CHAPTER XI 



THE ISLAND OF SAN CLEMENTE 



IN 1907, late in the fall, when the winds were low 

 on the California coast, Gifford Pinchot and I 

 were enjoying the hospitalities of Mr. Charles 

 Rowland, of Rowland's, on San Clemente Island. It 

 was a part of the courtesy of the old Spaniards to say 

 to guests, "All that I have is yours." Mr. Rowland 

 not only said this, but he meant it, and we owned the 

 island. Mostly we fished, but one day the horses 

 were saddled and we rode first to Don Alonzo's, at 

 the west end; then we turned and started for the east 

 end on a ride that began at eight a.m. and ended at 

 eight P.M., over a remarkable and interesting trail, 

 covering possibly thirty-five or forty miles, in and out, 

 by mountain and caiion. We climbed the steep hills 

 at Rowland's and were shortly on the remarkable 

 sand-dunes, where the first view of the ancient town 

 sites became apparent. The long billowy white 

 sand, a menace to the island, filling its canons, was 

 dotted here and there with human bones and broken 

 skulls. In one spot there were the remains of at 

 least twenty men, — doubtless a battle-ground of past 

 centuries. 



Turning to the south, we took the long trail up the 

 hills, reaching a mesa which spread away gradually, 

 rising to the east and south. In the centre dark earth 

 appeared — a town site of large size, possibly dating 



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