Crossing from Nevada into California via route 88, Trish and I cruised over Carson Pass amid lingering twenty-foot snow drifts in mid-May and descended into the green foothills of Calaveras County. The objective was to eventually make our way to the enchanting village of Knights Ferry, and to explore as much of the gold rush era country as possible on the way. We had no list or chronological idea of how to achieve this. We just went. Coming down off the mountain, I had to slow down for a coyote casually stalking across the road. The coyote knew full well I would slow down and didn’t even look our way, instead its eyes were fixed on the objective; an oblivious squirrel. As I came nearly to a stop the scavenger bolted for the roadside, promptly snatched the unsuspecting rodent up in its jowls and vanished into the forest. I put the pedal back down and we made for our first place of interest.
Trish wanted to see a place called Daffodil Hill. In order to get there, we had to pass through the tiny town of Volcano and then several miles up a narrow windy road. Along the way I had to once again brake for wildlife. This time it was a wild turkey waddling about the road in no particular direction. Eventually it meandered far enough to one side and we proceeded. We found the place, but torrential rains a week before had destroyed the sought-after flowers, and all that remained was the picturesque meadow where they had been. On the way back down, we parked at Volcano and took in our first walking tour.
With dense surrounding forests, one finds it hard to believe this was once a hydraulic mining town. But old rusted water canons and steep ravines prove otherwise. The charming settlement left is the modern-day attraction. Nineteenth century structures such as the St. George Hotel, the general store, and the firehouse are noteworthy. The town had burned away a couple of times before sturdier and less flammable buildings replaced them in the 1860’s. Volcano is also home to “Old Abe,” a Civil War era canon that was used to quell Confederate sympathizers.
In addition to sight-seeing and history, Volcano exists today as a live theater town. That’s right! You can buy tickets at the general store and mosey across the street to the amphitheater for a play or live music. It looks as if the charm of Volcano will not fade in the near future.
We followed 88 to 49, then went south to Angels Camp. I had last been in Angels Camp when I was 17 years old, which is more years and decades ago than I care to contemplate. Suffice it to say I remembered very little about the place. However, I did remember it as one of Mark Twain’s many homes from the 1860’s, and of course, where he wrote the famous, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” I, being a lifelong diehard Mark Twain enthusiast, was happy to be back.
We cruised the main street and noticed laundry strewn high across the road, indicating an important event was about to take place. Trish and I have become quite famous and reliable for being places on the wrong day. Usually it is on a Tuesday or Wednesday when the museum or place of interest is closed on a Tuesday or Wednesday. Other times we arrive just after an event that would have made for a better blog post. This time we were in Angels Camp one week before the annual “Jumping Frog Jubilee.” The good side of it is both Trish and I detest large crowds, and it remains questionable as to what could be gained being squeezed in with fifty thousand beer guzzling, pizza belching jubilee attendees, all craning and clawing to glimpse a frog jumping out in the middle of street. We were content to stroll the near empty sidewalks and soak up the history.
If one is a Mark Twain fan as I am, a trip to Angels Camp is not complete without going a further five miles south to Jackass Hill and on up to Mark Twains former abode. We found this rather easily due to the many signs marking the route. The structure is partially rebuilt, but displays the simple yet rugged lifestyle people endured in this area in the 1860’s. We gawked around there for a spell then headed back down to the road and continued south, looking for the road that would take us to our next ink splat on the hit list; Columbia. Columbia, California that is!
Columbia is one of the best-preserved mining towns in the western United States. Being a State Park since 1945 has something to do with that. Campers discovered gold here in 1850. Miners flooded in and a shanty town called Hildreth’s Diggings emerged. The name was briefly changed to American Camp before it permanently became Columbia. Within two years there were 150 shops, stores, saloons and other businesses. Fires in 1854 and 1857 destroyed the town. Columbia was rebuilt with brick and iron and many of those structures still stand.
Columbia was another hydraulic mining town and there were struggles supplying enough water to the town to keep the mines going. They yielded 87 million in gold. But, by 1860 the easy to mine gold was gone and a decline began. The population dived from several thousand to a few hundred. Columbia limped into the 1900’s in this manner, never regaining her former glory. As early as the 1920’s there was talk about including Columbia into the new California Park System. But it was not until 1945 that it happened, and much that remained was preserved.
Today, you can roam the streets and enter the same buildings the miners did. There are operational hotels, restaurants, gift shops, saloons and ice cream! Unfortunately, none of this comes at 1860 prices.
