1974 wasn’t a good year either

1974: Letter to my dad from the Irving Trust Company

 

1974

—————-

Irving Trust Company
One Wall Street
New York, NY 10015

March 27, 1974

Dear Mr. Martin (that’s my dad)

We are in receipt of your letter of March 13, 1974 regarding shares of Central Public Service Corporation, common stock, registered in the name of Tarantino Investment Co. Please be advised that this company was reorganized in 1952, with no equity remaining from the old company. Therefore, any shares held before 1952 are valueless.

Also enclosed are letters dated September 3, 1952 from the company regarding this matter.

Very truly yours

E. Vargas

August 31, 1909: Who wants a used stagecoach?

September 1909, from the files of the  Half Moon Bay Review

Another of San Mateo county’s enterprises has passed into history. The old San Mateo and Pescadero stage line has discontinued.  Tuesday evening, August 31,  1909  was the last trip of the line which for 47 years has been the means of conveyance of the mail and express as well as passengers, first from San Francisco direct and later from San Francisco and San Mateo.

The line was first started and owned by R. Dougherty of Purissima, running from San Francisco to Purissima in 1862. In 1864 Mr. Dougherty extended the line to Pescadero.

In 1865 Doughterty retired leaving the field to his competitor, who operated the San Mateo and Pescadero line. In 1883 the company which owned and operated the line just discontinued, was formed and composed of Levy Bros., Jos. Debenedetti and J. Boitano, and which did a thriving business until the advent of the Ocean Shore Railroad.

The mail and express contracts which were carried by the company have been transferred to other parties. The contracts from San Mateo to Half Moon Bay are being carried out and conveyances run by the enterprising proprietors of the Pilarcitos Stables, while the contracts from Half Moon Bay to Pescadero are fulfilled by J. Davis…

While we chronicle the passing of the stage line let us not forget that veteran driver Robert Rawls, or Buckskin Bob of other days, who for nearly half a century has handled the ribbons in various parts of the state. In 1861 Mr. Rawls drove stage on what was called the Los Angeles run from San Luis Obispo to San Juan, in 1866 from  San Juan to San Jose, coming to the coast to drive on the San Mateo and Pescadero line in 1867…

Purissima Creek: Let’s go Fishing (Psst: First Pass the dynamite!)

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

Hi June,
This story, eight years after the whistful looking-back-at-the-Good-Old-Days La Purisima” story about the degraded circumstances in Purisima Creek, might explain one aspect of the problem of the fish disappearing from local streams at that time. Enjoy. John
The San Francisco Morning Call
August 24, 1900
Rod and Line

