In the Footprints of the Padres

In Short

This collection of sketches and personal reflections serves as a lyrical map of California’s formative years. It records a vanished landscape—from the shifting sand-dunes of early San Francisco to the remote, quiet beauty of Monterey—through the eyes of a writer who moved between the rough-and-tumble of gold-rush expansion and the delicate, fading traditions of the Spanish missions. By blending historical inquiry with intimate, often humorous accounts of artistic life, it preserves the spirit of a place that, even in its own time, felt like a fleeting, romantic dream.

The Story

The narrative begins with a long-distance arrival, tracing the arduous, winding journey into the heart of a "new life" in the American West. The initial chapters set the stage in San Francisco, a city then defined by its rugged geography and the stark contrast between its sprawling, dusty squalor and the surprising opulence of its interior life. We are led through the city’s early, uncertain decades, witnessing the rise of the Vigilance Committee, where law and order were forced to confront the chaotic reality of the frontier. The atmosphere is thick with the fog of the Pacific and the grit of the sand-dunes that once pressed against the outskirts of town.

From the urban center, the focus shifts to the broader, untamed California landscape. We visit the desolate, bird-haunted Farallones, where egg-gatherers engage in "naval engagements" over the rights to their harvest, and explore the serene, towering redwoods that hold sunlight like spray. The narrative also delves into the historical echoes of the state, recounting the early arrival of Captain Drake and the enduring, quiet presence of the old missions—the "footprints of the Padres" that serve as a meditative anchor against the rapid, often violent, progress of the era.

As the book progresses, the scene moves to Monterey, a town characterized by its "fatal fondness" for public celebrations and its slow, rhythmic pace. Here, the story adopts a more personal, bohemian tone. We follow a circle of artists and dreamers living in a shared studio, decorating their world with Indian trophies and wolf-skins, and staging elaborate, make-believe banquets. There is a sense of "sweet idleness," a celebration of beauty and youth in an adobe-walled refuge.

Yet, the ending arrives with an inevitable shift in perspective. Whether exploring the overwhelming majesty of the Yosemite mountains or the quiet, interior life of a character like Paul Clitheroe, the narrative begins to question the sustainability of this "high-pressure happiness." In the final moments, the romanticized bohemian life feels increasingly fragile. The story concludes not with a grand resolution, but with a quiet departure. Clitheroe, watching the revelry of his companions from a distance, chooses to leave behind the familiar, civilized world, slipping away into the darkness of the sea with island friends. It is a haunting exit, leaving the reader with the somber realization that the world described—its colorful characters, its makeshift homes, and its youthful vigor—has ultimately dissolved into "dust and ash."

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The journey commences with an arduous transit, where travelers are crowded onto river boats, navigating the dense, mysterious growth of Central American forests before reaching the promise of the West. The atmosphere is one of anticipation and "weirdness," as the travelers encounter the strange sights of the tropics on their way to the new land.

The city in the sand San Francisco is introduced as a place of extremes, where modest, even shabby exteriors conceal rooms filled with luxurious lace, satin, and Sévres vases. The author paints a picture of a city where citizens lived on the edge of the desert, constantly battling encroaching dunes and the heavy, chilling fog.

The rule of the committee The narrative turns to the social turbulence of the 1850s, detailing the methodical, somber rise of the Vigilance Committee. Through a disciplined, almost military process, the city attempts to establish justice, leading to the public execution of criminals and the mourning of a prominent citizen, James King of William.

The bohemian retreat The focus shifts to the artistic enclave of Monterey, a town that moves at a different, slower pace. Here, the characters inhabit a "studio" filled with relics and dreams, hosting banquets with more imagination than substance, celebrating a life of art, friendship, and lighthearted poverty.

The final departure The book concludes with a movement toward both the natural sublimity of the mountains and the personal isolation of its protagonist. Paul Clitheroe, having reflected on the emptiness of his social life, abandons his familiar existence, sailing away into the night and leaving his history behind.

The People

The book is populated by a vibrant, though often transient, cast. Paul Clitheroe is the quintessential wanderer and artist, a man who lives in an "Eyrie" and works just enough to survive, finding more value in his books and his artistic circle than in conventional success. He represents the soul of the bohemian life—refined, contemplative, and ultimately restless. James King of William appears as the catalyst for the city’s moral crisis, his death serving as the somber pivot point for the Vigilance Committee’s actions. The egg-pickers of the Farallones provide a sharp, rugged contrast; they are the men of action and conflict, driven by profit and competition in the desolate, isolated crags of the Pacific. Finally, the ladies and gentlemen of the studio embody the spirit of the age—a group of friends who define their worth through wit, beauty, and their shared, improvised banquets, struggling to maintain their "green bower" against the encroaching demands of the real world.

In Its Own Voice

"A dense undergrowth of light green foliage caught and held the sunlight like so much spray."

The author uses this image to describe the vibrant, almost magical quality of the redwood forests in Northern California.

"And what is left? Dust and Ash and a Tale--or not even a Tale!"

This concluding reflection highlights the author’s melancholic awareness that the vivid, transient world he described is now largely lost to history.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an exploration of the tension between the ephemeral and the permanent. It examines the fragility of human settlement—how quickly a city can be built on sand and how easily it can be reshaped by disaster or memory. There is a deep, underlying question about the cost of progress: is the energy and "high-pressure happiness" of a growing city worth the loss of the quiet, natural, and spiritual heritage of the past? It is a meditation on the passage of time, suggesting that the most beautiful aspects of life—the camaraderie of the studio, the stillness of the mission, the mystery of the wilderness—are those that are most likely to slip through our fingers, leaving only a story in their wake.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate a nostalgic, impressionistic style will find much to admire here. The prose is atmospheric and dense, capturing a specific, lost time with a poet’s eye for color and light. If you are interested in the history of the American West, this provides a rare, personal perspective that avoids the dry recitation of facts in favor of the human experience.

However, it is important to approach the book with an understanding of its period. The attitudes toward race and class—particularly regarding the descriptions of the Chinese Quarter and the treatment of indigenous people—reflect the era's prejudices. The author’s voice is one of a Victorian-era observer, and modern readers may find his descriptions of "Asiatic vitality" or the "savages" he meets to be dated or jarring. Additionally, the structure is loosely episodic, moving between vignettes rather than a traditional, linear plot. It is a book for those who want to linger in a specific, fading atmosphere—the smell of the sea, the chill of the fog, and the warmth of a fire in a cluttered, candle-lit room. It stays with you as a gentle, haunting portrait of a California that no longer exists, a testament to the "sweetest of memories" that the author cherished long after the landmarks had vanished.