Читать книгу Oregon, the Picturesque. A Book of Rambles in the Oregon Country and in the Wilds of Northern California онлайн

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Truckee is a typical wild western village with rather more than its share of saloons. These are well patronized, for there is a large working population in and about the town. It is a railroad division; a saw mill near by employs eight hundred men and a large paper pulp factory nearly as many. All of which contribute to make it a lively place and its Chamber of Commerce has organized a winter Ice Carnival for the purpose of giving those Californians who live on the coast and in the great central valleys an opportunity of seeing what real winter is like and enjoying its sports. The carnival opens on Christmas Day and continues until the middle of March. A huge ice palace is devoted to skating and dancing, while tobogganing, skiing and sleighing are the outdoor amusements. They told us that so far the festival has proven a great success, attracting people from every part of the state.

Out of Truckee we ran for fifteen or twenty miles through a barren sagebrush country with only an occasional tumble-down abandoned ranch house to break the monotony of the scene. The road was fine, but it took a sudden turn for the worse when we entered the straggling yellow pine forest that covers the hill range between Truckee and Reno. It was rough and stony in spots and we climbed steadily for several miles. We saw some pretty scenery, however, for the mighty forest rose to the very summits of the rugged hills above us and followed the dark canyon below downward to the river’s edge. Beyond the summit we began the descent of Dog Canyon—whence its poetical designation we did not learn—the longest and steepest straight grade we encountered in several thousand miles of mountaineering. For seven miles or more it drops down the side of the canyon without a single turn, the grades ranging from six to twenty per cent, deep with dust and very rough in places, a trying descent on brakes and driver. We met a few cars scrambling wearily up with steaming radiators and growling gears, but what more excited our sympathies were several canvas-covered wagons drawn by reeking horses that seemed ready to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. At the foot of the grade just beyond the Nevada line, we came into the village of Verdi, directly on the river and evidently the destination of many of the pine logs we had seen along our road, for here was a large saw mill. Beyond Verdi we followed the Truckee, bordered by emerald green alfalfa fields just being mown. The yield was immense, indicating a rich, well-watered soil, but in the main the ranch houses were small and poor, with squalid surroundings. Nearer Reno, however, we noted some improvement and occasionally we passed a neat and prosperous-looking ranch house. Coming into the town we sought the Riverside Hotel, which is rightly named, for it stands directly on the banks of the Truckee. We had difficulty in getting satisfactory accommodations—court was in session and it was opening day of the races, with a consequent influx of litigants and sports. We learned later that Reno is always a busy town and advance hotel arrangements should not be neglected by prospective guests.