Streams Which Will Be Stocked   To-Day
With Ranbow Trout.
Superintendent   of   Fish-hatcheries   Wood –
berry   and   his   attendant,  Richardson,   will
arrive   from   Bissons   this   morning   with   40,000
young   fry   of   the   rainbow   trout,   which   will
be   distributed   in   the   La   Honda,   San
Gregorio   and   Pescadero   creeks   in   San
Mateo   County.
These   streams   have   numerous   tributaries,
which   will   benefit   by   the   stocking   of   the
main   waters.   The   Pescadero   is   a   magnifi –
cent   stream,   and   carries   a   large   body   of
water   in   the   summer,   as   well   as   in   the
winter   months.   It   is   hoped   that   the   farm –
ers   who   reside   in   the   vicinity   of   the   glens
will   take   an   interest   in   the   labors   of   the
gentlemen   who   are   connected   with   the
Fish   Commission,   and   use   their   utmost   en –
deavors   to   bring   to   justice   those   who   are   in
the   habit   of   destroying  fish   by   giant-powder
explosives   during   the   winter   season   when
the   salmon   run   up   the   river   to   spawn.   In
a   few   years   hence,   if   the   vandalism   which
has   been   going   on   without   interruption   for
years   be   checked,   the   fraternity   who   enjoy
good   trout   fishing   will   be   delighted   with
the   sport   these   streams   will   afford   when   the
youngsters   arrive   sit   their   majority.
The   average   freight   of   a   lull   grown   rain –
bow   trout   is   lrcm   2 1/2   to   3   pounds,   and   a
greater   trout   is   hard   to   find.
‘The   Dolly   Varden   is   a   more   stubborn
customer   to   land,   but   his   rushes   are   not   as
desperate   as   the   rainbow,   who   tires   himself
completely   out   in   the   early   part   of   the   fight
for   liberty.   The   “Dolly,”   when   hooked,
generally   goes   to   the   bottom   of   the   river
where   it   lodges   and   remains   so   doggedly
steadfast   that   one   not   acquainted
with   the   fishes’   ways   of   battle,   would   im –
agine   that   his   hook   bad   become   fastened   in
a   tree-root   or   some   hidden   substance.
A   steady   pressure   on   the.   line   will   soon
convince   the   man   on   the   shore   end   of   the
rod   “that   he   is   still   in   it,”   and   presently
the   reel   sings   as   the   silk   runs   through   the
loops   of   the   rod.   Then   it   is   that   care
must   betaken   to   prevent   the   fish   from   mak –
ing   some   place   of   its  vantage   which,   if   once
gained,   is   almost   sure   to   give   it   its   freedom.
The   hooking,   play   and   landing   of   a   four –
pound   Dolly   varden   trout   is   sport   which   is
thoroughly   appreciated   by   the   angler   who
understands   the   art   of   fly-casting.
Of   the   two   species   of   trout   the   rainbow
is   preferred   by   anglers,   principally   on   ac –
count   of   its   system   of   feeding.   In   the
months   of   June,   July   and   August   it   rises
freely   “to   the   fly”   and   as   a   matter   of   con –
sequence   the   angler   with   artificial   devices
can   rely   upon   having   some   good sport.
The   Dolly   Varden   feeds   principally   on
grubs   and   larva   which   are   swept   by   the
current and lodge  generally   on   the   bottom
of   the   deep   holes   and   whirlpools.   Occa –
sionally   a   dolly   is   tempted   to   the   surface
ol   the   water,   but   as   a   general   rule   this
species   of   trout   are   what   is   termed   by
anglers   “bottom-feeders.”
It   is   quite   probable   that   the   Fish   Com –
missioners   will   honor   some   of   the   residents
of   San   Mateo   County   with   badges   entitling
them   to   the   office   of   deputy   commissioners.
It   is   certain   that   unless   a   custom   which
has   prevailed   among   classes   of   men   who
have   been   destroying   thousands   of   fish   by
explosives   is   stopped   the   efforts   of-   the
Fish   Commissioners   to   restock   the   streams
with   a   magnificent   fish   will   be   a   worthless
undertaking.

1890s: The Coastside’s Poetic Editor Visits La Purisima

Story by June Morrall Email June ([email protected])

1890s: The Coastside Advocate’s Poetic Editor Visits “The Purisima”

Known for his passionate prose, Half Moon Bay newspaper editor Roma T. Jackson complained bitterly that the locals did not appreciate the natural beauty of the Coastside. When the subject came up, Roma got very angry and wagged his finger in warning. If folks didn’t wake up, he said, and capitalize on the potential of their richly endowed surroundings, then, outsiders would do it for them.

What did that mean? “Outsiders would do it for them?” Jackson knew exactly what he was saying: “it” meant humiliation for the locals on a grand scale. 

Roma T. Jackson strongly believed that fame and fortune awaited beautiful Half Moon Bay if she chose to follow the business plan of “popular pleasure resorts.” In the 1890s there were many success stories to point to including the resorts at Santa Cruz and Monterey/Carmel.

On the pages of his newspaper, the Coastside Advocate, Mr. Jackson revealed that visitors had wondered aloud (and within his earshot)…”why the people here do not avail themselves of the varied attractions which nature has so lavishly bestowed upon them. Here, they say, is one of the finest and safest beaches for surf bathing that can be found on the whole coast, and yet there is not a single bathhouse, public or private.”

[As a historic footnote: In the early 1900s, a two-story public bathhouse was built overlooking El Granada Beach, also known as “Surfer’s Beach.” In the 1920s, during Prohibition, the bathhouse was converting into a home, with family members, both adults and teenagers farming chokes and sprouts, and doing some bootlegging on the side.]

Roma Jackson hadn’t finished his editorial extolling the Coastside’s natural wealth. But did he go overboard? Did he heap too much praise on Half Moon Bay?

Here is also the most wonderful moss beach,” Jackson wrote,”on the continent and yet it is hardly known outside the neighborhood, and not even appreciated there. Here are some of the most attractive redwood forests and pleasant mountain retreats in the state, besides hunting and fishing grounds innumerable, and yet they are frequented by but a comparatively small number of pleasure seekers each season.”

