CHAPTER II--THE PETRIFIED FOREST
We drove off from the Springs Hotel about three in the afternoon.
The sun warmed me to the heart. A broad, cool wind streamed
pauselessly down the valley, laden with perfume. Up at the top
stood Mount Saint Helena, a bulk of mountain, bare atop, with tree-
fringed spurs, and radiating warmth. Once we saw it framed in a
grove of tall and exquisitely graceful white oaks, in line and
colour a finished composition. We passed a cow stretched by the
roadside, her bell slowly beating time to the movement of her
ruminating jaws, her big red face crawled over by half a dozen
flies, a monument of content.
A little farther, and we struck to the left up a mountain road, and
for two hours threaded one valley after another, green, tangled,
full of noble timber, giving us every now and again a sight of
Mount Saint Helena and the blue hilly distance, and crossed by many
streams, through which we splashed to the carriage-step. To the
right or the left, there was scarce any trace of man but the road
we followed; I think we passed but one ranchero's house in the
whole distance, and that was closed and smokeless. But we had the
society of these bright streams--dazzlingly clear, as is their
wont, splashing from the wheels in diamonds, and striking a lively
coolness through the sunshine. And what with the innumerable
variety of greens, the masses of foliage tossing in the breeze, the
glimpses of distance, the descents into seemingly impenetrable
thickets, the continual dodging of the road which made haste to
plunge again into the covert, we had a fine sense of woods, and
spring-time, and the open air.
Our driver gave me a lecture by the way on Californian trees--a
thing I was much in need of, having fallen among painters who know
the name of nothing, and Mexicans who know the name of nothing in
English. He taught me the madrona, the manzanita, the buck-eye,
the maple; he showed me the crested mountain quail; he showed me
where some young redwoods were already spiring heavenwards from the
ruins of the old; for in this district all had already perished:
redwoods and redskins, the two noblest indigenous living things,
alike condemned.
At length, in a lonely dell, we came on a huge wooden gate with a
sign upon it like an inn. "The Petrified Forest. Proprietor: C.
Evans," ran the legend. Within, on a knoll of sward, was the house
of the proprietor, and another smaller house hard by to serve as a
museum, where photographs and petrifactions were retailed. It was
a pure little isle of touristry among these solitary hills.
The proprietor was a brave old white-faced Swede. He had wandered
this way, Heaven knows how, and taken up his acres--I forget how
many years ago--all alone, bent double with sciatica, and with six
bits in his pocket and an axe upon his shoulder. Long, useless
years of seafaring had thus discharged him at the end, penniless
and sick. Without doubt he had tried his luck at the diggings, and
got no good from that; without doubt he had loved the bottle, and
lived the life of Jack ashore. But at the end of these adventures,
here he came; and, the place hitting his fancy, down he sat to make
a new life of it, far from crimps and the salt sea. And the very
sight of his ranche had done him good. It was "the handsomest spot
in the Californy mountains." "Isn't it handsome, now?" he said.
Every penny he makes goes into that ranche to make it handsomer.
Then the climate, with the sea-breeze every afternoon in the
hottest summer weather, had gradually cured the sciatica; and his
sister and niece were now domesticated with him for company--or,
rather, the niece came only once in the two days, teaching music
the meanwhile in the valley. And then, for a last piece of luck,
"the handsomest spot in the Californy mountains" had produced a
petrified forest, which Mr. Evans now shows at the modest figure of
half a dollar a head, or two-thirds of his capital when he first
came there with an axe and a sciatica.
This tardy favourite of fortune--hobbling a little, I think, as if
in memory of the sciatica, but with not a trace that I can remember
of the sea--thoroughly ruralized from head to foot, proceeded to
escort us up the hill behind his house.
"Who first found the forest?" asked my wife.
"The first? I was that man," said he. "I was cleaning up the
pasture for my beasts, when I found THIS"--kicking a great redwood
seven feet in diameter, that lay there on its side, hollow heart,
clinging lumps of bark, all changed into gray stone, with veins of
quartz between what had been the layers of the wood.
"Were you surprised?"
"Surprised? No! What would I be surprised about? What did I know
about petrifactions--following the sea? Petrifaction! There was
no such word in my language! I knew about putrifaction, though! I
thought it was a stone; so would you, if you was cleaning up
pasture."
And now he had a theory of his own, which I did not quite grasp,
except that the trees had not "grewed" there. But he mentioned,
with evident pride, that he differed from all the scientific people
who had visited the spot; and he flung about such words as "tufa"
and "scilica" with careless freedom.
When I mentioned I was from Scotland, "My old country," he said;
"my old country"--with a smiling look and a tone of real affection
in his voice. I was mightily surprised, for he was obviously
Scandinavian, and begged him to explain. It seemed he had learned
his English and done nearly all his sailing in Scotch ships. "Out
of Glasgow," said he, "or Greenock; but that's all the same--they
all hail from Glasgow." And he was so pleased with me for being a
Scotsman, and his adopted compatriot, that he made me a present of
a very beautiful piece of petrifaction--I believe the most
beautiful and portable he had.
Here was a man, at least, who was a Swede, a Scot, and an American,
acknowledging some kind allegiance to three lands. Mr. Wallace's
Scoto-Circassian will not fail to come before the reader. I have
myself met and spoken with a Fifeshire German, whose combination of
abominable accents struck me dumb. But, indeed, I think we all
belong to many countries. And perhaps this habit of much travel,
and the engendering of scattered friendships, may prepare the
euthanasia of ancient nations.
And the forest itself? Well, on a tangled, briery hillside--for
the pasture would bear a little further cleaning up, to my eyes--
there lie scattered thickly various lengths of petrified trunk,
such as the one already mentioned. It is very curious, of course,
and ancient enough, if that were all. Doubtless, the heart of the
geologist beats quicker at the sight; but, for my part, I was
mightily unmoved. Sight-seeing is the art of disappointment.
"There's nothing under heaven so blue,
That's fairly worth the travelling to."
But, fortunately, Heaven rewards us with many agreeable prospects
and adventures by the way; and sometimes, when we go out to see a
petrified forest, prepares a far more delightful curiosity, in the
form of Mr. Evans, whom may all prosperity attend throughout a long
and green old age.
