Alva B. Richmond Over the Government Trail to Fish Canyon, June 11, 1916
"Sunday after Sunday, for months and months, Baker and I as we worked among his bees in his apiary in the foothills beyond Monrovia, would cast longing glances up at the Government Trail which wound its sinuous course along the side of the mountain above us, its thread-like line easily followed until it disappeared in the blue haze over the further summit where it dropped down into Fish Canyon.
"Many times as we sat lunching and gazing up at the mountain we promised ourselves that some day we would climb those rugged tortuous steps and follow the trail over into Fish Canyon, or perhaps when we reached the summit above our camp, if we could find a way to descend, we would try and make our way back to our own little retreat.
"The indications for Sunday, June 11th promised one of those typically perfect days for which California is noted and we made up our minds to take advantage of the opportunity and make the promised trip, and it was just 7:45 A.M. when we stepped from the cars at Monrovia and started upon our hike, We passed through the shady streets of Monrovia, one of the most beautiful of the many interesting small cities of Southern California, and after a mile and a half walk arrived at the foot of the trail. We stopped to get a drink from the cold mountain stream which broke in a foamy torrent over the boulders, and to read the sign board placed at the beginning of the trail, which read, "8 miles to Fish Canyon," then began the ascent.
"Southern California offers attractions unknown and unappreciated by the vast bulk of its own citizens. While the area is limited it is boundless within its own limits, and offers stores of treasure and scope of scenery that cannot be equalled in any other locality. It only requires time and effort for one to obtain them all. It is a spot where winter and summer will bring pleasure and comfort. The fields, streams and mountains of California are to me the country's most powerful charm and they hold my soul in bondage, ever exerting a fascination that cannot be denied, and the opportunity is never presented to me to explore unknown territory, that I do not seize it if possible.
"It is probably true that the majority of men would rather be a lamp post in a big city than the possessor of a princely rural domain, but it is also true that there is a respectable part of humanity who will not agree with that majority, and I confess to being one of that minority. I will also acknowledge that I am unable to tell of the beauties and resources of this country, in terms that can compare with those tourists who see it only with the rattle of car wheels beneath them, with the clatter of plates around the hotels at which he stops, or the clink of the wine glasses in the wine cellars which he visits. I must see the actual scene itself and rub shoulders with Dame Nature, to be able to describe the fascinations of this southern territory, and then my powers of description are feeble and almost fail me.
"The first part of the trail for at least a half mile is very steep, a strenuous climb with the trail zigzagging back and forth until we have ascended several hundred feet, then it starts off in its tortuous course in an easterly direction. As we ascend, at each turn in the trail we realize the height we are attaining, for the cottonwood and oak trees in the wash below gradually recede until they appear like bushes rather than trees of respectable proportion, and the valley beings to unfold map like before us, gradually disclosing a landscape that embraces barrenness and fertility, wildness and civilization, and with all varieties of mountain, plain and valley that can be formed by time and the elements.
"Monrovia with its squares of streets, its lanes of pepper trees and embowered residences nestles at our feet, while beyond may be seen the outlines of the village of Arcadia, surrounded by the thousands of acres belonging to the estate of the late "Lucky" Baldwin, and with its long avenues of eucalyptus and pepper trees, the finest in the state. Between, we can follow the ribbon like trail of the Big Santa Anita, leading towards the sea, now perhaps showing only a long dry bed of white sand and again lost in its winding through long green lanes of sycamore and cottonwood, perhaps to break out anon in a long shining strip, or it may flow on for miles then sink to rise no more.
"As we round the last ledge on this abrupt climb we stand on a projecting point hundred of feet above the foot of the trail with an unobstructed vision of the San Gabriel Valley before us, which at its best, is the loveliest valley in Southern California. The Sierra Madre Mountains upon which we stand form an abrupt northern wall rising with a sudden sweep to a greater height above the valley than most of the big mountains of the country, bringing to the door of this semi-tropic civilization a primeval wildness, the vastnesses of which are practically unexplored.
"Across the valley, visible in the blue haze which hangs like a veil suspended from an invisible world may be seen the rising hills, the beginning of a secondary range of lesser mountains, these hills merging into the rolling surface of higher peaks and table lands, with valleys and plains, shutting off the coast from the larger interior valley, the whole presenting a color confusion of blue, gray, yellow, brown, and green.
