Where the coast ranges and the Sierra Nevada come together we find a very complicated system of short ranges, the geology and topography of which is yet hidden, and many years of laborious study must be given for anything like a complete interpretation of them.  The San Gabriel is one or more of these ranges, forty or fifty miles long, and half as broad, extending from the Cajon Pass on the east, to the Santa Monica and Santa Susanna ranges on the west.  San Antonio, the dominating peak, rises towards the eastern extremity of the range to a height of about six thousand feet, forming a sure landmark throughout the valley and all the way down to the coast, without, however, possessing much striking individuality.  The whole range, seen from the plain, with the hot sun beating upon its southern slopes, wears a terribly forbidding aspect.  There is nothing of the grandeur of snow, or glaciers, or deep forests, to excite curiosity or adventure; no trace of gardens or waterfalls.  From base to summit all seems gray, barren, silent—­dead, bleached bones of mountains, overgrown with scrubby bushes, like gray moss.  But all mountains are full of hidden beauty, and the next day after my arrival at Pasadena I supplied myself with bread and eagerly set out to give myself to their keeping.

On the first day of my excursion I went only as far as the mouth of Eaton Canyon, because the heat was oppressive, and a pair of new shoes were chafing my feet to such an extent that walking began to be painful.  While looking for a camping ground among the boulder beds of the canyon, I came upon a strange, dark man of doubtful parentage.  He kindly invited me to camp with him, and led me to his little hut.  All my conjectures as to his nationality failed, and no wonder, since his father was Irish and mother Spanish, a mixture not often met even in California.  He happened to be out of candles, so we sat in the dark while he gave me a sketch of his life, which was exceedingly picturesque.  Then he showed me his plans for the future.  He was going to settle among these canyon boulders, and make money, and marry a Spanish woman.  People mine for irrigating water along the foothills as for gold.  He is now driving a prospecting tunnel into a spur of the mountains back of his cabin.  “My prospect is good,” he said, “and if I strike a strong flow, I shall soon be worth five or ten thousand dollars.  That flat out there,” he continued, referring to a small, irregular patch of gravelly detritus that had been sorted out and deposited by Eaton Creek during some flood season, “is large enough for a nice orange grove, and, after watering my own trees, I can sell water down the valley; and then the hillside back of the cabin will do for vines, and I can keep bees, for the white sage and black sage up the mountains is full of honey.  You see, I’ve got a good thing.”  All this prospective affluence in the sunken, boulder-choked flood-bed of Eaton Creek!  Most home-seekers would as soon think of settling on the summit of San Antonio.