The New

Overland Monthly
A Journal of California’s Past & Present

Premier Issue – July 2018

In This Issue:
From the Publisher (Welcome...) … page 3

CALIFORNIA COUNTIES (Alameda) … page 6

CALIFORNIA HIGHWAYS (Highway 1) … page 9
CALIFORNIA PARKS (Yosemite) … page 14
CALIFORNIA STORIES (A Californian’s Tale by Mark
Twain) … page 19
CALIFORNIA HISTORY (1769, California is “Settled”
by Spain) … page 30
CALIFORNIA LIST (novels) … page 34
CALIFORNIA ALTERNATIVE HISTORY (“Indians
Come to California”) … page 35

Cover image: California Spring by Albert Bierstadt 1875

WELCOME TO THE NEW OVERLAND
MONTHLY!

Publisher and editor B. Clay Shannon

The original Overland Monthly was founded in 1868 in

San Francisco, and was edited until 1875 by the then-
most renowned author of the era and area, Bret Harte.
The magazine’s intent was to boost California as a place
to be taken seriously, boasting writers and poets
talented enough to stand comparison with those in the
east.
For a time, the magazine was both a critical and popular
success. But in 1875, it’s guiding light, Bret Harte, opted
to leave his adopted home in California and return east
to the scenes of his birth and boyhood.
After seven years of dormancy following Harte’s
departure, the Overland Monthly reappeared in 1882,
and remained in print, under one guise or another, until
1935.
This reincarnation of the Overland Monthly which you
hold in your hands or view on your screen also has as its

3
intent the boosting of California’s reputation and the
good-natured boasting of its charms.
The New Overland Monthly, available both in print form
from amazon.com and as a free PDF, will feature articles
about California of value to anyone interested in the
Golden State’s past and present. It will run recurring
pieces each month on:
CALIFORNIA COUNTIES, which will eventually cover all
58 California counties, in alphabetical order, starting
with Alameda in this inaugural issue, and completing its
course in about five years when Yuba county gets its
approximately 43,200 minutes of fame (30 * 24 * 60).
CALIFORNIA HIGHWAYS, wherein a scenic highway will
be featured, of which California has an abundance. We
begin this series with Highway 1, which contains sections
known as the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), the Cabrillo
Highway, the Shoreline Highway, and the Coast
Highway.
CALIFORNIA PARKS is another recurring feature, which
will focus on one of the many gems California lays claim
to as regards State Parks as well as National Parks
within the State. We start with the “Hope Diamond” of
the Golden State, Yosemite National Park. Future articles
will cover parks from Joshua Tree in the south to
Garrapata in the middle to Lassen in the north (and
beyond).
Literature also takes its rightful place in The New
Overland Monthly, as CALIFORNIA STORIES will provide
just that in each issue, reprinting classic short stories of
the past written by the likes of Mark Twain, Bret Harte,

4
Jack London, John Muir, et al. We kick of this premier
issue with Twain’s “The Californian’s Tale.”
The past is not forgotten when it comes to nonfiction
work, either. The CALIFORNIA HISTORY series will see to
that. Each issue of this journal will contain an excerpt
from a pair of historical volumes entitled “Still Casting
Shadows: A Share Mosaic of U.S. History.” These
excerpts will cover events that took place in and
afected residents of California in particular, beginning
with the settlement of California by Spain in 1769.
On a lighter note, CALIFORNIA ALTERNATIVE HISTORY
will get its place in the sun as a counterpoint to the
history explained and expounded on in the excerpts
from Still Casting Shadows. There will also be a chapter
each month from Blackbird Crow Raven’s California
history send-up “The New All-too-True-Blue History of
California,” beginning with its first chapter, “Indians
Come to California.”
The California List feature will, logically enough, provide
a California-centric list in each issue (novels set in
California, nonfiction books set in California, movies set
in California, songs about California, etc., starting of
with a list of especially noteworthy novels.
I hope you enjoy this premier issue of The New Overland
Monthly. Feel free to contact me with comments,
questions, etc. at bclayshannon@att.net