Jackson’s love of the Coastside led up to his well known warning: “We who live adjacent and right in the midst of these wonderful attractions under-appreciate their importance, and when the time soon comes that outside enterprise and capital will open them up to the public, advertise them and reap a rich reward, then we will repent not having improved the opportunities so long open to us.”

When it came to the Coastside’s future, Roma displayed a missionary zeal. His emotions ran deep about her vast potential. One good example was a story he wrote describing a heavenly carriage ride into the Purisima Canyon, sometimes also spelled Purissima. With its constantly changing scenery, a visit to pretty Purisima topped the list of many.

It was early spring,  a sun-shiny Sunday morning when the Roma T. Jackson entourage set out for a picnic in the nearby woods. The gentle ocean breeze fluttered over the green fields, and Roma said he felt like a new man driving one of William Nelson’s “family chariots, with the requisite amount of equine power to locomote it.” Jackson wrote:” …the drive to Purissima from Half Moon Bay soothes a tired brain with dreamy fancies, causing the mind to dwell only on the happiest phases of rural existence….”

As he “sallied forth” in the chariot, the curious Jackson tried to sort out the highlights of the passing bucolic  scenery. This was hard because sightseeing was limited for a horse and carriage on a bad road. If he had been a passenger on the Ocean Shore Railroad, he might have enjoyed the rolling landscape as it unfolded before him like a moving panorama. To the east he admired the fields of grain that rose on the gently sloping hills, “whose sheen of emerald is bespangled with grazing herds and white farm houses.” To the west the fields spread “…to the very bank beneath which the restless waves break on a sandy beach…”

The only blot on this pastoral scene was the curl of black smoke emanating from the occasional passing steamer at sea. When the Jackson party reached their destination, Purissima Creek, famous for trout fishing, the editor suggested they crack open a bottle of wine. (This is what he actually wrote: we were “overcome with an intense longing to … imbibe some of the famous Purissima water diluted with — with — a stick in it, but out of both fear and respect for the feminine portion of the party, the desire was suppressed…”

[This emotional reference to water with a stick in it must have made sense to Coastsiders in 1891, but I have no clue to its present day meaning.]        

The carriage rolled through the miniscule hamlet of Purissima, and onto the road that wound back into the Borden & Hatch Redwoods. For several miles a broad vista of farms, gardens, dairies, and orchards fanned out before Jackson and his friends. These were the ranches belonging to Jorden, Taylor, Cowell, Shoults, Banghart, Campbell, Nelson, McGovern and Higgins.

Three miles later the scenery abruptly changed. The valley narrowed until it was called a canyon.

Precipitous hills thickly studded with stately redwoods” replaced the green slopes where cattle had grazed “knee deep” in the grass. “Up through the semi-darkness of the shadowy canyons,” Jackson penned that in the distance he could see “somber ghosts of once stately trees that long since fell victims to the woodsman’s ax…

“…In the bottom of this picturesque canyon, the Purissima Creek babbles along through miniature waterfalls, shallows and eddies, where the speckled trout ….darts hither and thither…in the azure depths overhung by feather ferns…”

When Roma and his friends entered the heart of the redwood forest, they saw the famous 
Borden & Hatch lumber mill. Nearby stood a cluster of houses occupied in the summer when the “engines were put in motion and the huge saws sung through the logs.” The shingle mill stood half a mile above the lumber mill. 

After inspecting Borden & Hatch’s, Roma Jackson put on his “photographer’s hat,” snapping beautiful images of the scenery. [And how I wish I knew what happened to those photos!]

A wool blanket was spread beneath a grove of towering redwoods, and at noon the friends enjoyed a delicious lunch accompanied by a bottle or two of fine champagne. 

In the 1890s the carriage ride into Purissima Canyon became a popular day trip.


1892: “La Purissima” Closed Down

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

Hi June,
The article in the attached ScreenShots followed the year after the publishing of the sad state of the Purisima Creek in the “La Purisima” story. An earlier posting I sent you had the opposite take of this article as to any difference in spawning dates or the need for special regulation. Wow. People fighting about the dwindling fish supply and what to do about it? Go figure. Enjoy. John
121

The Fish in the Purissima Creek Spawn One Month Late

The angling community of this city are much exercised as to the proposed closing of the Purissima Creek until May 1. Many Waltonians have been in the habit for years of fishing this creek early in April, and they have always found abundance of trout. Many, however, declare that the fish therein do not spawn until the end of April and it is because of the representations of these atter that the proposed closing is about to be ordered.

