Tuolumne, in Bret Harte’s time, was called Summersville.  It was destroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has already so assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that its comparative youth might easily escape detection.  Altogether, I was disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel’s, owing to its prominence in Bret Harte’s stories.  A lumber camp, while an excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring.  I spent the night at the “Turnback Inn,” a large frame building, handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire.  It is, I believe, quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of the Sierra Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland and San Francisco.

Returning to Angel’s the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown.  There is a strange attraction about the place — it would hold you apart from its associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by splendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the noon-day sun, is a study for an artist.  And as I gazed in a sort of day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in the Sierras — with four faro tables running day and night — the pines seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories.  Jackass Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels.  I was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp showed signs of a new lease of life.

Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious difficulty.  Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I abandoned the main road for an alleged “cut-off.”  This I was following with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt end at the foot of a steep hill.  In the ravine below was a house, and there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in “Carson Flat.”  “Carson Flat?  Well, I should say not!  You’re ’way off!” “How much?” I asked feebly.  “Oh, several miles.”  This in a tone that implied that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse.  However, with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat and joined the main road.  And there I registered a vow:  “The hard highway for me!” As a consequence of this deviation, I materially lengthened the distance to Angel’s.  It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by the road, to which, by taking the “cut-off,” I probably added another three!

It is surprising how these towns grow upon one.  Already the Angel’s Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined the loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel.  And there I dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.