5
CALIFORNIA COUNTIES
Alameda

Alameda County is considered part of the San Francisco

bay area, and is dominated by the city of Oakland. In the
late 1800s and early 1900s a rural “bedroom” community
affiliated with San Francisco (or “trolley-car suburb” as
Wikipedia puts it), this seventh-most populous California
county now has an identity all its own.
According to Wikipedia, the Spanish word “alameda”
means “a grove of poplars.....or a tree lined street”;
according to google translate, on the other hand, it
simply means “mall.”

6
But perhaps both definitions are accurate as, according
to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, an “alameda” is “a
usually public area often set with shade trees and
designed as a promenade or as a pedestrian walk”; in
that source, this definition precedes the word’s modern
popular meaning of “an urban shopping area.”
So we can deduce that Alameda was, in its infancy, a
pleasant rural area, as was its principal city of Oakland
which, based on its nomenclature, was apparently a
place known for its oak trees (before becoming a
concrete-covered urban center).
Alameda County contains (among other communities),
the aforementioned city of Oakland (the county seat), as
well as the cities of Fremont, Hayward, Berkeley, San
Leandro, Livermore, Pleasonton, and Dublin.
Oakland boasts professional sports teams such as the
Oakland Athletics (“A’s”), the Oakland (soon-to-be Las
Vegas) Raiders, and the Golden State Warriors.
Among Alameda County’s contribution to the world of
music are the bands Country Joe and the Fish and Tower
of Power, not to mention Tupac Shakur.
Former residents of Alameda County include authors
Jack London, Joaquin Miller, and Robert Louis
Stevenson; Jim Morrison (lead singer of the Doors); and
actor Tom Hanks.
Here is an artist’s rendition of Berkeley in 1893:

7
From Illustrated album of Alameda County, California; its early history
and progress – agriculture, viticulture and horticulture – educational,
manufacturing and railroad advantages – Oakland and environs--
interior townships--statistics, etc., etc by Joseph Alex Colquhoun,
1893

8
CALIFORNIA HIGHWAYS
Highway 1 (California 1)
There is no dearth of scenic highways in California, but
probably the most popular one is Highway 1, also called
by various other names for at least stretches of it, such
as “The Coast Highway,” “The Pacific Coast Highway,”
“The Cabrillo Highway,” and “The Shoreline Highway.”
It should be obvious, then, even to those who have not
traveled it, that California 1 follows the coast.
The longest State route, Highway 1 stretches 656 miles
south from Dana Point in Orange County (named for
Richard Henry Dana, author of the classic Two Years
Before the Mast) to Leggett in Mendocino County in the
north. On its serpentine meanderings, Highway 1
traverses Anaheim, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Pismo
Beach, Morro Bay, Cambria, San Simeon, Big Sur (where
the first section of the highway opened, in the 1930s,
with the help of convict labor, inmates from Folsom
Prison who were paid 35 cents per hour and housed in
temporary camps along the route), Monterey, Santa
Cruz, Half Moon Bay, San Francisco (crossing the Golden
Gate Bridge), Bodega Bay, Mendocino, Fort Bragg, and
finally Leggett.
An especially scenic part of Highway 1 is the Big Sur
section, from San Luis Obispo north to Carmel; this
stretch is an official National Scenic Byway. At
approximately the midpoint of that section, McWay Falls

9
can be viewed following a five-minute walk from Julia
Pfeifer Burns State Park:

Photo of McWay Falls by B. Clay Shannon

The famous Bixby Bridge, near which Jack Kerouac lived

for a time in a cabin, is some miles north of McWay Falls:

10
Photo of Bixby Bridge by B. Clay Shannon

Towards the northern end of the Big Sur section is the

vastly underrated (or underknown, at least) Garrapata
State Park:

11
Photo of Garrapata State Park from the Soberanes Point loop
by B. Clay Shannon

...as well as the rightfully well-known Point Lobos (just

south of Carmel):

12
Photo of Point Lobos State Reserve by B. Clay Shannon

Tornacense emptor: Portions of Highway 1 are sometimes

closed due to landslides; the Big Sur section, in fact, has
closed numerous times for this reason, so check in
advance before planning a trip whether the area you
want to travel through is open.