William Lambert, a prominent Waltonian, was seen on Steiner street yesterday, and being asked about the matter, said: “I have fished the Purissima Creek now for many years and I think that it should be closed down certainly until May 1. It is really a shame to take out some of the trout which I have seen landed in the early spring. Owing to the peculiarity of the waters of the creek not uniting with the ocean so as to allow salmon or any kind of salmon trout to ascend or descend and spawn, the fish therein, all, therefore, spawn very late in the season.

“If the creek is still allowed to be fished as heretofore it will be altogether depleted and will cost the Fish Commissioners a lot of money to restock the creek and consequently, also a loss of time to fishermen who follow their pastime at the creek. I and a friend fished there the latter part of last April one evening. I caught 25 trout through spawning, and a like proportion of my friend’s catch were in the same condition. We thereupon stopped fishing and rode over to Lobitos Creek, where we found that all the fish we caught had already spawned. The conditions, therefore, of the Purissima Creek render it essential that it should be closed down forthwith before sportsmanlike anglers begin to commit their annual depredations.”

John Vonderlin: This is “La Purissima,” 1891

From John Vonderlin
Email John ([email protected])
La Purissima
  
I found this article in the San Francisco “Morning Call,” April 8th, 1891 edition. It fills in very well what was going on in Purissima in its heydays. The OCR version of this had hundreds of errors, but I think I got most of them. To think the stream had already been fished out and polluted by oil wells in 1891 is amazing. It seems like the falls were higher then or he was using fishermen’s measurements. I’ll research some of the folks mentioned in the article and send it along soon. I never knew why they called them anglers, but now I know thanks to this article. Enjoy. John
 
