April 23 - Monday "Down by the river"

Misty hills beyond San Juan Bautista

Deb and I were finally going to be leaving the Central Coast and the morning gave us a moist kiss of misty fog for our good-bye. One could sense the nearness of Monterey in the air, yet the ocean is actually quite far from San Juan Bautista. It made it even more clear to me that the town was special and must have held a very important place in Anna Flynn's heart. Before leaving we searched the local graveyard for an hour but found nothing notable for our research. Then set off on the next leg heading east.

From San Juan Bautista we traveled up and over the Diablo Range, into the San Joaquin Valley towards Madera. I say traveled-- but really going through the pass was more like being lifted, cloud-like, into a world of tilting, rolling, and swerving landscape. Pacheco Pass takes nearly the same route as it did 150 years ago and it wasn't hard to imagine Solomon on this same trip headed out of the mountains to see his girl. I wonder how many sad Sundays he retreated back alone on a stage coach or buck board up this winding road to Firebaugh's Ferry and the long work week ahead.

Driving Pacheco Pass

My dream was to find any sign of the place where that famous ferry might have crossed the San Joaquin River. When Solomon first came to California around 1875 he worked as a clerk for a man named Jake Myers. Firebaugh’s Ferry was never much in the way of a town, but the stop had the one thing all good merchants seek: location, location, location. The river in those days blocked travelers going both east/west and north/south owing to its snake-like course. Now, with canals and irrigation, the water of the once formidable San Joaquin is no longer wide or deep enough to matter.

I didn't tell Deb what I was looking for as we passed over canals that showed there was once a waterway nearby. I had studied the map of that whole area on Google Earth and found nothing that looked like a ferry landing. I was explaining the story to her when she noticed a little town just off the state highway called Firebaugh. It seemed like a good possibility so we headed there. Driving past the main streets and out to the edge of town we found a park. Deb figured it was a dead-end and wanted to get on to our next destination. Up until now there had been no sign of water. I decided to climb an embankment and peer over the edge. Here was flowing water, here was a path, here was something important!

The Water

We donned our walking shoes and ventured onward following the bank. In a little while we saw a highway bridge and continued along the creek's curves out to where we could see another park. A strange giant wheel jutted out from the water there, and further down the path we saw a painted sign. That was when we knew we had arrived.

The Signs

The sign said we were standing in the exact location of the old Firebaugh’s Ferry crossing! The giant wheel was a relic of a later installation, a swing bridge that had allowed steamboat traffic to pass. That meant the landing where we were standing was the place where the ferryboats came and went taking carriage passengers all the way from St Louis to San Francisco and between Los Angles to Sacramento. Not far from this spot would have been Jake Myer's Store.

The renamed town of Firebaugh had created a wonderful park and exposition for its community and visitors, putting historical signs all along the creek about the glory days of the past. We are very thankful to them for that gift of history which was put together in 2004. Looking around the area further we noticed a rodeo corral. It isn't hard to imagine the horses and buggies watering here as they wait to cross.

In the Distance: the Wheel for the Old Ferry Bridge

It was so amazing standing on the spot where Solomon found his footing in the world, where he fell in love, where he made friends that would last many years. It probably looked very different now, but I think it felt the same to us as it would have to him. Like coming home the first year of collage and seeing the town where you grew up in a new light.

Leaving Firebaugh we set out for California's Wine country. What? Napa? Sonoma? No! Not only is the coast good for growing the celebrated fruit, vineyards were also planted in the Central Valley as far back as the 1850's. It was the start of the gold-rush and people who weren't looking for gold were looking for ways to make a living. Just a few miles west of here, 40 years after the gold-rush, around 1890, our great grandfather planted a 20 acers of malaga grapes in Medera. We were on a mission to see what might remain of those early vines, and to taste the fruits of such labor for ourselves.