13
CALIFORNIA PARKS
Yosemite

John Muir and Ansel Adams

Joe Walker. John Muir. Robert Underwood Johnson.

Theodore Roosevelt. Ansel Adams. Yosemite Sam, even.
These are some of the names that might come to mind
when you think of Yosemite. Muir was Yosemite’s chief
advocate, along with Johnson, his editor. Roosevelt was
key in helping preserve the area as a National Park. And
Yosemite Sam? Well, it’s just a name, I guess.
But what about Joe Walker? You may not recall that
name. This Tennessee mountain man lived up to his
surname by hoofing it due west from Missouri to the
Pacific Ocean. On the way, he “discovered” Yosemite
Valley in November of 1819.

14
No doubt Walker was merely the first white man to
record his entrance into the valley, not the first human,
as Indians had been in the area countless ages before
Euro-Americans arrived.

John Muir came to be called “The father of our National

Park System.” When this Scotland-born, Wisconsin-bred,
and California-led “Sage of the Sierras” arrived in
California via ship, he did not tarry long in San Francisco
but set out on foot for “The Yosemite.”

Muir was immediately smitten with the

incomprehensibly gorgeous valley, and remained so his
whole life long. John Muir devoted his life to fighting for
conservation and preservation of the natural resources
he so loved. He played a key role in the establishment of
not only Yosemite as a National Park in 1890 (with help
from Johnson and Roosevelt and others), but also
Sequoia to the south, as well as other parks throughout
the West.

The environmental movement may have gotten a later

start without him and might not be what it is today if not
for Muir's eforts. Without him, we may not even have
access to Yosemite as a National Park. The naturalist
loved the solitude of the place, but didn’t try to keep it
all to himself; he wanted to share the bounties of
creation he so enjoyed with his fellowmen, knowing
what a rejuvenating efect they have on the human
spirit.

The next champion of Yosemite who cannot go

unmentioned is Ansel Adams. As did Muir, Adams
traveled extensively, especially throughout California

15
and the rest of the West, but he is most well-known for
his connection with and black and white photographic
images of Yosemite.

The only “bad” thing about Yosemite is that it tends to

get awfully crowded. This situation reminds me of the
story about Yogi Berra. When he and a bunch of his
friends were discussing where to eat dinner one night,
someone suggested Toots Shor’s. Berra replied, “Nah!
Nobody goes there anymore – it’s too crowded!”

Whether it means braving the crowds or finding a less-

popular time to go, it is practically unconscionable for
anyone to avoid Yosemite. It’s a place that should be on
everyone’s “bucket list.”

Here are just a “drop in the bucket” (so to speak) of

examples as evidence of Yosemite’s marvelous
grandeur:

16
Photo by Carol M. Highsmith

Photo by Thomas Wolf (the German photographer, not the

American author)

17
Unfortunately, Ansel Adams’ Yosemite photos are
apparently still subject to copyright, so none are shown
here; google “Ansel Adams Yosemite” to see his images
or, better yet, purchase a book containing his exquisite
photography.
A four-and-a-half-star DVD “armchair hiking guide” of
Yosemite, pictured below, is available at
https://www.amazon.com/Yosemite-National-Park-
Hiking-Guides/dp/B00099XXWY/

18
CALIFORNIA STORIES
“The Californian’s Tale” by
Mark Twain, 1893
Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”)

