Little Arthur F. Pillsbury standing mid low
foreground. Siblings Grace and Ernie, climbed
the rock at the side of the road.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Before that it took several days to get into the Valley by stagecoach
Until cars were permitted the last leg of the journey from El Portal was by horse-drawn coach, though sometimes we walked.
From Merced the grade went up steadily until the train gave a great sigh and stopped in a cloud of heat and smoke in El Portal. In those early years, before cars were going into the Valley, most people spent the night there at the El Portal Hotel. Uncle had taken pictures soon after it opened showing its amenities and if we had time we liked to stop there and have lunch in the restaurant or visit the shops.
Then we headed out, up the dusty road. I always looked up when we passed through the Arch. Uncle had taken some panoramas there and he had gone along to lug the equipment and help out. That was a Sunday Time. More about that later.
My heart always gave a lurch when we reached that point into the Valley when I first saw El Capitan. (El Capitan) It was a first homecoming. I had listened to the legends while Uncle read them to me – before I was reading them aloud myself beside the campfire in the evenings. I thought it really looked like an old woman throwing down her long hair, getting ready to take out her comb and smooth out the tangles. Uncle smiled at that.
The road ran along the side of the Valley, close to the wall until it curved just after the Ship Stone. The Ship Stone was a small mountain that cut into the grassy meadow behind the Village. I spent time there.
As we made the turn we saw the Masonic Hall on the right, beginning the clutter of tents and buildings that were scattered through the trees and boulders. There was a stable and other outbuildings, too, but the Masonic Hall figured in some significant chapters of the family history, so I always smiled when I saw it.
The Studio was on the left, at the corner of the roads, the one coming from El Portal and the other coming up from what we then called the Lower Village.
We slept and lived in a herd of tents laid out towards the wall of the Valley and around the Chapel. Mine was decorated in plaid and my sister’s in a pinecone print. I kept special things there on my dressing table. Tents were always tidy, as anything else was entirely unacceptable and drew a sad look from Uncle. On the floor of my tent I laid my rug. My mother had bought it for me when I was very small and I could not remember a time when it had not been there beside my bed. It had bold reds and a subtle blue, bounded with a cream background and beige lines. It was good wool, and smelled faintly of its origins when damp. Our tents were not often wet, however. They had good sturdy wooden floors.
Our corner of the Village was a hub of activity. The Degnan’s store and house where there and in the summer I used to go over and help so they would let me lick the blades of the ice cream maker. They kept cows in the Valley and made ice cream from fresh cream every single day.
|Sentinel Hotel was the best accommodation in |
Yosemite Valley until 1927 when the Ahwahnee
was completed. The tourist girl above is a guest
staying at the hotel around 1920.
From there the roads joined and turned to the left and the Village laid out on both sides. I always took a long look down the road to glimpse the Sentinel Hotel at the far end.
The first year you could bring automobiles into the Valley was 1914. For some reason the Park Superintendent thought concessionaires should pay extra for taking pictures of cars. Uncle thought that was ridiculous, but he was always respectfully amused by authorities of all kinds and thanked the Powers that Be that it had not occurred to them to charge for something else, too.
Uncle kept up a pretty constant correspondence with the Park People and sometimes read particularly pompous missives aloud.
Here I am with my sister, Grace, and my brother Ernest Sargent, Jr. having our picture taken with a pioneering car, and with its occupants.
After I settled in my first destination when I had time, because we were all expected to work, was a tour up the road, past the Sentinel Hotel, to the Bridge. There, I would hang over and take a long look at Half Dome; refilling my eyes with memories of the times we had climbed up the back carrying photographic equipment.
I always stopped to look at the enormous book that they kept there on a stand. Everyone who visited Yosemite signed into the book, and I enjoyed very carefully turning the pages to see who was ‘in town.’
The Village had grown up from the Sentinel Hotel, stretching south, ending at our corner. Visiting the Hotel was a part of my summer remembering program. It was a very busy place with the coming and going of tourists and the sounds of doors closing. It was an old building and Uncle said it was never built to last, really. It sagged here and there, even when I was small.
The Hotel had enlarged its capacity by sprinkling cabins throughout the woods. One, the Cedar Cottage, was built around a wonderful big cedar tree with a cozy hearth and happy, intimate atmosphere. The others looked more like the Hotel’s main facility, across the road. Those were the Rock Cottage and an Oak Cottage, each with its own personality. Tourist kids, intimidated at first by the bigness of the Valley sat on boulders and watched the coming and going of wagons and automobiles.
Uncle did not drink or smoke, having come from a White Feather Family, but I watched those alcoholically inclined make their way to the Cosmopolitan and New Saloons to sample the wares and take long soaking baths, that being the specialty of the Cosmopolitan. We washed and showered in our camp bathing tent, which was chilly fun.
Across from us, on the opposite side of the Y, was the Grocery Store. Here we bought provisions to be made up by our cook, who handled the domestic part of the household.
Every summer our Studio was populated by a happy bunch of girls and young women from Berkeley and Stanford, who tinted pictures and enjoyed Yosemite. Some produced amazing work and sold photos they bought from Uncle on their own.
Up the road in the Village, between the Studio and the Cottages of the Hotel, lay residences and the Degnan Restaurant. Most of the ice cream was served up to tourists there.