A Tramp Through The Bret Harte Country | Page 5

ate my lunch at the little store
and noted with apprehension that the thermometer registered 104
degrees in the shaded porch. I am not likely to forget that pull of ten
miles and inwardly confessed to a regret that I had not taken the train to
Milton. Accustomed on "hikes" to a thirst not surpassed by anything
"east of Suez," I never before appreciated the significance of the word
"parched" - the "tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth."
At Milton one enters the land of romance. What was even more

appreciable at the time, it marks the limit of the inhospitable country I
had traversed. Mr. Robert Donner, the proprietor of the Milton Hotel,
told me he once had "Black Bart" as his guest for over a week, being
unaware at the time of his identity. This famous bandit in the early
eighties "held up" the Yosemite stage time and again. In fact, he
terrorized the whole Sierra country from Redding to Sacramento. He
was finally captured in San Francisco through a clew obtained from a
laundry mark on a pair of white cuffs. For years, Mr. Donner cherished
a boot left by the highwayman in the hurry of departure, which, much
to his annoyance, was finally abstracted by some person unknown. To
dispose of Black Bart; he served his term and was never seen again in
the Sierras. There is a rumor that Wells Fargo & Company, the chief
sufferers by his activities, made it worth his while to behave himself in
the future.
The following day I reached Copperopolis. This place very justly has
the reputation of being one of the hottest spots in the foot-hills. Owing
to resumed operations on a large scale, of the Calaveras Copper
Company, I found the little settlement crowded to its fullest capacity,
and was perforce compelled to resort to genuine "hobo" methods - in
short, I spent the night under the lee of a haystack. My original
intention had been to walk thence to Sonora, twenty-four miles; but
finding the road would take me again into the valley, I decided to make
for Angel's Camp, only thirteen miles away.
It is uphill nearly all the way from Copperopolis to Angel's Camp, but
mostly you are in the pine woods. My spirits rose with the altitude and
delight at the magnificent view when I at last reached the summit.
Toiling up the grade in the dust, I met a good old-fashioned four-horse
Concord stage, which from all appearances might have been in action
ever since the days of Bret Harte. At last I felt I was in touch with the
Sierras. The driver even honored my bow with an abrupt "Howdy!"
which from such a magnate, I took to be a good omen.
In common with all the old mining towns - though I was unaware of it
at the time - Angel's, as it is usually called, is situated in the ravine
where gold was first discovered. It straggles down the gulch for a mile

and a half. There are a number of pretty cottages clinging to the steep
hillsides, surrounded with flowers and trees, the whole effect being
extremely pleasing. I registered at the Angel's Hotel, built in 1852.
Across the street is the Wells Fargo building, erected about the same
time and of solid stone, as is the hotel. Nothing on this trip surprised
me more than the solidity of the hotels and stores built in the early
fifties. Instead of the flimsy wooden structures I had imagined, I found,
for the most part, thick stone walls. It was evident the Pioneers believed
in the permanence of the gold deposits in the Mother Lode. Possibly
they were right; Angel's is anything but a dead town to-day. The Utica,
Angel's and Lightner mines give employment to hundreds of men.
In the afternoon I visited the Bret Harte Girls' High School. It is a very
simple frame building, on the summit of a hill overlooking the town.
The man who directed me how to find it, I discovered had not the
remotest idea who Bret Harte might be; "John Brown" would have
answered the purpose equally as well. In fact, all through the seven
counties I traversed - Tuolumne, Calaveras, Amador, El Dorado, Placer,
Nevada and Yuba - I found Bret Harte had left but a hazy and nebulous
impression. Mark Twain, Prentice Mulford, Horace Greeley, Bayard
Taylor, even "Dan de Quille," seemed better known.
The next morning I started for Sonora. In seven miles I came to the
Stanislaus River, running in a deep and splendid canon. The river here
is spanned by a fine concrete bridge, built jointly by Tuolumne and
Calaveras Counties, between which the river forms the dividing line. In
the bottom of the canon is the