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the

Stanislaus, tramping all day long with pick and pan and
horn, and washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always
expecting to make a rich strike, and never doing it. It
was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had
once been populous, long years before, but now the
people had vanished and the charming paradise was a
solitude. They went away when the surface diggings
gave out. In one place, where a busy little city with banks
and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and
aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse of
emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human
life had ever been present there. This was down toward
Tuttletown. In the country neighborhood thereabouts,

19
along the dusty roads, one found at intervals the
prettiest little cottage homes, snug and cozy, and so
cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the
doors and windows were wholly hidden from sight --
sign that these were deserted homes, forsaken years
ago by defeated and disappointed families who could
neither sell them nor give them away.
Now and then, half an hour apart, one came across
solitary log cabins of the earliest mining days, built by
the first gold-miners, the predecessors of the cottage-
builders. In some few cases these cabins were still
occupied; and when this was so, you could depend upon
it that the occupant was the very pioneer who had built
the cabin; and you could depend on another thing, too –
that he was there because he had once had his
opportunity to go home to the States rich, and had not
done it; had rather lost his wealth, and had then in his
humiliation resolved to sever all communication with his
home relatives and friends, and be to them thenceforth
as one dead. Round about California in that day were
scattered a host of these living dead men -- pride-smitten
poor fellows, grizzled and old at forty, whose secret
thoughts were made all of regrets and longings -- regrets
for their wasted lives, and longings to be out of the
struggle and done with it all.
It was a lonesome land! Not a sound in all those peaceful
expanses of grass and woods but the drowsy hum of
insects; no glimpse of man or beast; nothing to keep up
your spirits and make you glad to be alive. And so, at
last, in the early part of the afternoon, when I caught
sight of a human creature, I felt a most grateful uplift.
This person was a man about forty-five years old, and he
was standing at the gate of one of those cozy little rose-

20
clad cottages of the sort already referred to. However,
this one hadn't a deserted look; it had the look of being
lived in and petted and cared for and looked after; and
so had its front yard, which was a garden of fowers,
abundant, gay, and fourishing. I was invited in, of
course, and required to make myself at home-it was the
custom of the country.
It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks
of daily and nightly familiarity with miners’ cabins – with
all which this implies of dirt foor, never-made beds, tin
plates and cups, bacon and beans and black cofee, and
nothing of ornament but war pictures from the Eastern
illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all
hard, cheerless, materialistic desolation, but here was a
nest which had aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh
that something in one's nature which, after long fasting,
recognizes, when confronted by the belongings of art,
howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it has
unconsciously been famishing and now has found
nourishment.
I could not have believed that a rag carpet could feast
me so, and so content me; or that there could be such
solace to the soul in wall-paper and framed lithographs,
and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats, and Windsor
chairs, and varnished what-nots, with sea-shells and
books and china vases on them, and the score of little
unclassifiable tricks and touches that a woman's hand
distributes about a home, which one sees without
knowing he sees them, yet would miss in a moment if
they were taken away. The delight that was in my heart
showed in my face, and the man saw it and was pleased;
saw it so plainly that he answered it as if it had been
spoken.

21
“All her work,” he said, caressingly; “she did it all herself-
every bit,” and he took the room in with a glance which
was full of afectionate worship. One of those soft
Japanese fabrics with which women drape with careful
negligence the upper part of a picture-frame was out of
adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with
cautious pains, stepping back several times to gauge the
efect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light
finishing pat or two with his hand, and said: “She always
does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but it does
lack something until you've done that – you can see it
yourself after it's done, but that is all you know; you
can’t find out the law of it. It’s like the finishing pats a
mother gives the child’s hair after she’s got it combed
and brushed, I reckon. I’ve seen her fix all these things so
much that I can do them all just her way, though I don’t
know the law of any of them. But she knows the law.
She knows the why and the how both; but I don’t know
the why; I only know the how.”
He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my
hands; such a bedroom as I had not seen for years: white
counterpane, white pillows, carpeted foor, papered
walls, pictures, dressing-table, with mirror and pin-
cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a
wash-stand, with real china-ware bowl and pitcher, and
with soap in a china dish, and on a rack more than a
dozen towels – towels too clean and white for one out
of practice to use without some vague sense of
profanation. So my face spoke again, and he answered
with gratified words:
“All her work; she did it all herself – every bit. Nothing
here that hasn’t felt the touch of her hand. Now you
would think-But I mustn’t talk so much.”