THE   MORNING   CALL,   SAN   FRANCISCO,   SUNDAY,   APRIL   8,   1891.
LA   PURISIMA.
A   Favorite   Resort   of   Old-
Time   Anglers.
WHERE   BIG   TROUT   FLOURISH
The   Beautiful   Brook   in   the   Daytime.
The   Comfortable   Inn   at
Night.
This   is   the   season   for   the   angler.   Every
nook   and   stream   within   mi!es of   San   Fran – 
cisco   where   by   any   chance   a   trout   has
been   permited   to   lurk   till   the   Ist   of   April
is   now   eagerly   sought   and   industriously
fished   by   old   as   well   as   young   Waltonians.
“We   may   say   of   angling   as   Dr.   Boteler
said   of   strawberries,”   writes   old   lsaak   in
“The   Complete   Angler.”   “Doubtless   God
could   have   made   a   better   berry,   but
doubtless   God   never   did.   and   so,   if   I
might   be   judge,   God   never   did   make   a
more   calm,   quiet,   innocent   recreation   than
angling.”
Alexander   Pope   comes   very   near   de – 
scribing   the   situation   in   California   at   this
season   of   the   year,   when   he   sings   in   his
poem   of   “Windsor   Forest”:
ln   genial   spring,   beneath   the   quivering   shade
When   cooling   vapors   breathe   along   the   mead,
The   patient   fisher  takes   his   silent   stand.
Intent,   his   angle   trembling   in   his   hand,
With   looks   unmoved,   he   hopes   the   scaly   breed
And   eyes   the   dangling   ash   and   bending   reed.
Pope   could   not   have   better   pictured   one
particular   place   in   San   Mateo   County   if
he   had   had   it   in   his   mind   when   he   wrote
those   lines,   and   to   which   the   thoughts   of
many   an   old   angler   in   .San   Francisco   re – 
vert   when   the   open   season   arrives.   It   is
a   bright,   sparkling   little   stream,   between
Spanishtown   (Jim   Denison’s   theater  of action
 in  his  lifetime)  and   Pescadero,
about   thirty-eight   miles   from   the   city,
called   by   the   Spanish   name,   La   Puri – 
sima,   which   as   everybody   knows   means
“the   purest.”   The   name   was   well   applied
to   its   limpid   water’s   thirty   years   or   more
ago.   but   can   hardly   be   so   now   on   account
of   several   abandoned   oilwells   that   con – 
taminate   the   stream   and   impart;   a   dis – 
agreeable   flavor   to   fish   caught   near   and
below   them.
La   Purisima   was   a   famous   trout   stream
in   its   early   days.   Fish   were   found   there
in   great   numbers   and   of   a   kind   not   known
elsewhere   in   California;   they   were   pecu – 
liar   to   the   brook   itself.   This   creek   was
the   favorite   resort   of   anglers   from   San
Francisco,   and   when   the   April   winds   grew
soft   you   might   find   parties   of   them   at   Buz – 
zell’s—as   it   was   known   then—now   Dough – 
.   erty’s   comfortable   little   inn,   past   which
the   waters   of   La   Purisima   coursed.   Good
 fellows   always,   and   jolly   enough   to   in – 
spire   an   American   Shenstone   to   write   in
 praise   of   the   inn   and   its   tenants.   Rising
in   the   Gabilan   Sierra   Moreno,   now   known
as   the   Santa   Cruz   range,   this   creek   has   but
a   short   distance   to   run   oceanward.   Within
a   few   hundred   yards   of   the   inn   the   waters
fall   into   ttie   vast   Pacific’s   arms   over   a   ledge
about   eighty   feet   high.   In   the   rainy   sea – 
son   this   fall   is   a   cascade,   in   the   dry   sum – 
mer   months   the   stream,   shrunken   in
volume,   spreads   over   the   rocks   like   a   veil
hiding   their   ruggedness,   and   with   a   musi – 
cal   tinkling   that   is   pleasant   to   the   ear.
The   usual   plan   adopted   by   the   stalwart
fisherman   who   had   made   up   his   mind   for   a
day’s   sport   in   the   creek   was   to   leave   tbe
Dougherty   inn—the   name   “inn,”   or,   as
the   country   pnople   had   it,   “tavern,”   is   to
be   preferred   because   thirty   years   ago   the
place   had   not   attained   the   dignity   of   a
modern   hotel—in   the   cool   gray   of   the
early   morning   and   walk   up   the   valley,
“brushing   with   hasty   steps   the   dews
away,”   like   the   young   man   in   Gray’s
Elegy,   a   distance   of   about   four   miles   to
where   ex-Supervisor   Lane,   one   of   the   City
Fathers   who   in   the   sixties   looked   after
the   municipal   interests   of   San   Francisco,
had   erected   a   sawmill.   Some   who   loved
their   ease   made   the   distance   by   a   vehicle,
but   your   true-spirited   angler   always   footed
it.   The   walk   was   just   far   enough
to   warm   a   vigorous   man   up   for
the   creek   work   to   follow.   Lane’s   mill
was   at   the   base   of   the   Santa   Cruz   range,
among   the   redwood,   from   which   the
creek   emerges   and   goes   on   its   way   down
through   the  meadows   to   tbe   sea.   Here’s
where   a   fisherman   out   for   a   day’s   work
always   began   it,   facing   toward   his   point
of   departure   In   the   morning.   If   you   went
up   beyond   the   sawmill   into   the   redwoods,
you   had   hard   climhing,   besides   a   compara – 
tively   slender   thread   of   water   and   only
fingerlings   to   reward   the   toil.   One   of   the
desirable   features   as   a   fishing-place   of   the
Purislnia   is,   by   the   way,   the   location   of
Dougherty’s   inn,   in   relation   to   the   route
the   angler   has   to   traverse.   Starting   in   at
the   old   sawmill,   and   fishing   down   stream,
he   has   tbe   satisfaction   of   knowing   that
every   step   takes   him   nearer   his   hostelry,
and   by   the   time   be   has   made   his   last   cast,
when   the   sun   is   westering   behind   the
Gabilan   mountain,   and   his   creol   has   be – 
come   heavy—wlich  was   more   often   the
case   in   the   days   of   which   I   write,   when
the   fish   were   plenty   and   tbe   fishers   few,
than   at   present—it   does   not   need   a   walk   of
more   than   100   yards   to   make   the   Inn,   to
 disembarrass   himself   of   the   pleasing   load,
which   the   angler   of   average   industry
nearly   always   bears   in   the   shape   of   a   well – 
filled   basket,   and   rest   from   their   whole-
some   tire   his   strong   and   sinewy   limbs.
One   of   the   most   skillful   and   at   the   same
time   most   ardent   anglers   of   tlie   period   and
 the   place   was   Harlow S.   Love,   father   of
 John   Lord   Love,   ex-Attoruey-General   of
this   State.   Mr.   Love   often   made   Dough – 
erty’s   cozy   little   inn   on   the   banks   of   the
Purisima   his   home   for   a   month   or   two   in
