Water High in San Joaquin Valley.

The San Joaquin river was very high and had overflowed thousands of acres of land.  Our road, slightly elevated, passed for miles through an inland sea.  To reach Los Banos, we made a wide detour to the left.  We crossed the Pacheco Pass into the Santa Clara valley.  We had intended to go to Holister by way of San Felipe.  Some three miles from the latter place we saw a sign reading “Hollister nine miles.”  We took the road indicated and must have saved six or seven miles.

Hollister.

This portion of the country is largely given over to fruit growing and raising flower and garden seed, acres and acres of which were in full bloom, and the mingled colors were exceedingly charming.  We reached Holister in good time, one hundred and seventy miles from Wawona.  We found good accommodations at the Hotel Hartman.  Bright and early next morning we were off.  We went due west.  We found the bridge over the Pajaro river utterly destroyed by last winter’s rains.  We crossed through the bed of the stream without difficulty and were soon upon the main road to Salinas, just below San Juan.  As we ascended the San Juan hills, we paused at a turn in the road and got a view of the beautiful valley in which Hollister lies.  No more peaceful landscape ever greeted mortal eye.  Every acre as far as one could see, not devoted to pasturage, was cultivated.  There were grain and hay fields, orchards by the mile, and the seed farms in full bloom, while cattle and horses grazed peacefully in many pastures.  We turned away with regret at leaving a land so beautiful, so happy and contented looking.

“The Ferryman.”

At Salinas river we found a man with a good-sized team of horses, who, for one dollar and fifty cents, hauled us through a little water which we could have crossed without difficulty, and a quarter of a mile of loose, shifting sand which we could never have crossed without his aid.  He has a tent in which he has lived since last winter, and he gets them “coming and going,” as no machine can negotiate that stretch of road unassisted.  He earns his money, and I wish him well.

Fine Run to Los Olivos.

Taking out the time spent at lunch and in taking on gasoline, we reached Los Olivos, two hundred and thirty-one miles from Hollister, in eleven hours’ running time.  We again had good accommodations at Los Olivos and were off next morning on the final “leg” of our journey.  The road from the north side of Gaviote Pass to within a few miles of Santa Barbara is a disgrace to Santa Barbara county.  I prefer the valley route with its heat to the coast route, and I warn all automobilists to avoid the latter route.

We had a good lunch at Shepherd’s Inn, and then ran home in time for dinner.  We came by Calabasas, and just before we reached the Cahuenga Pass we turned off and went through Lankershim on our way to Alhambra.  We all remarked that in no section of the state we had visited did the trees look as healthy, the alfalfa as luxuriant, the garden truck as vigorous, as they did at Lankershim.  Every inch of the ground there is cultivated; there are no waste spots.