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J. A. Graves - Out of Doors - California and Oregon
At noon we reached San Juan Capistrano. We drove into the grounds of the hospitable Judge Egan. At a
table, beneath the grateful shade of giant trees, amid the perfume of flowers, the sweet songs of happy
birds, we ate our lunch. After a short rest we took up the run again. We passed El Toro and finally came
onto the great San Joaquin ranch, every acre of which is now highly cultivated.
Then came the Santa Ana region, thickly settled, rich in soil and products. We passed through beautiful
and enterprising Santa Ana, through miles upon miles of walnut, orange and other fruit groves, through a
solid settlement extending far on each side of the road, to Anaheim. And still on through more walnut
and orange groves, more wealth-producing crops.
Through the orange and lemon and walnut groves of Fullerton, extending to and forming a large part of
Whittier, I could not help exclaiming to myself, "What an empire this is! Where is the country that yields
the annual returns per acre that this land does?" At Whittier we got into one of the newly constructed
county highways, and at 3:30 p. m. we were home again, after four days in the open, four days of pure
and unadulterated happiness.
A Hunting Trip in the Long Ago
One of the disadvantages of old age, even advancing years, is the pleasure we lose in anticipating future
events. Enthusiastic youth derives more pleasure in planning a journey, an outing or a social gathering
than can possibly be realized from any human experience. With what pleasure the young set out, getting
ready for a hunting trip, or an excursion to some remote locality never visited by them!
From the first day I arrived in Los Angeles, I had heard of the Fort Tejon and the Rancho La Liebre
country as a hunting paradise, extolled by all people I met, who were given to spending an occasional
week or two in the mountains in search of game. In consequence of what I had heard of this region, I
made up my mind to go there the first time I got an opportunity.
Among the first acquaintances I made here was a dear old man named A. C. Chauvin, formerly of St.
Louis, Mo., and of French descent. He had spent many years in the Northwest, hunting and trapping. He
was an excellent shot with both rifle and shotgun. Notwithstanding the fact that he was slightly afflicted
with a nervous disorder akin to palsy, which kept his left arm and hand, when not in use, constantly
shaking, the moment he drew up his gun, his nerves were steady, and his aim perfect. He despised the
modern breech-loading rifle, and insisted on shooting an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading, single-barrel
rifle, made by a fellow townsman, Henry Slaughterbach. It was an exceedingly accurate and powerful
shooting gun. Chauvin was a thorough hunter, well versed in woodcraft, up in camp equipage and the
requirements of men on a two or three weeks' hunting trip.
Off in the Dust.
During the summer of 1876 I had been hard at work. The weather had been hot and trying. In the latter
part of September, Mr. Chauvin proposed that I go with him on a deer hunt to the Liebre Ranch. I was
practicing law, and after consulting my partners, I eagerly consented to accompany him. He made all the
preparations. On the 30th of September he started a two-horse wagon, loaded with most of our outfit, on
ahead, in charge of a roustabout. On October 2nd, we followed in a light one-horse wagon, taking with us
our blankets, a few provisions and a shotgun. We had a hard time pulling over the grade beyond San
Fernando, but finally made it. We went on past Newhall, and camped the first night on the bank of the
Santa Clara River.
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