This eloquent and masterfully painted portrayal of the San Gabriels, written in the 1920s, reflects the writer’s deep familiarity with his beloved mountains.

There’s a typed account below or you can read a pdf edited format I made from the original article.  I’ve also made some notes on the updated names of places.

A Little Journey to the Angeles Forest.

The Los Angeles Times. Sun, Apr 1920
BY ERNEST G. BISHOP.

[Have you ever wondered whether you could leave California and still take the land of sunshine and flowers, of majestic mountains and verdant valleys, of dim lit arroyos and forested cathedral aisles, with you? This is exactly what the writer of this article has done and a vivid picture of some of the beauty and loveliness that he carried with him to the battlefields of France is here reproduced.—Editor.]

WRITERS are sturdy and valiant champions of California’s canyon and mountain trails, who sketch with great fidelity the approaches and doorways to the mountain lands of the Angeles Forest, the Arroyo Seco, the Santa Anitas, Millard’s and Eaton’s. Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t enough of the exploration impulse in the average mountain climber to urge him on to discover what lies beyond the upper reaches of the canyons where the granite peaks merge with the mystic blue of the heavens. Perhaps you have stood on Mt. Wilson or Mt. Lowe and observed the fringe of pines outlined against the distant sky beyond the wide chasm of West Fork. Did that glimpse into the distance satisfy you or did you long to wander over mountainside and canyon until you found yourself under those majestic conifers?

That group of trees straight ahead stands on Pine Flat, the clump at the left crowns the summit of Barley Flat. What would be your reward if you visited these enchanted spots? You would hear the windharps of the trees, observe the chaparral growth stops abruptly at the outermost edge of the groves, behold the gray squirrels extracting seeds from huge cones, and in the early dawn watch soft-eyed, gentle fawns steal out of the thickets to drink before retiring to their fastnesses for the day. All about you the air is pungent with warm, resiny odors: and towards the interior is spread another gorgeous panorama of chasms and towering peaks whose granite bulwarks gleam and shimmer under the noonday sun.

Let me describe some of the delights that He embosomed in the blue-misted depths of our wonderland. Suppose I describe one journey I took a year ago last October to the remoter regions of the Angeles Reserve. You recall that October 1918, was a very critical period in our struggle against the might of autocracy: so could you picture me sauntering leisurely along mountain trails while others poured out their lifeblood on foreign fields? Not exactly, at the date mentioned I lay on a hospital cot in the little town of Bazoilles-sur-Meuse. Both my legs and my left arm were encased in Thomas splints, my right arm was wrapped in gauze from elbow to finger tips. Not a promising candidate for a walking club did I appear, far from it. Just the same I went on a wonderful journey, this time into the joyous realms of memoryland.

Transported on the Magic Carpet of Imagination to Sunny California.
A SOLDIER’S philosophy is since pain has to be endured to take it as matter of fact as conditions warrant. Naturally I wanted to get as far away from pain as possible. After one very hard night I decided to leave pain in the ward and saunter forth to my old haunts under the blue skies of California. A spot on the ceiling overhead was the crystal upon which I focused my gaze. Upon some magic carpet, I transported myself to the scenes of my rambles 6000 miles away. With pack and camera I entered the Arroyo Seco, turned into Dark Canyon and dropped down into the Tujunga at Hoyt’s ranch, which consists of an old log cabin surrounded by a small patch of tilled ground. Here I turned my steps upstream, soon passing Hansen’s ranch near which the Clear Creek trail, extending from the Ranger Station above Switzer’s, ends. Above Hansen’s in a bend of the winding sinuous gorge is a picturesque rock-grotto dripping moisture upon the ferns thickly clustered upon the cavern walls. At the foot of the Narrows I spent the first night, wrapped in my blanket listening to the water purring over the boulder-strewn canyon bed. The Narrows is a section of the Big Tujunga so rugged and full of waterfalls that it is difficult to traverse; so the trail leaves the bottom, climbs up on the mountainside, crosses Mill Creek, and drops into the canyon again below Colby’s ranch.

