The Trout of Los Laurelles 89 



forests of manzanita, the garden of Carmel unfolding, the 

 green of hills and mountains becoming more vivid, and the 

 masses of flowers that carpet the land forming a literal field 

 of the cloth of gold; surely verdure and wild flowers run 

 riot in the Santa Lucia valleys. Then we come to the lower 

 reaches of the trail, and a strong pungent incense fills the 

 air, as the coach brushes the trees; the laurels, here great 

 bays, protesting loudly in sweet odors, suggesting that Los 

 Laurelles must be near ; and suddenly, we bowl out into the 

 road in the valley of El Carmelo, a perfect environment for 

 the little river that is seen running away along the moun- 

 tains to the south. 



Up a long country road we go; now in the open, again 

 shut in, with live oaks on every hand, listening to the music 

 of the meadow larks, the notes of the plumed quail — 

 kwook-kwook-kwook, wook-kwook — borne on the wind, 

 and suddenly reach Los Laurelles, seventeen miles up the 

 canon from the sea, directly on the highway, and fronting 

 the river that here flows along the base of high mountains. 



The ranch house is a long rambling building surrounded 

 by palms, the front yard glowing with roses of the Cali- 

 fornia variety, size and perfume. At the north end stands 

 a splendid live oak which covers two hundred or more 

 square feet, and could protect a regiment of men. Here we 

 find that rare thing which the average country inn never 

 has, immaculate neatness, with good cheer. Then, there is 

 real cream and fruit from oranges to apples ; no mosquitoes 

 or pests, a breeze that comes up from the sea over seventeen 

 miles of trout pools and radiant flowers; in brief, Los 

 Laurelles appealed to us, and some of us determined to live 

 there always. 



The mail comes once in a while,— though you can talk 

 with the world over the telephone ; but you never do. Your 

 nearest neighbors are the blacksmith and trout— just over 

 the road down by the creamery, as Los Laurelles is a real 

 ranch, and all that the tenderfoot's imagination painted it. 



