Mary C. Sprott's Memories of Mountain Home, Part I

These memories were shared by Mary C. Sprott, my great-great-grandmother. She was born in Scotland in 1860, emigrated to America in 1876, and came to Porterville, California in 1893. Mary passed away in Porterville in 1951. She first went to Mountain Home in 1895.

Many years ago I went to spend the hot summer months at Mountain Home, a camp at an elevation of some 6000 feet in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. In those days this camp was very popular and six or seven hundred people would occupy its cabins and camp sites. Do not imagine that it resembled the summer resorts and camps popular now-a-days. Far from it, Mountain Home was crude and primitive in its improvements and the surroundings as nature made them. It was not an especially beautiful spot so far as scenery was concerned, but it possessed a certain quality of natural majesty and charm, derived I think from the magnificent trees of its virgin forest. At that time we reached it by team and wagon. Several sawmills were operating not far from the camp and a badly graded road was built for hauling lumber from these mills. We used to pass the night about twenty miles from our little home town and drive up the grade next morning. Our spring wagon would be heaped with bedding, suitcases and various small articles for our camp. The larger and heavier baggage being hauled on the empty wagons returning to the mills. The grade was narrow, winding and very steep. The teamsters all had bells on their teams to warn people of their coming, that they might take refuge in some of the nooks in the mountainside provided for this purpose. The mountain on the left rose very steeply, almost a precipice and on the right side dropped a precipitous thousand feet. If one were not too nervous one could look down and see far below the path of little ribbons - Bear Creek, and a small flat called the Dump, to which lumber from one of the mills was flumed, to be hauled by team to the Railroad.

Mountain Home about 1898

I confess I always turned the corner of the grade with a slight anxiety, expecting to see a ten or twelve horse team with large lumber wagon and trailer bearing down on us. Many of the teamsters rode on the rear wheel horse, a “jerk line” guiding their team and in one hand a rope controlling the all important brake. Other teamsters preferred to ride high up on a dizzy looking perch, one foot on the iron brake, lolling negligently on their uneasy seat, but guiding their great teams with skill. Occasionally an accident occurred, of course, but considering the amount of hauling and danger of the road these accidents were very few. I personally came in contact with two. The first time I went to Mountain Home, as we made camp for the night at the foot of the grade, a man came leading mules to water at the creek. He informed us there had been an accident, the brakes on one of the teamsters' wagons had broken and the load had run onto the horses; or rather mules, killing the wheelers. Fortunately the teamster was not riding and saved himself by jumping from the top of the load.

Another time I had ridden with a friend from camp some miles down the grade, and as we returned we saw on a little flat two big teams standing, and a man we knew was running back to the turn in the road with an axe in his hand. He called to us that six mules had gone over the grade and that we could not pass. The mountain not being very steep there we rode up and over, and when we got to the further side, rode down the road to see what we could see. A trailer blocked the road and the great wagon had lodged in a tree near the brink, the mules were several hundred feet below grazing calmly. The teamsters told us the edge of the road had given way and the team had hung on one side of the big tree and the wagon on the other. They had cut the harness and the mules rolled to the foot of the slope, fortunately not very steep there. Apparently they were none the worse for it.

At a point some six or seven miles above the camp on Bear Creek the character of the country changed and the grade, though, still steep in places, had a less perilous aspect. A small fruit ranch marked the spot where the Change occurred, from it one obtained a marvelous view, extending over the lower foothills to the wide valley beyond. The hills to this point had been covered with chamise and deer brush broom and yerba santa, very few trees. From there the forest began and we travelled over a shady road with giant oaks, pines and cedars on all sides. As we neared Mountain House great firs and redwoods (Sequoia Gigantea) appeared. We had with us my riding pony and had taken turns riding and as we reached camp I happened to be on horseback.

The Mountain Home area today (Balch Park)

On coming to California I had decided that I should ride cross-saddle and had purchased a very confortable small saddle, made at a local saddler's and had made for me a pair of bloomers - quite voluminous - of tan wool covert cloth; my legs modestly concealed by canvas leggings. However my appearance attracted some attention and I found later caused the hotelkeeper's daughter, a girl who became my warm friend, to gain courage to appear in her own. Her father had objected to her wearing them ~ thinking they might seem too rapid, but observing my highly respectable, not to say slow appearance, concluded she might safely try her cross saddle, and soon he became an ardent convert, as he found how much fewer sorebacks his horses had and how much less cinching was required of him. I liked it because one was so much more independent in mounting, but I think it was a long time till I felt myself as secure as in my side saddle with its two horns on the left to grip with my knees. Cross saddle riding depends on balance and I nearly fell off several times in turning quickly until I learned the art.

Mary Sprott dressed to ride

To be continued . . .