22
By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from
detail to detail of the room’s belongings, as one is apt to
do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees
is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; and I became
conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you
know, that there was something there somewhere that
the man wanted me to discover for myself. I knew it
perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive
indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the
right track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several
times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye without
being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight
at the thing – knew it from the pleasure issuing in
invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh,
and rubbed his hands together, and cried out:
“That’s it! You’ve found it. I knew you would. It’s her
picture.”
I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther
wall, and did find there what I had not yet noticed – a
daguerreotype-case. It contained the sweetest girlish
face, and the most beautiful, as it seemed to me, that I
had ever seen. The man drank the admiration from my
face, and was fully satisfied.
“Nineteen her last birthday,” he said, as he put the
picture back; “and that was the day we were married.
When you see her – ah, just wait till you see her!”
“Where is she? When will she be in?”
“Oh, she’s away now. She’s gone to see her people. They
live forty or fifty miles from here. She’s been gone two
weeks today.”
“When do you expect her back?”

23
“This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the
evening-about nine o’clock, likely.”
I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.
“I’m sorry, because I’ll be gone then,” I said, regretfully.
“Gone? No – why should you go? Don’t go. She'll be
disappointed.”
She would be disappointed – that beautiful creature! If
she had said the words herself they could hardly have
blessed me more. I was feeling a deep, strong longing to
see her – a longing so supplicating, so insistent, that it
made me afraid. I said to myself: “I will go straight away
from this place, for my peace of mind’s sake.”
“You see, she likes to have people come and stop with
us-people who know things, and can talk – people like
you. She delights in it; for she knows – oh, she knows
nearly everything herself, and can talk, oh, like a bird --
and the books she reads, why, you would be astonished.
Don’t go; it’s only a little while, you know, and she’ll be
so disappointed.”
I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so
deep in my thinkings and strugglings. He left me, but I
didn’t know. Presently he was back, with the picture
case in his hand, and he held it open before me and said:
“There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed
to see her, and you wouldn’t.”
That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I
would stay and take the risk. That night we smoked the
tranquil pipe, and talked till late about various things,
but mainly about her; and certainly I had had no such
pleasant and restful time for many a day. The Thursday
24
followed and slipped comfortably away. Toward twilight
a big miner from three miles away came – one of the
grizzled, stranded pioneers -- and gave us warm
salutation, clothed in grave and sober speech. Then he
said:
“I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam,
and when is she coming home. Any news from her?”
“Oh, yes, a letter. Would you like to hear it, Tom?”
“Well, I should think I would, if you don’t mind, Henry!”
Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would
skip some of the private phrases, if we were willing; then
he went on and read the bulk of it – a loving, sedate, and
altogether charming and gracious piece of handiwork,
with a postscript full of afectionate regards and
messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley, and other close
friends and neighbors.
As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:
“Oho, you’re at it again! Take your hands away, and let
me see your eyes. You always do that when I read a
letter from her. I will write and tell her.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t, Henry. I’m getting old, you know,
and any little disappointment makes me want to cry. I
thought she’d be here herself, and now you’ve got only
a letter.”
“Well, now, what put that in your head? I thought
everybody knew she wasn’t coming till Saturday.”
“Saturday! Why, come to think, I did know it. I wonder
what's the matter with me lately? Certainly I knew it.