"Releasing ourselves from this panoramic scene, its beauty so impressed upon our memory that time cannot efface it, we continue our climb, which from this point is gradual for about a mile, following along the top of the ridge or hog-back. On our right new vistas constantly unfold giving us different views of the gradual widening valley. Near the foothills, is the little valley indentations and running far out into the big valley, encroaching upon the white sandy wastes of the San Gabriel River and lesser streams, are thousands of acres of orange and lemon groves, interspersed with immense vineyards of the tenderest grapes, the regularity of their setting and the dark green of the trees and vines in deep contrast with the yellow of the wheat and barley fields which here and there lie wedged between.
"Creeping in and out, following the uneven base of the mountains one can follow the white line of the Foothills Boulevard for miles; one of the greatest of Southern California's highways and one of the most popular drives for the tourist in the world. Its smooth asphalt surface runs from ocean to desert, skirting mountains with their wonderful and changing variety of scenery on one side, while on the other lies the valley of San Gabriel, a garden spot unequalled on the globe.
"On the right of the ridge we are ascending, towards the south, the mountains slope off in a series of precipitous declines and low rolling hills, some whitish green with the tall white sage, and others a grayish brown with the dense ranks of the wild-mustard stalks. The northern side of the ridge is much more precipitous and densely covered with chaparral, scrub oak, alder etc. and it descends abruptly in places many hundred feet to the line of heavy green timber which follows the course of the mountain stream which we plainly hear as it brawls along over its boulder stream bed, the murmur of its music lending an additional charm to the scene.
"All along the trail we are following is a spangled growth of myriads of flowers, most of them strange to me, lending a varied beauty of color to the scene that is hard to describe. Vast patches of the bluish pink blossom of the alfileria, spread out over the southern slopes; a cream colored bell-flower nods from a tall slender stalk, another of sky-blue opening beside it, while beneath these a little five petaled flower of deep pink tries to outshine the blossom of the alfileria; and above and trying to outshine them all stands the radiant shooting-star, with its reflexed petals of white and yellow and pink. On every side are violets of pure golden hue and of almost overpowering fragrance; clover with fine delicate leaves unfold flowers of red, yellow and pink. Delicate crucifera in white and yellow blossoms are in profusion, while little scarlet flowers on slender scapes look skyward on every hand, and others of pure white with every variety of petal crowd up among them. Abruptly rounding a little eminence ahead of us we command miles of landscape ahead, and one is dazzled with the blaze of color from acres and acres of pink, blue, yellow and scarlet, and vast reaches of blue and white. This is merely the warp in the carpet, for all along the southern slopes beam color upon color; spires of green mount upon every side opening into the subdued hues of the lavender and the crimson of the cardinal-flower; the iris, with its broad golden eye fringed with rays of delicate blue and the phacelia simply overwhelm some places with waves of purple, blue, indigo and whitish pink. Below, the primrose covers the slopes with its tint of bright yellow and the rock rose adds its golden bloom to the bright lights of the hills and plains. There are tulips of lavender, lupins and many varieties of the wild-pea family pushing and winding their way everywhere in every shade of crimson, purple and white. Among all these are mixed many flowers of other kinds and of names unknown to me, and these alone would be accounted plenty in other localities, but in this flower country they are mere pin points on a great map of colors.
"The stranger will gaze upon this varied carpet that covers hills and valley, undulating over the table-lands, robing the mountains with brilliancy of color that is visible for miles around and will use his fund of vocabulary to tell about it and go away thinking he has seen it all. Yet he has seen only the border of a carpet more varied and beautiful. As the season advances and changes occur, new varieties of flowers appear, the floral procession brings new banners into view, ever showing a riotous profusion of splendor. The whole land abounds with flowers, curious and lovely, but I have mentioned only those which covered our trail and surrounding country in wild profusion.
"At last we reach an elevation of about three thousand feet. The trail turns at an acute angle and you are seemingly retracing your steps, but you are climbing higher and higher and in a moment you round a projecting spur and another and entirely different vista meets your gaze, for we are now on the northern side of the ridge which we have been following and the blue and purple tops of the main range are plainly visible beyond the intervening green covered slopes of the Sierra Madre.
"In the distance, hundreds of feet above we can see where our trail winds over the top of the highest point, and from here we climb gradually following along the northern side. The flowers on this northern exposure grow with a ranker growth, and the scrub oak, heteromales, sumac, lilac and madrona are denser and taller than on the south side. the depth of the canyon on our right through which the mountain brook is running is getting shallower and the trees smaller and a few hundred feet further on we abruptly cross the head of the canyon, our feet dislodging from the narrow path a rock or two which go bounding down over the jagged surface of the rocks with a reverberating sound. We are now nearly four thousand feet high and the bay trees and manzanita begin to make their appearance, the manzanita bushes covered with their green berries, which in the fall will be black and shining.
