A Truthful Woman in Southern California | Page 8

is a quiet inland retreat twenty-two miles from San Diego,
where many go for a little excursion and change of air. The Lakeside
Hotel has seventy large rooms and complete appointments. The table is
supplied with plenty of milk and real cream from their own cows,
vegetables and fruit from the neighboring ranches, game in its season,
shot on the lake near by, and, in the valleys, meats from homegrown
stock. The guests who are not too invalidish often go out for long
drives, never forgetting the lunch-baskets. One day we try the Alpine
stage. Winding across the mesa at the rear of the hotel, we have a
lovely view of the little lake half hidden in the trees, reflecting in its
quiet surface the mountains that rise up beyond it. Gradually climbing
upward, we come to a tract of land that is watered by the Flume. To our
surprise we learn that this is practically frostless, and that since this has
been discovered many young orchards of oranges and lemons have
been planted. The red mesa land on the side-hills will not be touched by
the frosts of a cold night when the valley at its foot will have enough
frost to kill all tender growth. This is a new discovery, and has placed
thousands of acres on the market as suitable for the culture of citrus
fruits. Do you notice how the appearance of the landscape is changing?
The nearer hills are much sharper and steeper, and their sides are
studded by great boulders. There are stone walls, and here and there are
great flocks of sheep. The horses stop of their own accord at a lovely
spot where they are used to getting a drink of cool spring water. Did
any ever taste quite so good as that drunk from an old dipper after a
long warm drive? The live-oaks and sycamores look too inviting to be
resisted, and we get out to explore while the horses are resting.
Underneath the evergreen shade we pick up some of the large pointed
acorns and carry them away as souvenirs. This would be a delightful
spot for a picnic, but we have many miles before us and must go on. In
a few more miles we reach a little town known as "Alpine." In the
distance looms the Viejas, and if any of the party wish to travel over a
grade, now is the opportunity. The top of the grade brings us to a lovely
view. Eastward is an unbroken chain of mountain-peaks, from whose

summits may be seen the broad Pacific on one side and the Colorado
Desert on the other.
One of the favorite drives is into the Monte. This is a large park or tract
of a thousand acres. On each side the hills rise, and in front El Cajon
shows new beauties with every step of the way. Great live-oaks with
enormous trunks, ancient sycamores, elders, and willows make in some
spots a dense shade. On the edge of the hillsides the Flume may be seen,
which furnishes many ranches as well as the city of San Diego with the
purest mountain water. Underneath the trees and up on the rocks the
lover of flowers and ferns will scramble. There are the dainty
forget-me-nots, tiny flowers of starry white, flowers of pale orange
with centres of deep maroon, the wild galliardia, and the wild peony
with its variegated leaves. Many other delicate blossoms which we
cannot stop to describe are there too. And the ferns! All kinds may be
found by the initiated, and many are close at hand. The fern lined with
gold or with silver, the running ferns, the ferns of lace-like fineness, the
ferns as soft as velvet, all growing in the greatest profusion. And each
day of the week a different drive and new delights.
There is the valley of El Cajon ("the box"), which should be visited in
grape-picking time. The great Boston ranch alone employs three
hundred and twenty-five pickers. Men, women, children, all busy, and
the grapes when just turned are sweet, spicy, and delicious, making the
air fragrant. This valley is dotted with handsome villas and prosperous
ranches. The range of mountains which looms up before us from the
veranda of the hotel is not yet dignified by a name, yet it is more
imposing than the White Mountains, and in the distance we see old
Cuyamaca, nearly seven thousand feet high. But we must take the next
train for San Diego, or this chapter will be a volume in itself. And I
have not even alluded to the "Great Back Country."
The founder of San Diego is still living, still hopeful, still young at
heart. "Father" Horton, the typical pioneer, deserves more honors than
he has yet