25
Ain’t we all getting ready for her? Well, I must be going
now. But I’ll be on hand when she comes, old man!”
Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped
over from his cabin a mile or so away, and said the boys
wanted to have a little gaiety and a good time Saturday
night, if Henry thought she wouldn’t be too tired after
her journey to be kept up.
“Tired? She tired! Oh, hear the man! Joe, YOU know
she’d sit up six weeks to please any one of you!”
When Joe heard that there was a letter, he asked to
have it read, and the loving messages in it for him broke
the old fellow all up; but he said he was such an old
wreck that THAT would happen to him if she only just
mentioned his name. “Lord, we miss her so!” he said.
Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch
pretty often. Henry noticed it, and said, with a startled
look:
“You don’t think she ought to be here soon, do you?”
I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and
said it was a habit of mine when I was in a state of
expectancy. But he didn’t seem quite satisfied; and from
that time on he began to show uneasiness. Four times
he walked me up the road to a point whence we could
see a long distance; and there he would stand, shading
his eyes with his hand, and looking. Several times he
said:
“I’m getting worried, I’m getting right down worried. I
know she’s not due till about nine o’clock, and yet
something seems to be trying to warn me that

26
something’s happened. You don’t think anything has
happened, do you?”
I began to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him for his
childishness; and at last, when he repeated that
imploring question still another time, I lost my patience
for the moment, and spoke pretty brutally to him. It
seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so
wounded and so humble after that, that I detested
myself for having done the cruel and unnecessary thing.
And so I was glad when Charley, another veteran, arrived
toward the edge of the evening, and nestled up to Henry
to hear the letter read, and talked over the preparations
for the welcome. Charley fetched out one hearty speech
after another, and did his best to drive away his friend’s
bodings and apprehensions.
“Anything HAPPENED to her? Henry, that’s pure
nonsense. There isn’t anything going to happen to her;
just make your mind easy as to that. What did the letter
say? Said she was well, didn’t it? And said she’d be here
by nine o’clock, didn't it? Did you ever know her to fail of
her word? Why, you know you never did. Well, then,
don’t you fret; she’ll BE here, and that’s absolutely
certain, and as sure as you are born. Come, now, let’s get
to decorating-not much time left.”
Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set
about adoring the house with fowers. Toward nine the
three miners said that as they had brought their
instruments they might as well tune up, for the boys and
girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for a good,
old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a
clarinet-these were the instruments. The trio took their

27
places side by side, and began to play some rattling
dance-music, and beat time with their big boots.
It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in
the door with his eyes directed up the road, his body
swaying to the torture of his mental distress. He had
been made to drink his wife’s health and safety several
times, and now Tom shouted:
“All hands stand by! One more drink, and she’s here!”
Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the
party. I reached for one of the two remaining glasses,
but Joe growled under his breath:
“Drop that! Take the other.”
Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly
swallowed his drink when the clock began to strike. He
listened till it finished, his face growing pale and paler;
then he said:
“Boys, I’m sick with fear. Help me – I want to lie down!”
They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and
drowse, but presently spoke like one talking in his sleep,
and said: “Did I hear horses’ feet? Have they come?”
One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: “It was
Jimmy Parish come to say the party got delayed, but
they’re right up the road a piece, and coming along. Her
horse is lame, but she’ll be here in half an hour.”
“Oh, I’m SO thankful nothing has happened!”
He was asleep almost before the words were out of his
mouth. In a moment those handy men had his clothes
of, and had tucked him into his bed in the chamber

28
where I had washed my hands. They closed the door and
came back. Then they seemed preparing to leave; but I
said: “Please don’t go, gentlemen. She won’t know me; I
am a stranger.”
They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:
“She? Poor thing, she’s been dead nineteen years!”
“Dead?”
“That or worse. She went to see her folks half a year
after she was married, and on her way back, on a
Saturday evening, the Indians captured her within five
miles of this place, and she’s never been heard of since.”
“And he lost his mind in consequence?”
“Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets
bad when that time of year comes round. Then we begin
to drop in here, three days before she’s due, to
encourage him up, and ask if he’s heard from her, and
Saturday we all come and fix up the house with fowers,
and get everything ready for a dance. We’ve done it
every year for nineteen years. The first Saturday there
was twenty-seven of us, without counting the girls;
there’s only three of us now, and the girls are gone. We
drug him to sleep, or he would go wild; then he's all right
for another year – thinks she’s with him till the last three
or four days come round; then he begins to look for her,
and gets out his poor old letter, and we come and ask
him to read it to us. Lord, she was a darling!”
NOTE: The “Tuttletown” mentioned is a very small town even
today, located between Sonora and Columbia in Tuolumne
County (a county which borders Calaveras, one which Twain
made famous with his story about a celebrated frog)