"One more turn and we are on the top of the mountain which we have been ascending and beneath the branches of some spreading scrub oaks we sit down to lunch. From this point the view opened up before us was simply grand. Off to the west Los Angeles covered by a smoky haze and obscured in a dense mass of green is plainly visible, while beyond lies the long bright band of the Pacific in its morning silvery sheen, and still beyond may be seen the dark and ragged edges of rocky Catalina. To the north-west the first thing that rivets our attention is the pine clad top and rugged sides of Mt. Wilson, its white observatory plainly silhouetted in the ethereal blue, two thousand feet above us. Still further rolls skyward again in a wild medley of rugged hills mounting swiftly one over another until they terminate in the bristling heights of the San Fernando range. Turning to the north the main range in all its serrated beauty and majesty is unfolded before us, their wild rugged sides clad in green forests of heavy pine, some of the tops concealed in nebulous misty clouds, the whole merging in the dim distance in a combined halo of purple and blue. To the east rises in all its grim majesty the white, bald top of "Old Baldy" rearing it s summit eleven thousand feet above sea level while to the south of Baldy we can see the abrupt rise of Mt. San Jacinto and beyond the rolling rugged mountain chain that finally is lost in the highlands of Mexico.
"Is it a wonder that in a land with such a topography and seasons, with such fine weather, cool nights and absolute safety from storms, camping should be one of the greatest of out-of-door pleasures? One can find game and fish in season; can thread the mountain canyons, climb the mountain peaks, and gaze upon the world at his feet; listen to the wind as it sighs through the huge pines. He can search the deepest shades of the high mountains, or lounge beside the clear mountain stream that rushes down the wind canyons from above.
"In camping out in summer, unless ladies are present, no protection is needed from the weather and nothing is more pleasant and attractive than to lie beneath the spreading branches of some live oak, or the shimmering needles of the silver-fir, and through the interlaced branches above, watch the twinkle of the starry heavens and the shifting, soft mellow light of the moon on the distant mountain peaks. Sleep in the mountains will come without wooing, the extremely dry air and the elevation inducing sleep such as is never known in the house. The mountains furnish water that cannot be found elsewhere and that alone is well worth going for. The water is cold and pure, fed from above by springs and running brooks which come rushing down the dark canyons through the open halls between huge trunks of trees whose branches form a solid shade above and where pine needles carpet the earth beneath. There the gray squirrel has his home and barks at you from the friendly crotch of the near by tree. The wary fox and coyote silently glide through the thick undergrowth seeking their prey, The pigeon coos from the friendly shelter of the near live oak and the mountain quail steals quietly down the winding trails in search of food. It is the home of the deer, which startled by your sudden appearance, goes dashing down or up the sides of the canyon, concealed by the dense chaparral, manzanita and mountain laurel, and sending down a shower of rocks and debris which rolls and smashes through the undergrowth, stopping with a dull rumble as it reaches the rocky bed beneath.
"Again we are on our way, now slowly descending along the western side of the ridge that separates us from Fish Canyon. The trail winds through the same brilliant mass of flowers and the sun beats down with additional warmth, but the cool sea breeze which blows so refreshingly and so unrestrictedly from the west, fans our cheek with a soft touch which relieves us of all discomfort, We constantly skirt the heads of small draws and deeper canyons, each one revealing some new scene, the soft tinkle of running water greeting the ear and an ever changing aspect of green timber and towering granite meeting the eye as it follows the erratic course of the canyon's stream.
"At last we reach the divide and the junction with the Deer Park Canyon trail. The sign board at the junction reads, "8 miles to Monrovia," but as our destination is the mouth of Fish Canyon, we give little heed to what the sign reads. The trail from here led down the eastern side of the mountain through a thick lying copse of scrub oak and alder, gradually dipping down into the heavier timber below. Suddenly we hear the music of rushing waters, which sounds most pleasant to our ears for we have been getting pretty thirsty ever since our lunch; and abruptly descending into a bunch of big firs, and following a winding lane between the trunks of the trees we reach the head of the canyon. Down between the dark cleft in the rocks above us comes tumbling in beautiful cascades, a miniature mountain stream, settling in a basin at our feet, forming a pool green with clearness, where the foam rests for a moment then cascading down among the boulder below where it is shattered into the whiteness of snow.
"How refreshing to stretch one's weary limbs upon one of the huge rocks which stands grim and sentry like, as if to bar our approach to forbidden grounds, and reach forth and slake our thirst in waters as cold and clear as ever gladdened a thirsty soul. How restful to lean back against the friendly embrace and watch the flicker of the sunlight as it filters through the leafy canopy above, casting fantastic figures and reflections upon the surface of the pool, and how sweet the music of the waters as they ripple over the rapids of shingle below, the sound lulling one into repose.
