, to stop and give this note to Doctor Webber. From, John Clark.’

“‘Stranger, walk into my office; sit down. You are from Eureka and going East, to Massachusetts, your old home, and with that outfit; it will take some grit.’ ‘I am.’ ‘Don’t you like California?’ ‘I like the East much better.’ ‘How long have you been in the state?’ ‘About two years, or a little more.’ ‘Have you been in Eureka all that time?’ ‘I have, sir.’ ‘I do not wonder that you do not like that part of California, where the sands blow like the snows of the East. No wonder you are anxious to get back to old Massachusetts; I know all about this state, having traveled it all over. I think I am situated here the best of any one. Look at my surroundings; look at that beautiful sheet of water; look at the green grass; we do not have to pump water on our lands to keep them from drying up. No, not a bit of it. Look on yonder mountain; see those white caps, they are white by night as well as day; they are white from the first of August to the first of August the next year.’

“[I replied,] ‘Doctor, you have here a delightful situation, I would like to stop with you overnight; here is good grass to which my cattle will testify, I shall soon be where there is none; am I not right?’ ‘You are; when you get into Nevada you will often think of me; what can I do for you?’ ‘I would like to picket my cattle where the grass is short and sweet, not where you intend to cut for hay. I suppose you make hay of that tall grass?’ ‘I do; yonder is a good white clover patch, take your cattle there, turn them loose if you dare do so; they will do no harm. Our tea will soon be ready and come in, perhaps you will find something you do not carry. Do not refuse when one asks you; traveling as you are, accept the invitation, you are right welcome.’

“I went to see that my cattle were all right and having their supper and returned to the hotel for my own. After supper I got a pail and milked the cow, and carried it to the doctor saying, ‘My cow sends this pail of milk to you in return for the grass she has and is now devouring; please accept it.’ We sat in front of the house talking on every subject, when two hacks with four ladies and gentlemen drove up from Reno, who were coming to make a visit of three or four days at this pleasant resort.”

… [to be continued tomorrow]

At the end of yesterday’s post, Mr. Sherwood guessed that perhaps Mr. Johnson didn’t like California, because he was returning to Massachusetts so soon after arriving there. Based on this long, detailed response (probably his longest comment on any particular subject so far in the book), I’d say that Mr. Johnson *really* didn’t like California at all …

“I think this, that there are those who are responsible for the deception that has been sent abroad in regard to California. So much has been said on paper that brought out thousands who are not able to get back, who would if they could. I have heard many say that much. Oh, such a climate, so warm and pleasant, and so beautiful. I will admit that the months of December, January, and February, to Eastern people are most agreeable, that is, in regard to heat and cold. But in April and the summer months, till December, everything is dried up, except what irrigation has kept green. If you are located on the river valleys you are all right, but these are scarce. I have seen the sands blow like our eastern snows. I prefer snow to sand every time, when the wind blows. No rain is expected until the month of December. In the northern sections you may get some rain in November, but seldom.

“After the first rain things change; when the second rain comes, should it prove a good substantial one, say, so many inches, you put in your seeds and in order to get back the value of your seed and labor, you must have so much rain, or so many inches of rainfall in order to warrant a crop. Now during the months of December and January, these two month, the rains come. The best months are the first four.

“In April, things begin to dry up; May is dry, June is very dry, in July you are trying to get your sheep to the mountains. Can wait no longer, and you have to be smart to get them there or they will perish on the way. It is not yet August and don’t expect rain for several months. August, September, October, November; four months, all dried up. Think of it; ten months out of twelve, no rain. You get up in the morning, say five o’clock, the sun is just up, not a cloud to be seen. The day advances; nine o’clock, hot; twelve at noon, very hot, not a cloud to be seen. No, no rain today — no showers to lay the dust — all dried up.

“I prefer living where it is cold, warm, hot, with showers occasionally, to lying down in the hot burning sands, to bring out the rich colors of the shrubbery and make nature grand and sublime. A smart thunderstorm that will burn up the nitrogen and give us in [its] place a healthy oxygen, that is what I admire.”

I can just imagine poor Mr. Sherwood, at the end of this rant, thinking, “Well, ok, then. Off you go, back to Massachusetts.”

When we last checked in with Mr. Johnson, he was about three miles from Graniteville, California.

When he reached that town, he made an arrangement with a local couple to camp on their property, paying them with fresh milk from his cow, as he’d done previously. He also went to the post office to get directions to the home of a Mr. Sherwood, who was a miner in the area. Before he’d even left Massachusetts for California a couple of years earlier, Mr. Johnson had been asked by that man’s sister (a fellow resident of Webster, Mass.) to give him her greetings. The lady’s brother (Mr. Sherwood) had moved west before she was born, but she’d been corresponding with him for years.

This is where we pick up Mr. Johnson’s story again:

“On the morning of the 16th [of August 1882] I was up as usual, feeding the cattle, milking the cow, greasing the wagon, doing this and that, looking here and there, and I came to the conclusion that Graniteville was a smart, lively, business town. It has a hotel, two stores, livery stable, two saloons, two blacksmith shops, a market, and many houses.

“When the right time came I carried in the milk, presenting it to the lady. She looked at it and said, ‘You must have a good cow that gave such a quantity and good at that. Our breakfast will soon be ready, come in and take breakfast with us; make yourself at home as long as you are here.’ The bell rang, I went in and the lady gave me a seat at the table and was my waiter.

“I remarked to her that I was going west about three miles, to the canyon in search of a man named Sherwood, and asked would my outfit be safe with them. ‘I will keep a lookout myself, I think they will not be disturbed; how long would you be gone?’ queried the lady. ‘I hope to return by noon, and I think I will.’

“I started for the canyon, taking the road for the creek and finding the trail as directed, crossing the creek on towards the cabin. Going up to the cabin door I knocked and listened, but did not hear anything; knocked again, listened and heard a noise inside. I gave a louder knock, when a voice answered, ‘Who is there?’ ‘No one who will harm you,’ I answered, ‘I want to see Mr. Sherwood, is he not at home?’

“‘He is not, he is up at the mines.’ ‘Where is the mine?’ ‘Up in the canyon.’ ‘My home is in the far East and I am on my way back to Webster, Mass. I have come a long distance to see Mr. Sherwood, and I don’t want to go away without seeing him. I have a message from his sister, whom he never saw, that lives in the town I come from. Now dare you open the door?’ ‘Yes, when I hear the name of Webster.’

“The person came and opened the door and said, ‘You [are] from Webster?’ ‘I am, and know those whom neither you nor your husband ever saw. Mr. and Mrs. B___, by me send their most sincere love to you and yours; this is why I was anxious to see you.’

“She sounded a horn, and soon after a young man came in, to whom she said: ‘Go up the canyon and tell your father a man wishes to see him.’ It was not long before a man came to the cabin, when the woman said, ‘This man came to the door and knocked three times before I dared to open it. Had he not said he was from Webster, Mass., and had a message from Mr. and Mrs. B___, I should not have dared to let him in.’ ‘You are from Webster, Mass.?’ ‘I am, sir.’ ‘You know my brother and sister, B___?’ ‘I do.’ ‘When did you leave Massachusetts?’ ‘In April 1880.’ ‘How long have you been in California?’ ‘Two years, I arrived at Eureka on the 28th of May, 1880, and have been there ever since that time.’ ‘You are on your way back to [Massachusetts]?’ ‘I am.’ ‘I think you do not like California by returning so soon, is that so?'”

… Check back in tomorrow to read Mr. Johnson’s emphatic response to this question.