Cozy California Town Is Solid Gold

Dusk was closing in along the little main street of Murphys, and a chill wind shook the shadows of old locust trees.

Christmas lights glowed red from the windows of the Murphys Hotel, luring me inside. Natives of this Gold Rush town were pulling themselves away from the long bar and heading for Whist Night at the Odd Fellows’ Hall down the road.

“I guess you’ll be wanting to stay in the new wing,” the proprietor said from his station behind the bar. When I replied “No,” he shrugged and nodded toward steep, wooden stairs.

“The doors are open,” he said. “Go have a look around.”

The original rooms are furnished with the hardy simplicity of the 1850s, when this hostelry began: double beds, straight-backed chairs and lamps that would brighten an attic. Wall plaques honored old-time guests: Mark Twain, Horatio Alger, J. Pierpont Morgan.

It all suited my mood, except that I had caught cold. The bath at the end of the hall seemed less nostalgic than inconvenient. I remembered that feeling from British country inns.

“Charming,” I said to the manager, in the voice I was losing. “But I’ll try the new wing.”

“Thought you would,” he said, pushing the leather-bound register in my direction. “In winter, people usually do.”

I regretted being predictable.

Murphys, just off California 49, is a cozy relic of early California in a 300-mile stretch of foothills and wilderness that lies on the western shoulder of the Sierra Nevada. This quiet country once teemed with rowdy miners, scraping and panning for gold.

The cry went out in 1848 from Sutter’s Mill beside the American River. Tents and board shanties, assay offices and saloons sprang up hodgepodge along the glinting streams and were called whatever came to mind: Fiddletown, Copperopolis, Chinese Camp, Mount Bullion, Hell’s Hills, Jenny Lind.

Some of the hamlets faded to ghost towns after the easy gold was taken, and wise men turned to the surer profits of farming or the booming business worlds of San Francisco and Sacramento.

But many towns did not disappear, nor were they scuttled to make way for subsequent dreams. As the world rushed on they stayed behind, held in place by cobwebs and memories. They simply closed their doors and went out of business for a century.

Now they have revived. Caught in a time warp of calico and quilts, wooden balconies and boardwalks, rinky-dink pianos and rusting Gold Rush paraphernalia, these villages have become havens for restless travelers. They offer an escape from the pressure of cities, the heat of deserts, the snows that block Sierra passes. They offer an escape from the 20th Century.

Families with youngsters favor Columbia, a southern gold camp that once had a population of 10,000 and has been restored as a state park. Columbia offers stagecoach rides, a Wells Fargo express office and saloons that sell such old-time quenchers as sarsaparilla. Columbia attracts crowds because it is a polished showplace.

Less perfect as theme parks go, but just as authentic to history, are funky gems such as Volcano and Mokelumne Hill, with their crooked streets and boot hill graveyards filled with rhapsodic stones.

The Hotel Leger at Mok Hill is a favorite of mine, as is the St. George in Volcano. I remember lace curtains blowing from open windows and the smells of a country breakfast wafting up from below. I remember collectors scooping up old glass bottles as if they were nuggets.

At the National Hotel in Jackson, the saloon serves as the lobby. As I was checking in, a grizzled character pushed through the swinging doors and slammed his fist on the bar. “The usual,” he ordered. The bartender pulled out a cold Seven-Up.

Gold Rush towns are charming all year, but they really shine at Christmas: Their fences are swagged with evergreen boughs, their street lamps entwined with berries. I’ve heard sweet caroling along these lanes that would shock a forty-niner.

Some day I’ll go back to Murphys and sleep in Pierpont Morgan’s fancy room. Some day I’ll go back to Murphys and try my hand at whist. Some day . . . some day . . . dreams and optimism still abound in the Gold Country.