"The sun is drawing slowly down its western course and the shadows warn us not to loiter if we would be out of the mountains before night, so we again follow the well defined trail leading us along the northern side of the canyon, dipping down and down, leading in consequence to us believe we were on our right course down Fish Canyon. Back and forth, around the ends of canyons, trailing along just above the towering pines below us and just below the towering pinnacles on our left, we continue to descend, each turn revealing new changes in the perspective and showing new and stranger beauties of contour. Mile after mile is passed and the rail begins to bend toward the east, disconcerting to us for we felt it should lead to the south.
"Listen! We hear the tinkle of a bell. Again the sound reaches our ears apparently from a clump of cottonwoods in this gorge at our right, then the gentle murmur of voices breaks the stillness. It must be some campers who are spending a vacation in this natural garden of charms, so full they will always endure.
"Finding a well beaten trail leading through the brush from off the main trail, we followed it and soon emerged into a break in the trees where a small tent was pitched. We found two men here who had been in the mountains for some time enjoying either an enforced outing or a vacation, which we did not inquire. Asking them if we were in Fish Canyon, they replied that we were, telling us to listen and we could hear the roar of the stream down the canyon bed. We then asked them if the trail we were following, led to the mouth of the canyon? At the inquiry a broad smile spread over the face of the younger, and he replied, "No, it doesn't. The trail you are on leads to Camp Rincon over in San Gabriel Canyon." He further added, "There is no trail leading down to the mouth of Fish Canyon, and if you should attempt to go down the canyon to the mouth, which is about ten miles from here, I fear you could not accomplish the feat, and you run the chance of injury to yourself. The canyon is narrow and the sides very precipitous, and you would have to clamber down the rocks and wade the stream in various narrow places throughout its windings, and as those spaces are filled with driftwood and big boulders it would be a perilous undertaking, and even if you could accomplish it, it would be an all day's job. I would advise you to retrace your steps to the top of the divide and take the Deer Park Canyon trail to Monrovia."
"Inquiring about the distance to Monrovia from there we were told it was 13 miles, and after considering the matter pro and con, Baker and I decided to hike back over that portion of our trail again. We retraced our weary footsteps to the top of the range, stopping again at our pool beneath the pines to slake our thirst, and then started down the trail into Deer Park.
"After leaving the forks in the trail we were well repaid for being forced to retrace our steps. The trail was a good one and followed the eastern side of mountain we were on which was in shadow for the sun was now well down in the west. It led us along midway between the top of the ridge and the rushing torrent, hundreds of feet below, an occasional glimpse of which we could get through the interlaced branches of the live oak and cottonwood, its white boulder strewn bed gleaming ghost like in the gathering shades.
"These mountain streams which spring from little trickling rivulets far above, uniting in the dark defiles, foaming and tumbling on their way below, are a source of constant pleasure to the hiker like ourselves. They gayly flow and sparkle, their waters cold and clear, dashing down some short cascade, sleeping a moment in some quiet pool, then foaming along among huge boulders of white granite, their waters covered by an arcade of green alders, willows and giant ferns that interlace their arms above forming perpetual shade, then plunging over a precipice and breaking into white foam as the water strikes the granite floor of the canyon.
"Such a stream we followed for a while and then our trail descended rapidly to the steam bed, which we crossed and ascended the other side for a short distance. We were now in the warm rays of the descending sun which was beginning to cast deep shadows of purple over the eastern side of the towering peaks, throwing out shadows which lengthened and crawled over the intervening ridges like some living thing. From the hills and deep covert below us came the soft persistent call of the valley quail for his mate, and as we turned a sudden angle in the trail, from a bush around which is trailing garlands of pink and blue something darts out in our path and with a shrill chirping noise and a whir of wings the quail sails away across the canyon to the other side.
"We are now descending rapidly and the depths of the canyon begin to grow dim in the gathering twilight. As we approach the mouth, a cottontail hops silently out of the bushes and sits quietly in the road ahead of us, the next moment scurrying off up the hillside, followed by a little bush-rabbit which moves so swiftly as to resemble a shadow.
"Our day's tramp is nearly finished and such is the land and trail as you might see it if in our place. The softest of sunlight sleeps on the land and on the sea over it all plays the softest of breezes, while out of the gathering night comes sounds to you beckoning you to still further explore the hidden recesses and solve the mysteries of the great hills and mountains."