On the Frontier

Excerpt from On the Frontier
It was noon of August 10, 1838. The monotonous coast line between Monterey and San Diego had set its hard outlines against the steady glare of the Californian sky and the metallic glitter of the Pacific Ocean. The weary succession of rounded, dome-like hills obliterated all sense of distance; the rare whaling vessel, or still rarer trader, drifting past, saw no change in these rusty undulations, barren of distinguishing peak or headland, and bald of wooded crest or timbered ravine. The withered ranks of wild oats gave a dull procession of uniform colour to the hills, unbroken by any relief of shadow in their smooth round curves. As far as the eye could reach, sea and shore met in one bleak monotony, flecked by no passing cloud, stirred by no sign of life or motion. Even sound was absent; the Angelus rung from the invisible Mission tower far inland, was driven back again by the steady north-west trades that for half the year had swept the coast line and left it abraded of all umbrage and colour.
But even this monotony soon gave way to a change, and another monotony as uniform and depressing.
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