ON THE TRAIL OF THE FOUR FOOTED LOCUST. 



H. H. ROSE. 



Early one warm morning in May we left 

 Pasadena for a pedestrian trip to the high 

 Sierras of Central California. Our party 

 comprised my friend A. H. Conger, his 

 son Harry, a strapping youth of 15, and 

 me. Three burros laden with provisions 

 and camping supplies constituted our out- 

 fit. We, roughly but comfortably clad, 

 trudged behind. 



Evening found us 12 miles out, thorough- 

 ly tired and willing to camp in any old 

 place affording wood and water. Next 

 morning an early start carried us across 

 the wash of Big Tejunga canyon before the 

 day grew excessively warm. Our camp the 

 second night was near the San Fernando 

 tunnel of the Southern Pacific railroad. 

 The third day tried us severely. Hot, 

 dusty roads, with a fierce head wind, made 

 walking hard, and at 1 p. m. we camped in 

 a green pasture on the Newhall ranch. 

 About sundown Conger went shooting near 

 camp, returning shortly with 7 fat young 

 cottontails, giving us material for a fine 

 stew. 



Next day we pegged steadily upward 

 through the Castaig canyon, leaving the 

 wagon road to our right and taking a good 

 mountain trail to Miller's ranch, at Oak 

 Flat. There we camped under some fine 

 oaks, but feed and water were scarce. That 

 day was notable for the lars:e coveys of 

 quails seen along the road, the dry season 

 seemingly having prevented them from 

 pairing. The next 2 days we hunted and 

 enjoyed the scenery. 



From that point our route lay up the 

 Piru. A short distance from where we 

 struck the creek is a fine ranch owned by 

 an eccentric English bachelor. Surrounded 

 by his horses, cattle and bees he lives the 

 life of a patriarch, barring howling chil- 

 dren and scolding wives. Two miles far- 

 ther up we made an early camp, as the 

 threatening skies foretold rain. We re- 

 mained until Monday morning, when we 

 traveled Northward up the canyon, which 

 broadens into a wide meadow at Bailey 

 ranch. About 2 p. m. we cut into the main 

 wagon road again, West of Necnach. 

 I killed a large male glossy ibis, or bronze 

 curlew. We camped for the night at Gor- 

 man's, on the old Fort Tejon road. Vast 

 masses of black clouds rushed over the 

 summits and poured through the pass, 

 driven by a furious wind. The weather, 

 to a Southern Californian, was fearfully 

 cold, so after a hasty supper we crawled 

 into our blankets, pulling the double folds 

 of our tent over us. 



Next day we made 18 miles down hill 



to Rose's station, passing through a grove 

 of the largest and most stately oaks in 

 California. Passing Castac lake, we reached 

 the ruins of old Fort Tejon, an adobe 

 structure built by the Mexicans to over- 

 awe the Indians. At the top of the pass, 

 over 4,000 feet above sea level, I saw a 

 flock of stilts circling over a cienaga. 

 Hastily seizing the shot gun I ran to the 

 fence and as they flew by gave them both 

 barrels, dropping 6. Then Harry took the 

 gun, and following them across the pas- 

 ture secured 5 with one shot. Though not 

 first class eating they made a palatable stew 

 for supper. 



From Rose's station to Granite station, 

 through Bakersfield and Poso Bridge, the 

 road passed over alkali flats and dreary 

 barren hills, except in the irrigated dis- 

 trict about Bakersfield. 



The road Northward from Bakersfield 

 leads over barren hills for 25 or 30 miles. 

 The region was once carpeted with flowers 

 and bush grasses, but the sheep, that "4- 

 footed locust," as John Muir aptly terms 

 him, has destroyed its beauty, and to a 

 great extent its value. At Poso Bridge 

 we found a few cottonwood trees in a dry, 

 sandy wash. A well dug in the dry chan- 

 nel furnished water. Poso Bridge and 

 Granite Station, 12 miles farther on, are 

 just sheep shearing points, as many as 60,- 

 000 being shorn there semi-annually. 



The Monday following we passed 

 through Glenville, a pretty mountain vil- 

 lage, and camped among pines and cedars 

 at Burton's, 9 miles beyond. The next day 

 we reached the end of the wagon road at 

 Parson's mill. There we found a fine or- 

 chard, and bought some excellent apples. 

 Steady plodding pulled us over the bald 

 summit at the head of White river, and we 

 camped in a deserted cabin at Tobias 

 meadows, about 7,000 feet above sea level. 



Off in the morning, we followed a good 

 but rocky trail over high ridges and through 

 dark canyons. We stopped for lunch at 

 "Dirty camp," where years of sheep fold- 

 ing have covered the slopes with droppings 

 and given the place its name. We camoed 

 for the night beside a fine stream at Dry 

 meadows, where countless sheep ba-a-a-ed 

 all night. At least 200,000 sheep are now 

 trespassing on the National Forest Re- 

 serve in these mountains, doing enormous 

 damage to young trees and shrubs and in- 

 cidentally to the water supply. 



June 1st we reached Kern lake. This is 

 a widening of Big Kern river and was 

 formed in 1868 by a landslide occasioned by 

 the great earthquake. Much, timber is still 



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