Arroyo Seco. Credit: WaterArchives.org

Hansen’s Lodge along Big Tujunga, 1931

Early in the morning I arose and followed the trail into Mill Creek where I made a fire and got breakfast. There is no lovelier spot in the mountains, than lower Mill Creek when the sun gleams through the alder groves making flecks and patches that reflect the sparkling waters of the canyon clear stream. Here on the broad canyon floor some pioneer had erected a cabin and begun to clear the land, but for some reason soon abandoned the enterprise. Just above this cabin is the temporary shelter of some solitary wanderer whose sign warns travelers not to molest his camp. A few miles above I came to a clearing surrounded by a pole fence. Against the mountainside stood a shack roofed with flattened tin cans, and nearby labored the professor of this primitive and solitary estate carved out of a primeval wilderness. After conversing with this hermit I continued on into the upper reaches of Mill Creek, which consists chiefly of a dry rocky waste almost devoid of vegetation. Water was very scarce, and how thankful I was finally to reach a stone miner’s cabin near which bubbled a spring of rather muddy water. At this spring I ate lunch and filled my canteen, then I resumed the journey, climbing up to the divide that slopes down into Aliso Canyon facing the desert, and turning up a long winding trail that brought me to a high ridge densely covered with conifers. My immediate destination was Mt. Pacifico, but not being familiar with the country I determined to remain on the most used path, a conclusion that finally led me down into Alder Creek at the Loomis ranch. This ranch consists of a large log cabin and patches of tilled ground along the level spaces bordering the creek, although the main reason for its existence is a gold mine, situated about a mile away.

Loomis Ranch from the collection of Odo Stade.

Mr. Loomis sat by the back door churning while his wife was busy in the house, both having just arrived from a trip to Acton for supplies. Those unfamiliar with true mountain hospitality should go back to the Loomis cabin and get acquainted with these genial people. That evening after supper I sat on the front porch with my host. Straight ahead the white towers on Mt. Wilson stood out against a background of blue sky gradually fading into the rose dusk of evening. At night I slept under the alders fringing the creek.

Captain Loomis and Mrs. Loomis 1933. Credit: Sierra Club-Angeles Chapter Archives

Mount Wilson ca 1910. Credit: Huntington Library

In the early morning while the dark shadows still nestled in the hollows and a blue haze still lingered on the mountain slopes, I arose and pushed my way up through dense thickets to Horse Flat, a level stretch of ground upon which a drove of burros were feeding, finally pausing to rest under the cool cedars of Chilao, a long, flat area bearing magnificent groves of cedars and other conifers, and used for grazing purposes since the early settlers in San Fernando Valley pastured their herds there during the dry seasons below.

Hunters at Chilao, 1900. Credit: Sierra Club-Angeles Chapter Archives

Beyond Chilao extends a vast area that is heavily timbered with spruce, incense cedar and pine. Those who are familiar only with the elfin forest aspect of the anterior ranges have no idea of the vastness of these forest groves, which also at one time covered the slope now claimed by underbrush. Among the fernbrakes of Buckhorn Flat, a camping ground thirty-five miles from Sierra Madre, I paused to drink from a clear cool stream, and as it was too early to make camp I continued on over Billy Mountain to Cedar Spring, a pool of water gushing out of the earth beneath a cluster of incense cedars. Nearby I built my fire, walled up a space for a bed which I covered with pine boughs, and crept into my blanket. A bright moon beamed overhead and soft breezes floated through the trees. Finally I arose and wandered about rejoicing in the beauty of that calm lovely night.

Hunters’ camp near Buckhorn, 1900. Credit: USC

Breaking Camp in Early Dawn I Sauntered on My Carefree Way.
IN THE early dawn while the black shadows of night were softening into blue and just as the first faint streaks of red were tinging the eastern horizon, I rolled up my pack and sauntered on my carefree way. From my vantage point on the high ridge a checkerboard of green appeared out in the valley. Out on the desert side sand spirals swirled about, at times hiding the scattered ranch buildings. Below soft, fleecy clouds hung motionless in the still morning air.

Down into dense chaparral the trail led and then up along a mountainside through more giant groves, and finally after many bends and turns I reached the divide between Mt. Islip and North Baldy and slid down the slope to Big Pine Flat, taking the trail along the rushing roaring Soldier Creek to Coldbrook Camp. About a mile below, opposite the mouth of Bichota Canyon, I made camp upon the white sands bordering North Fork, reaching Azusa the next day.

View at Cold Brook Camp 1909. Credit: CA State Library Collections

Cold Brook Camp, 1911 Credit: CA State Library Collections

My mind returned to the hospital ward with a jump as the nurse began to pour cold disinfecting fluid into the Dakin tubes attached to my wounds. Three hours had passed since I began my wonderful journey during which time I had been so absorbed in my wanderings that I had forgotten my bodily condition entirely. Cold autumn rains beating monotonously upon the roof brought me to the sense of present reality, but nevertheless on that day I caught a glimpse of the country I love all the more because of my sojourn in a foreign land.

The writer’s approximate route on a 1910 map

Click to see full size

Notes

Pine Flat = Vetter Mountain
Billy Mountain = Local name for the highest point on Kratka Ridge
North Baldy = Mount Baden Powell
Big Pine Flat = Crystal Lake
Divide between Mt. Islip and North Baldy = Can either refer to Islip Saddle or Dawson Saddle.