the Sierra Santa Cruz 



of houses rose-clad, with a strange assortment of 

 trees; figs, chestnuts, oranges, acacias, eucalyptus, 

 madrone, apples, tremendous antipodal opposites, 

 cheek by jowl; little churches, an ancient inn with 

 inviting yard reaching away from the well-watered 

 country road, fields of pink and lavender, real fields of 

 the cloth of gold that waved and rippled in the wind 

 in ever-changing tints and combinations of color; a 

 neglected field of mustard, wild carrot and vagrant 

 weeds, if you will; a mountain Gobelin of the fields, 

 irresistible, alluring. 



Then there was the river, and perhaps this was the 

 charm after all ; a little river that demanded tribute, 

 as you could not reach the sea without crossing it, 

 and from its mouth at the laguna back into the range 

 it was flanked as is no river in all the world outside 

 of California, a solid wall of redwood rising, the 

 very gods of the forest, pillars that seemed to support 

 the sky. 



The Sequel is a winding stream, yet it never 

 strayed very far from the trees, and as I followed it 

 down they were always in sight, gradually disappear- 

 ing as I came to the sea where the little laguna widens 

 out and sea and mountain stream join forces and 

 form shelter for the steel head as it did for the sal- 

 mon in other days. 



Usually when one goes fishing he is on the ground, 

 but it was my fancy to make this a pilgrimage, so I 

 slept five miles up the Soquel, on its banks, one 



325 



