THE SILVERADO SQUATTERS

The scene of this little book is on a high mountain.  There are, indeed, many higher; there are many of a nobler outline.  It is no place of pilgrimage for the summary globe-trotter; but to one who lives upon its sides, Mount Saint Helena soon becomes a centre of interest.  It is the Mont Blanc of one section of the Californian Coast Range, none of its near neighbours rising to one-half its altitude.  It looks down on much green, intricate country.  It feeds in the spring-time many splashing brooks.  From its summit you must have an excellent lesson of geography:  seeing, to the south, San Francisco Bay, with Tamalpais on the one hand and Monte Diablo on the other; to the west and thirty miles away, the open ocean; eastward, across the corn-lands and thick tule swamps of Sacramento Valley, to where the Central Pacific railroad begins to climb the sides of the Sierras; and northward, for what I know, the white head of Shasta looking down on Oregon.  Three counties, Napa County, Lake County, and Sonoma County, march across its cliffy shoulders.  Its naked peak stands nearly four thousand five hundred feet above the sea; its sides are fringed with forest; and the soil, where it is bare, glows warm with cinnabar.

Life in its shadow goes rustically forward.  Bucks, and bears, and rattle-snakes, and former mining operations, are the staple of men’s talk.  Agriculture has only begun to mount above the valley.  And though in a few years from now the whole district may be smiling with farms, passing trains shaking the mountain to the heart, many-windowed hotels lighting up the night like factories, and a prosperous city occupying the site of sleepy Calistoga; yet in the mean time, around the foot of that mountain the silence of nature reigns in a great measure unbroken, and the people of hill and valley go sauntering about their business as in the days before the flood.

To reach Mount Saint Helena from San Francisco, the traveller has twice to cross the bay:  once by the busy Oakland Ferry, and again, after an hour or so of the railway, from Vallejo junction to Vallejo.  Thence he takes rail once more to mount the long green strath of Napa Valley.

In all the contractions and expansions of that inland sea, the Bay of San Francisco, there can be few drearier scenes than the Vallejo Ferry.  Bald shores and a low, bald islet inclose the sea; through the narrows the tide bubbles, muddy like a river.  When we made the passage (bound, although yet we knew it not, for Silverado) the steamer jumped, and the black buoys were dancing in the jabble; the ocean breeze blew killing chill; and, although the upper sky was still unflecked with vapour, the sea fogs were pouring in from seaward, over the hilltops of Marin county, in one great, shapeless, silver cloud.