A Tramp Through The Bret Harte Country | Page 9

bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up the
gulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and
debris, bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself
being literally stripped to "bedrock." I had already witnessed many
evidences of man's eager pursuit of the precious metal, but nothing that
so conveyed the idea of the feverish, persistent energy with which those
adventurers in the new El Dorado had struggled day and night with
Nature's obstacles, spurred on by the auri sacra fames.

A little incident served to relieve the monotony of the climb up Chili
Gulch. A miner, who might have sat for a study of "Tennessee's
Partner," came down the hillside with a pan of "dirt," which he
carefully washed in a muddy pool in the bed of the gulch. He showed
me the result, a few "colors" and sulphurets. He said it would "go about
five dollars to the ton," and seemed well satisfied with the result. I shall
always hold him in grateful memory, for he took me to an old tunnel,
and disappearing for a few moments, returned with a large dipper of
ice-cold water. Not the Children of Israel, when Aaron smote the rock
in the desert and produced a living stream, could have lapped that water
with keener enjoyment.
The terrific heat in Chili Gulch made the shade from the trees which
surround Mekolumne Hotel doubly grateful. Mokelumne Hill is, in fact,
a mountain, and commands a view of rare beauty. At its base winds the
wooded canon of the Mokelumne River, on the farther side of which
rises the Jackson Butte, an isolated peak with an elevation of over three
thousand feet, while in the background loom the omnipresent peaks of
the far Sierra.
The Mokelumne Hotel is regarded as modern, dating back merely to
1868, at which time the original building was destroyed by fire. The
present structure of solid blocks of stone, should resist the elements for
centuries to come. I was surprised at the excellent accommodations of
this hotel. In what seemed such an out-of-the-way and inaccessible
locality, I was served with one of the best meals on the whole journey,
including claret with crushed ice in a champagne glass! What that
meant to a tramp who had struggled for miles through quartz rock and
impalpable dust, up a heavy grade, without shade and the thermometer
well past the hundred mark, only a tramp can appreciate. I fell in love
with Mokelumne Hill and, after due consultation of my map, resolved
to pass the night in this picturesque and delightful spot. I was also
influenced by its associations, as it figures prominently in Bret Harte's
stories.
Of the four famous rivers - the Stanislaus, Mokelumne, American and
Cosumnes - which I crossed on this trip, the Mokelumne appealed to

me the most. Whatever the meaning of the Indian name, one may rest
assured it stands for some form of beauty. Jackson, the county seat of
Amador County, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of
considerable importance, being the terminus of a branch line of the
Southern Pacific Railway. It is situated in an open country where the
hills are at some distance, and presents a certain up-to-date appearance.
About a mile from Jackson the Kennedy mine, running a hundred
stamps, is one of the greatest gold producers in the State.
Sutter Creek, erroneously supposed by many to be the spot where gold
was first discovered in California, four miles north of Jackson, is
picturesque and rendered attractive by reason of the vivid green of the
lawns surrounding the little cottages on its outskirts. This town, too, has
a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the South Eureka
and Central Eureka mines. A gentleman whom I met on the street
imparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain's
definition of a gold mine. I had to confess I did not. "Well," said he,
"Mark Twain defined a gold mine as 'a hole in the ground at one end,
and a d - d fool at the other!'" The appreciative twinkle in his eye
suggested the possibility that this definition met with his approval.
Amador, two miles beyond Sutter Creek, did not appeal to me.
"Stagnation" would probably come nearer than any other term to
conveying to the mind of a person unfamiliar with Amador its present
condition. One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these
places, after a few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive
individuality. in spite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer,
gloom seemed to pervade the streets and to be characteristic of its
inhabitants. With the exception of an attempt to get into telephonic
communication with