29
CALIFORNIA HISTORY
1769 – California is “Settled”
by Spain

Many nations have coveted California over the centuries:

Spain, France, Russia, Britain, Mexico and, of course, the
United States.
In 1769, while the British colonists on the eastern
seaboard of the country were considering a break with
the mother country, Spain was taking control of the
west coast. Spaniards had been aware of the area now
known as California for more than two hundred years
before they laid claim to it. It is possible that a group of
Spanish explorers traveled by land from Mexico into
southern California even prior to that. But there is not
enough historical evidence to prove such, so the credit
for the first official European “discovery” of California is
given to Portuguese sailor Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. He
and his men arrived in what is now San Diego in 1542,
fifty years after Columbus’ 1492 voyage.
30
Cabrillo was looking for a shortcut to Asia, and left
California disappointed. He didn’t realize California had
many treasures of its own to ofer. Cabrillo died later on
the voyage, never realizing the significance of his find.
This ignorance persisted for a time, the disappointing
land mass being mainly viewed by the Spanish as simply
a place to lay over on their trading trips between Mexico
and the Philippines.
California was given its name by the Spaniards from a
work of fiction popular at the time, a Spanish tale of
knight-errantry (the sort of story that Miguel Cervantes
lampooned in Don Quixote). In that work, California was
described as “an island on the right hand of the Indies”
that was inhabited by pagan Amazons. Despite the
diference in location and the fact that it is not an island,
the golden state was still named for this fictional area
“very near the Terrestrial paradise.” Indeed, California is
blessed with fertile valleys, high mountains, freshwater
lakes, and wind-swept deserts. The land and its diverse
and abundant plant and animal life at that time
supported more than 300,000 Indians. In fact, California
had the largest and most diverse indigenous population
in what is today the United States of America.
This indigenous population, who had been in the area
untold millenniums prior to the Spaniards, say that they
have lived in California since their creation. When the
people who are designated “second settlers” by the
Native Americans arrived, California’s native peoples
spoke more than one hundred diferent languages and
lived in more than 500 areas around the state. Among
these were the Wiyots, living in the remote and secluded
northern coastal region, around Humboldt Bay. As of
this year of 1769, the Wiyots were unmolested by

31
Europeans. As we will see, though, this would
dramatically change in the mid-1800s.
Although the Spaniards had come, conquered, and
corrupted the native North Americans to some extent
for the previous two hundred years, it can be said that
Spain’s first official colony in California was not
established until 1769. Sir Francis Drake had claimed
California for Britain back in 1579, but the most pivotal
intrusion by Europeans, when they really got “serious”
about colonizing the region, started in 1769. Two general
groups of Spaniards had been roving around California
for the past two hundred years: conquistadors, and their
partners in crime, the priests.
Even when the conquistadors would have left the locals
alone (that is, when they determined that the fabled
Seven Cities of Cibola remained elusive and no fountains
bubbling forth elixirs of eternal youth were to be found),
the priests persisted in pestering and persecuting the
natives. “Father” Junipero Serra and his entourage
undertook their so-called “Sacred Expedition” from
Mexico into southern California in the year under
discussion (1769). Serra brought with him Spanish
missionaries and Mexican-Indian farm workers as well as
cooks, carpenters, and soldiers of mixed European,
Indian and African descent.
The first mission Serra and his men built was located in
what is today San Diego. Hundreds of Native Americans
lived at the mission, many of them brought there against
their will. Serra and the missionaries schooled them in
the Spanish way of life and the Catholic religion. In a
pattern that would be repeated over and over
throughout the country, many of the native inhabitants