the   open   season.   He   was   a   lawyer   of
much   reputation   in   that   day,   as   his   son   is
at   present,   and   conducted   The   Call   as
the  earliest   legal   adviser   of   its   then   pro-
prietors   through   many   perplexing   and
tortuous   lawsuits.   Mr.   Love   in   his   Wal – 
tonlan   pursuit   treated   the   elusive   trout
pretty   much   as   in   court   he   did   the
wary   witnesses   he   examined—he   had   them
in   the   creel,   as   the   Scotchman   calls   our
trout-basket,   almost   before   they   felt   they
were   hooked.   It   was   a   sight   to   see   this
lover   of   rod   and   reel,   in   his   fishing   equip – 
ment,   pushing   on   through   clumps   of
shrubbery,   regardless   of   poison   oak   or   any
other   baneful   plant,   to   reach   a   quiet   pool
under   a   gnarled   root   that   jutted   out   over
 tne   stream   from   an   ancient   redwood,   and
where   he   generally   basketed   a   couple   of
pounders.   He   was   a   model   American   dis – 
ciple   of   old   lzaak,   fully   able   to   cope   with
the   rougher   conditions   under   which   the
“gentle   art”   has   to   be   plied   in   California.
Gideon   J.   Denny,   the   painter,   was
 another   of   those   sport-loving   cits   who   was
often   beside   this   stream;   but   much   as   he
loved   trout-fishing   he   loved   his   pictorial
art   more.   Like   Alfred   Jingle,   the   poet,
who,   when   hunting,   varied   his   banging   of
the   fieldpiece   by   twanging   the   lyre,   “Gid,”
as   his   familiars   used   to   call   him,   dropped
his   rod   for   a sketch   when   a   good   bit   of   land – 
scape   caught   his   eye,   a   pretty   swirl   in   the
water   of   the   creek,   or   a   knot   of   cattle   ofl
in   the   meadow   that   reminded   him   of   a
Cuyp   he   had   seen   somewhere.   He   was   a
marine   painter,   as   a   general   proposition,
and   many of   his   sea   pictures   are   yet   on
the   walls   of   private   dwellings   and   public
places   in   this   city,   but   he   had   a   painter’s
eye   for   the   beautiful   in   nature   on   land   as
well   as   on   sea.   He   never   made   a   good
 showing   as   an   angler;   he   was   not   indus – 
trious enough.   Where   he  shone   brightest
was   in   the   great   room   of   the   Dougherty
inn   when   the   “ev’en   had   brought   it’   hame,”
and   the   anglers,   the   flagellants   of   the
brook,   narrated   their   adventures   of   a   day.
Gid   never   boasted   of   his   basket,   nor
mentioned   any   striking   work   by   the
brookside;   but   he   had   experiences   in   other
directions   that   were   equally   interesting,
and   he   told   them   racily,   like   the   man   of
the   world   he   was.
On   one   occasion   a   member   of   the   fishing
party   caught   a   three-pound   trout—said   to
 be   the   largest   fish   taken   out   of   the   Puri – 
sima’s   waters   since   the   American   occupa – 
tion,   or   in   the   memory   of   the   oldest   in – 
habitant.   There   was   a   howl   of   disgust
wheu   the   fortunate   angler   exhibited   his
prize   to   the   assembled   fishermen   in   the
evening,   and   decided   doubts   were   ex – 
pressed   that   it   was   ever   caught   by   a.   hook
and   line.
“Some   chap   has   a   trout   preserve   on   the
creek,   and   that   fish   was   caught   with   a
silver   hook.   How   much   did   you   pay   for
it?”   Such   was   the   kind   of   chaffing   that
parsed   round   the   circle.
Gid   saw   a   chance   for   his   pencil.   The
big   trout   was   laid   out   to   the   best   advan – 
tage,   and   measured   18   inches   from   tip   to
tip;   then   be   made   a   handsome   drawing   of
it,   which   was   hung   up   in   the   barroom   of
the   inn.   with   all   the   data   connected   with
its   capture.   Everybody   living   in   the   coun – 
tryside   round   about   came   to   see   the   pic – 
ture   of   the   great   trout,   to   talk   about
it   in   a   way   more   or   less   nonsensical.   The
main   point   was   that   there   was   a   good   deal
of   whisky   drunk   by   the   visitors   during
the   debate,   and   it   is   said   the   landlord   de – 
rived   enough   money   from   this   source   to
pay   his   taxes   for   that   year.   It   is   needless
to   say   Gid   was   made   free   of   the   bar   while
his   picture   was   on   exhibition.   The   fish   it – 
self   was   speedily   transferred   to   the   hand
of   the   best   cook   in   San   Francisco,   who
served   it   up   au   gratin,   the   mushrooms   and
truffles   plentiful,   and   it   was   discussed   in   a
more   material   way   by   two   or   three   epi – 
cures   of   the   fishing   party,   who   bathed   its
firm,   pinky   flakes   in   choice   sauterne.
Many   other   names   occur   to   the   writer,
and   he   turns   with   a   sigh   from   the   recollec – 
tion,   for   they   are   all   dead,   while   La   Pu – 
risima   is   still   singing   Tennyson’s   song   of
the   brook,   “Men   may   come   and   men   may
go,   but   I   go   on   forever.”
There   are   several   mesa-like   islets   lying
a   short   distance   off   shore   in   the   vicinity
of   Dougherty’s   inn   that   were   objects   of
great   interest   to   visitors   thirty   years   ago,
and   are   so   yet,   probably.   When   evening
drew   on   all   the   space   on   their   surface,
many   acres   in   area,   was   covered   by   enor – 
mous   sea-lions,   packed   as   closely   together
as   sardines   are   in   a   box,   and   they   fought
for   their   respective   places   all   the   live – 
long   night   and   roared   so   loudly   that   the
combined   noise   reached   the   inmates   of   the
inn   like   the   “sound   of   many   waters”   or   of
a   Niagara   in   the   distance.   At   one   time
these   animals   were   killed   for   their   oil,   and
the   beach   would   be   lined   with   monstrous
specimens   of   dead   phocae,   some   weighing
upward   of   a   thousand   pounds.   The   slaugh – 
ter,   however,   proved   unprofitable   and
was   finally   discontinued.
The   pursuit   of   the   California   black   fish
was   also   made   a   business   by   Buzzell,   the
predecessor   of   Dougherty.   It   was   hazard – 
ous   and   he   lost   his   life   by  it.   He   didn’t
happen   to   have   a   good   boat-steerer   with
him   at   the   time   he   was   fastened   to   a
fish,   and   when   it   fluked   and   stove   the   boat
in   the   old   man,   even   while   his   people   were
looking   on   from   the   shore,   sank   out   of
sight   into   the   ocean   witn   a   bubbling groan.
B.

