A Tramp Through The Bret Harte Country | Page 7

was the first
person I had thus far encountered who had known Bret Harte in the
flesh. He had also known and frequently met Mark Twain, "Dan de
Quille" and Prentice Mulford. Of the four, it was evident that Mulford
had left by far the most lasting as well as favorable impression on his
mind. Of him he spoke in terms of real affection. "Prentice Mulford,"

he said, "was a brilliant, very handsome and most lovable young man."
I asked him how these young men were regarded by the miners. He
said: "In all the camps they were held to be in a class by themselves, on
account of their education and literary ability. Although they wore the
rough costume of the miners, it was realized that none of them took
mining seriously or made any pretense of real work with pick and
shovel." Mr. Neal knew James Gillis intimately and admitted he was a
great story-teller. In fact, at the bare mention of his name he broke into
a hearty laugh. "Oh, Jim Gillis, he was a great fellow!" he exclaimed.
He said unquestionably Mark Twain got a good deal of material from
him, and feels certain that Bret Harte must have met him at least on
several occasions. Mr. Neal stated that up to the time of the Midwinter
Fair, the output of gold from Tuolumne county reached the astonishing
figures of $250,000,000! What it has amounted to since that time, I had
no means of ascertaining.
It is only twelve miles from Sonora to Tuolumne. From the top of the
divide which separates the valleys there is a beautiful view of the
surrounding country, the dim blue peaks of the Sierra Nevada forming
the eastern sky-line. One of the chief charms of an excursion through
these foothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach any
considerable elevation there will be revealed a magnificent panorama,
bounded only by the limit of vision, range after range of mountains
running up in varying shades of blue and purple, to the far distant
summits that indicate the backbone of California.
Tuolumne is situated in a circular basin rather than in a valley, and thus
being protected from the wind, in hot weather the heat is intense. If
there are any mining operations in the immediate vicinity, they are not
in evidence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of the biggest
timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side Lumber
Company, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like
30,000,000 feet of sugar pine. The logs are brought from the mountains
twenty to twenty-five miles by rail, and sawn into lumber at Tuolumne.
I was told that the bulk of the lumber manufactured here was shipped
abroad, a great deal going to Australia.

Tuolumne, in Bret Harte's time, was called Summersville. It was
destroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has
already so assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that
its comparative youth might easily escape detection. Altogether, I was
disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's,
owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while
an excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring. I
spent the night at the "Turnback Inn," a large frame building,
handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire. It is, I believe,
quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of the Sierra
Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland and San
Francisco.
Returning to Angel's the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown. There
is a strange attraction about the place - it would hold you apart from its
associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by splendid
trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the noon-day sun,
is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of day-dream at the
ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in the Sierras - with
four faro tables running day and night - the pines seemed to whisper a
sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass Hill is fairly
honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I was surprised
to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect work going
forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to which ropes
were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp showed signs of
a new lease of life.
Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious
difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I
abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following
with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it