32
of the region died from diseases introduced by the
Europeans. Some Indians settled into mission life; others
fed from it. Among those who rejected the imported
culture, men arose from time to time to lead revolts
against the Spaniards, attempting to force the
Europeans’ removal from the area.
- the excerpt above is from Still Casting Shadows: A
Shared Mosaic of U.S. History Vol. 1, which covers 1620-
1913. It can be ordered from
https://www.iuniverse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?
Book=106981

33
CALIFORNIA LIST
Novels about California
California was given its name by Spanish explorer
Hernando de Alarcón in 1540, after the fictional Island of
of that name in Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo's 1510
novel Las Sergas de Esplandián.
It is fitting, then, that much fiction has been written
about the real California. These are some of the novels
which have been the most famous and/or have had the
most impact, enjoyed the most critical acclaim or
notoriety, or are considered of greatest historical note.
Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson (1884)
The Octopus: A Story of California by Frank Norris (1901)
The Valley of the Moon by Jack London (1913)
The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett (1930)
Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck (1935)
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck (1937)
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939)
The Human Comedy by William Saroyan (1943)
Cannery Row by John Steinbeck (1945)
East of Eden by John Steinbeck (1952)
The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters by Robert Lewis
Taylor (1958)
Last Days of the Late, Great State of California by Curt
Gentry (1968)
Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner (1971)
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1988)
All the Little Live Things by Wallace Stegner (1991)

34
CALIFORNIA
ALTERNATIVE HISTORY
Indians Come to California

The original inhabitants of America started out in India.

They were happy there until they discovered that they
were allergic to curry and cardamom. That’s when they
decided to “light out for the territory.”
After receiving a vision of a hoarse grizzly telling them
“Go East, Young Man!”, they headed that direction. First,
they went through China. Here, they adopted the
custom of smoking the peace pipe.
Presently, they persevered in their eastward course. In
Mongolia, they become enamored of the yurts, the
portable living quarters of the Mongolians. The travelers
eastward didn't like the name “Yurt,” so they called
these dwellings “Tipis” instead.

35
Next, they trekked through Russia. There they learned
how to ride horses from the Cossacks on the steppes.
Now astride their fiery steeds (which they borrowed
from the Cossacks one night), they pushed on yet
further eastward, until they reached Alaska. Some of
them remained there (including the indefatigable
Nanook, later made famous by Frank Zappa).

Most of the Indians kept going, though, not wanting to

remain in The Land of the Midnight Sun. They left partly
because it was also The Land of the Midday Darkness,
but the main reason they absquatulated was due to their
inordinate fear of the Kodak bear. They feared these big
furry mammals because the big galoots wanted to take
their picture (having never seen an Indian before). The
Indians were terrified at this, because they imagined
having their image recorded on film would steal their
soul. And the Indians had more soul than James Brown
ever dreamed of.

Some of the Indians went further east, into Canada (the

land of maple bars and Elsinore beer), while others went
south, to the Ewe-Knighted States. The subset we are
concerned with in this volume are those that went south
to California.

Groups of extended family settled together in various

parts of the State. They knew they were Indians, but
didn’t have any other specific name for their various
family groups. When people came across them, and
asked them who they were, the question confused the
Indians, and they simply replied that they were humans
(what else?).

36
Thus, when responding to what they thought was a
simple question, they often called themselves “The
People.” Others, though, insisted on giving each
extended family group unique names, such as Hupa,
Karuk, Miwok, Modoc, Paul Revere and the Raiders, etc.

- the excerpt above is from The New All-too-True-Blue

History of California by Blackbird Crow Raven, which can
be ordered from https://www.amazon.com/All-too-True-
Blue-History-California-All-too-True-
Histories/dp/1981646159/

37