Trish and I roamed from one end to the other where we found a parlor of information. I don’t recall the name of the saloon, but it was cool, inviting and nearly empty. I had a beer; Trish had a coke and we picked the barmaids head for history of the place. Roaming Columbia, as well as Volcano, was strangely familiar. I assumed my father had taken me to these places when I was child, back when he was exploring gold rush towns. I saw buildings and views I had somehow seen before.
We came down the mountain to Jamestown, yet another old gold rush town, where we would spend the night. Jamestown, also known as Railtown, is home to the Railtown Railroad Museum. There are also a pair of historic hotels along main street; The National Hotel and The Jamestown Hotel, both 19th century relics. Inside the National, along the wall of the bar, are old photos of the bar as it looked in 1895 and at the turn of the century. The bar looks exactly the same now, all the way down to the the same decorations hanging on the bar mirror and pictures on the wall. All that has changed are the patrons and barstool covers.
Trish had a strawberry daiquiri and I had a Frog (vodka and lemonade, mostly lemonade.) Despite the weak drink we enjoyed our time there and even got a tour of the place after interrogating yet another barmaid. A decorative chain hanging over the bar mirror was a gift from the Chinese to the Hotel owner of the 1800’s. This previous owner was known for helping in getting deceased Chinese back to China for proper burial, and the chain was given as a sign of gratitude. The barmaid showed us a picture she had taken of a ghost “Flo” in the hotel hallway upstairs. Flo and her fiancée, Henry, were guests at the hotel in the late 1800’s. Her husband to be was shot and killed at the bottom of the stairs. Flo, overcome with trauma, stayed on at the hotel for 5 more days when they found her dead, apparently of a broken heart. The grief- stricken apparition is still seen roaming the halls of the hotel, sometimes with a lantern in hand, as if still searching for her Henry. Built in 1859 this hotel has plenty to say and show.
We strolled on down the street to the Jamestown Hotel. The interior was nowhere as historic, as it had all been recently remodeled. The good news is the barmaid here knew how to make a good drink! We spent some time here and eventually meandered back up Main Street to “The Willow,” for chicken fried steak and garlic mashers smothered in mushroom gravy.
We awoke early the next morning and proceeded onward to Knights Ferry. The population is under two hundred and other than a cluster of houses, consists of an Inn, a general store and an Odd Fellows Lodge. There is also the original firehouse which still houses the horse drawn water wagon as well as other local artifacts. Less than a mile to the east is the famous 330 ft covered bridge, spanning the Stanislaus river, which is now State Park property. There is also an interpretive center, hiking trails and the behemoth ruins of the 19th century flour mill and powerhouse.

 

From the interpretive center Trish and I began our hike. Since adventure is never fun without breaking some rules, we left the trail and went to a pond behind the mill. I was looking for old machinery. Trish was looking for frogs and tadpoles. The roof is long gone from these ruins, but the high walls, doorways, windows and occasional rusted machinery are still in place.
Immense cement walls, looking like elaborate fortification were built in this part of the river to divert water to the mill. We skirted about looking in windows and doors. Just past the mill is the covered bridge. But before crossing it Trish wanted to go down to the water to sit on her favorite rock. Although it was my first time to Knights Ferry, Trish had been here more than a few times. She had been here enough to know what was where and what rocks liked her. We descended to the Stanislaus. Being spring the river was up and wide, and Trish’s rock was about twenty-five feet out in the water. I told her I would watch if she swam out to it. Instead she displayed disloyalty to her rock and found another along the shore to plop upon.
A little later we went back up and walked the bridge. The bridge, built in 1863 after a flood took out the first one, was closed to vehicles in 1981 and has since been open only to pedestrian use. A couple of small windows on each side provide enough light to see the whole way across. Upon emerging out the far side, we turned and crossed again.
That seemed to finalize our blitz of a few of the gold rush towns in Calaveras and Tuolumne counties. The rest of that day was consumed by a long drive back to Nevada along less flattering routes than which we had come. The places we visited are among scores of other unique places to see in this area and Yosemite National Park is only a short distance away to the Southeast.
I recommend visiting in spring, when the wildflowers are in bloom, or in the fall for dazzling autumn colors. The summers are hot and humid and the winters rather rainy. However, there is no wrong time to go. No matter what time of year you visit there is something exceptional to find.