In the Santiago Canon

By Emma Hildreth Adams
Excerpted from, "To and Fro in Southern California" by Emma H. Adams, originally copyrighted in 1887.

SOME one has said that "prisons are not the abodes of wicked men only." Equally true is it that mountain fastnesses are not the retreats of criminals solely. Men and women have languished long in cells and dungeons for no other reason than because they opposed wrong and approved of right. So have men and women spent their lives in secluded gorges, on lonely mountain sides, not because they had infringed the laws, or were hiding from justice, but for reasons as right as are the motives which lead other people to settle on plains or in valleys. There are persons who crave a life among Nature's wild scenes. The nearer her rough, honest heart they can get the happier they are. Never is her visage harsh or repellent to them. Marred or fair, in repose or swept by storms, it is beautiful.

Nor does it follow that these lovers of Nature are indifferent to the affairs of the great family of man to which they belong. They are lovers of their race as well. Molinos once said: "Whoever wounds the Church of God wounds me." So whatever concerns the human race, concerns these greathearted dwellers among the everlasting hills, and some of them manage to send down, or carry down, from their lofty nooks a vast deal of help for the needy world. Though themselves cabined in pure air, they do not forget the multitudes tented amid the earth's moral miasms below. Never are they the people to say: "What matters it to us whether men are blessed or wretched?"

It is in such a mountain home, among such helpful people, that I pen these lines this morning. Or rather it is in the door-yard, seated in the shade of a spreading live-oak tree, through whose branches falls the yellow sunlight, in flickering patches, on the smooth, hard ground. Close by stands the tiny cottage, with its green blinds, its numerous porches and outer doors. Near the dwelling, supported by nine slender posts, is a square roofing of live-oak branches laid thickly together. The posts are twined with water ivy and other climbing vines. The space sheltered by this canopy is the dining-room. In the center stands a large table, at which we have just taken a delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls, fresh cheese, and thick white honey from the apiary, in sight across the creek which flows down the canon. For this dining-room Nature wove the carpet. Disdaining cotton or wool, she made it of the earth, and took pleasure in the thought that the feet of men and women can never wear the staunch fabric thread-bare. Feet may come and feet may go, but that carpet will wear forever.

Adjoining the dining-room is the kitchen, without vestige of walls. In other words, the cooking-stove is overarched by a glossy live-oak, the heavens overarching that. The short pipe is kept in place by an ingenious contrivance, as follows: Two slender poles have an end of each nailed to separate trees near, in such manner as to cross and fasten nicely just in front of the pipe, while a crosspiece holds them in place back of the pipe. There is a twofold advantage in this arrangement. First, it is economical; second, when the stove goes into the house, as it will at the approach of cold weather, it will be but the work of a moment to send the poles flying; then the remainder of the work is easy.

Nor must it be inferred that kitchen pantries have been omitted in this plan for open-air housekeeping. Three or four cases of shelves conveniently placed, some with doors, some without, one secured to a strong tree, another set upon a couple of boxes, supply every want of that character.

The cottage stands on a mere green shelf in the canon, sixteen miles from its mouth. Westward from it stretches a narrow plateau adorned with grand live-oaks, a number of them growing in families from one root. Fifteen or twenty feet back of the dwelling rises a steep, semi-circular wall of mountain, and immediately back of that a lofty cone towering to a height of 5,500 feet above the sea. Across the canon, here about six hundred feet wide, a second summit sends its crest toward the sky. Beyond and north of that stretches up cone after cone in noble array, while farther up the gorge, which narrows every rod of the distance, height crowns height in sublime succession. All around is majesty and grandeur. This is no place for the wicked. A fugitive from the law would be miserable here. Only the good and the true can be in harmony with these massive works of the Almighty. Round and about these immutable peaks winds Santiago Creek, washing this plateau within a few rods of my feet, and sending over to me, from among its rocks and stones, a gleeful "Good morning." At this season of the year--October--it is a harmless stream; but let a characteristic Southern California rain descend for a week, and it would foam, and tumble, and revel in the midst of ruin.

The proprietors of this delightful home, and of many acres of this splendid scenery, are Mr. and Mrs. J. E. Pleasants, both of genuine pioneer stock and well known among the old families of the coast. In fulfillment of a promise to visit them, made some weeks ago, I am now here, and am enjoying more than words can express the bracing mountain air, the songs of the birds, and the absence of all city sounds and voices. No wonder the Son of man craved the quietude of the mountains, and the rest of "sweet Galilee, where he so much loved to be." Rest, strength, and inspiration are in these heights, in this stream.

Sometime in 1883 there arrived on this part of the coast a young man by the name of Carpenter, from Kentucky. He engaged in business in Los Angeles, acquired quite a fortune, and became the possessor of an extensive tract of land in the vicinity of Los Nietos, which was for many years known as "Carpenter's Rancho." In the course of time he married a young lady by the name of Dominguez, a Spanish family then notable in Los Angeles and Santa Barbara counties. This couple were the parents of Mrs. Pleasants. Her early home was the Los Nietos rancho. Much pains was taken with the young lady's education, and she reached womanhood possessed of intelligence, broad views, and a kindly heart. She, of course, speaks the language of both her father and mother.

The parents of Mr. Pleasants, both Americans, emigrated to the northern portion of the State from the East before there existed the faintest token of California's present enterprise and greatness, and at a period when it required great heroism to make a stand for a home and subsistence in that part of the coast. Hostile Indians and savage beasts lurked on every hand. At the age of twelve young Pleasants was sent down to Los Angeles to attend school in the family of William Wolfskill, a personal friend of his father, and at that time the owner of leagues of this Santiago Mountain chain, and of the fair and fertile Valley of Santa Ana spreading out from their base. Mrs. Wolfskill was herself a Dominguez. Maria Refugio Carpenter was her relative, and a pupil in the Wolfskill school. Years went by. Young Pleasants became attached to Southern California and to Maria Carpenter, and concluded to remain indefinitely. To assist him in carrying out this resolution, Mr. Wolfskill proposed his coming down into this section of the country to look after the flocks and herds roaming over the vast Wolfskill estate.

The proposal was accepted, and soon the young man found himself leading an easy, fascinating kind of life; one strongly spiced with danger, indeed, but not more objectionable on that account. Mounted upon a fleet, intelligent horse, he rode up and down these wild canons, to and fro over the lonely mountains, back and forth on the grassy plains, day after day. Thus sped several years. Greater grew the charm of the mountains, more repulsive the thought of spending life in some pent-up town or city. Finally Maria Carpenter concluded that it would be pleasant to change her name. So, seven years ago, the two, made one, pitched their tent on this little green shelf in the Santiago canon; gave it the name of Pleasant Refuge; made it bright with books, pictures, and flowers, and made their lives useful, as well by dispensing here a delightful hospitality, as by heartily forwarding the interests of society in county and State.

The cottage is located about three miles from the head of the canon. From Santa Ana, the nearest town, it is distant twenty-three miles, and from Los Angeles sixty. It is neither a hotel nor a boarding-house, but the quiet home of a private family.

And yet to the sunny nook come old and young, sick and well, tired and hungry, strangers and acquaintances, the simple and the gifted, all feeling assured of a hearty welcome. When urged, as he sometimes is, to convert his residence into a resort for the public, and take compensation for meals, lodging, and provender for the teams of guests, Mr. Pleasants always replies:

"I can't do that. I like to make people happy. Every body is welcome."

And Mrs. Pleasants, always in perfect accord with her husband on this point, says: "Our house is capable of enlarging itself to almost any size; and then it is quite worth while to live to help people on their way," or something to that effect.