1897: Wealthy Pioneer G.R. Borden lived in the Purissima

126
Story from John Vonderlin
Email John ([email protected])
Hi June,
Here’s a story from the July 24th, 1897 issue of the San Francisco Call about the death of the supposed first “white” settler in the Half Moon Bay area, G.R. Borden.  Enjoy. John

SAN   MATEO   PIONEER   GONE.
G.   R.   Borden   Passes   Away   at   His   Home
in   Purissima
REDWOOD   CITY,   Cal.,   July   23.—   G.   R.
Borden,   a   wealthy   pioneer   resident   of   this
county,   died   at   his   home   at   Purissima,   on
the   coast   side,   yesterday.   Borden   landed
in   this   section   in   1853,   locating   near   Half –
moon   Bay,   and   had   the   distinction   of
being   the   first   white   man   to   cross   the
Santa   Cruz   range   of   mountains   and   make
his   home   in   that   place.   Tie   late   James
Peace,   who   deserted   his   vessel   in   San
Francisco   Bay   some   years   previous,   was
undoubtedly   the   first   white   resident.
Borden   was   born   near   L.ttie   Falls,
N.   V.,   in   1812,   and   during   bis   boynood
was   a   schoolmate   and   intimate   friend   of
the   late   Senator   Stanford.   Borden   was
one   of   the   builders   of   the   Erie   canal,   hav –
ing   had   charge   of   the   construction   of   fifty
miles   near   Utica   City.
The   deceased   was   extensively   engaged
in   the   manufacture   of   shingles   and   was
associated   with   G.   P.   Hartley   of   this   city,
forming   one   co-partnership,   and   with
R.   H.   Hatch of   the   coast   side   in   a   similar
enterprise.   His   real   property   consists
of   a   valuable   tract   ol   timber   land   in
Purissima   Canyon   which   is   worth   $100,000.
He   leaves   one   son.   The   burial   took   place
today   at   Halfmoon   Bay,   under   the   aus –
pices   of   the   Masonic   fraternity.