We reported to the official in charge, were allotted a camping and grazing place, and proceeded to make ourselves at home.
During the next two days we rode comfortably here and there and looked at things.The things could not be spoiled, but their effect was very materially marred by the swarms of tourists.Sometimes they were silly, and cracked inane and obvious jokes in ridicule of the grandest objects they had come so far to see; sometimes they were detestable and left their insignificant calling-cards or their unimportant names where nobody could ever have any object in reading them; sometimes they were pathetic and helpless and had to have assistance; sometimes they were amusing; hardly ever did they seem entirely human.I wonder what there is about the traveling public that seems so to set it apart, to make of it at least a sub-species of mankind?
Among other things, we were vastly interested in the guides.They were typical of this sort of thing.
Each morning one of these men took a pleasantly awe-stricken band of tourists out, led them around in the brush awhile, and brought them back in time for lunch.They wore broad hats and leather bands and exotic raiment and fierce expressions, and looked dark and mysterious and extra-competent over the most trivial of difficulties.
Nothing could be more instructive than to see two or three of these imitation bad men starting out in the morning to "guide" a flock, say to Nevada Falls.
The tourists, being about to mount, have outdone themselves in weird and awesome clothes--especially the women.Nine out of ten wear their stirrups too short, so their knees are hunched up.One guide rides at the head--great deal of silver spur, clanking chain, and the rest of it.Another rides in the rear.
The third rides up and down the line, very gruff, very preoccupied, very careworn over the dangers of the way.The cavalcade moves.It proceeds for about a mile.There arise sudden cries, great but subdued excitement.The leader stops, raising a commanding hand.Guide number three gallops up.
There is a consultation.The cinch-strap of the brindle shave-tail is taken up two inches.A catastrophe has been averted.The noble three look volumes of relief.The cavalcade moves again.
Now the trail rises.It is a nice, safe, easy trail.
But to the tourists it is made terrible.The noble three see to that.They pass more dangers by the exercise of superhuman skill than you or I could discover in a summer's close search.The joke of the matter is that those forty-odd saddle-animals have been over that trail so many times that one would have difficulty in heading them off from it once they got started.
Very much the same criticism would hold as to the popular notion of the Yosemite stage-drivers.
They drive well, and seem efficient men.But their wonderful reputation would have to be upheld on rougher roads than those into the Valley.The tourist is, of course, encouraged to believe that he is doing the hair-breadth escape; but in reality, as mountain travel goes, the Yosemite stage-road is very mild.
This that I have been saying is not by way of depreciation.But it seems to me that the Valley is wonderful enough to stand by itself in men's appreciation without the unreality of sickly sentimentalism in regard to imaginary dangers, or the histrionics of playing wilderness where no wilderness exists.
As we went out, this time by the Chinquapin wagon-road, we met one stage-load after another of tourists coming in.They had not yet donned the outlandish attire they believe proper to the occasion, and so showed for what they were,--prosperous, well-bred, well-dressed travelers.In contrast to their smartness, the brilliancy of new-painted stages, the dash of the horses maintained by the Yosemite Stage Company, our own dusty travel-worn outfit of mountain ponies, our own rough clothes patched and faded, our sheath-knives and firearms seemed out of place and curious, as though a knight in medieval armor were to ride down Broadway.
I do not know how many stages there were.We turned our pack-horses out for them all, dashing back and forth along the line, coercing the diabolical Dinkey.The road was too smooth.There were no obstructions to surmount; no dangers to avert; no difficulties to avoid.We could not get into trouble, but proceeded as on a county turnpike.Too tame, too civilized, too representative of the tourist element, it ended by getting on our nerves.The wilderness seemed to have left us forever.Never would we get back to our own again.After a long time Wes, leading, turned into our old trail branching off to the high country.Hardly had we traveled a half mile before we heard from the advance guard a crash and a shout.
"What is it, Wes?" we yelled.
In a moment the reply came,--
"Lily's fallen down again,--thank God!"
We understood what he meant.By this we knew that the tourist zone was crossed, that we had left the show country, and were once more in the open.
