A Boy’s-Eye View of Old El Toro

So many choices, and so little time!

That’s the way it feels whenever I stop by the library at to develop topics for upcoming installations of El Toro & Before.

A few weeks ago, for example, my goal was to research not one, not two, but three pioneer families—the Mungers, the Scotts, and the Watermans—whom, I have learned, have links both romantic and tragic. But after exhausting the file cabinet information, I turned my attention to a series of loose-leaf binders, mostly featuring old newspaper clippings. Perhaps the answers to my questions would be somewhere inside?

As I picked up one of the binders, a neatly folded wedge of slightly yellowed paper fell to the floor. It looked like someone’s improvised bookmark, being blank on the outside, and probably on the inside as well. Still, might as well check it out.

So I carefully opened up the paper...and, lo and behold, unfolded a mimeographed copy of an essay. Here’s how it begins:

“I remember when I was a small boy, eight or nine years old, during school summer vacations my parents frequently took me and my older brother to the ranch to stay a fortnight or so.”

Nowhere on the document is there a date or traditional byline. But hastily scrawled across the top is the following: George Whiting.

Whiting-O-Mania 

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh no...not another story about the Whitings!”

Or maybe I’m the one who’s reacting that way. Because heaven knows I’ve written plenty of columns about , his , , , plan on how to , his establishment of a , and even stories about his eldest son, , who enjoyed a fairly substantial career as a film producer in Hollywood and the Whiting family’s eventual hand in restoring the .

But in this case, what I’d come across was a reminiscence—still in process, as indicated by numerous typos and cross-outs—whose apparent authorship was that of Dwight and Emily’s youngest son, George Nathanial Whiting, born four years after his brother Dwight Anson on June 1, 1895, and who passed away almost 84 years later in April 1979.

I decided to read on.

The Crossrails of El Toro  

“It was fun for us kids to go to  to watch the afternoon train come through. The depot was at the corner of El Toro Road and the railroad right-of-way.

“At this time, four passenger trains a day stopped at El Toro: a south bound train morning and afternoon, and a north bound morning and afternoon.

“Laguna Beach would be reached only by a dirt road which followed the route of the present road from El Toro. From El Toro the transportation was by , two-and-a-half day hours over the hills, through wire gates and down the canyons.

“The stages were open four-wheelers, equipped with cross seats, one with a capacity of eight people and baggage and the other for six people.

“These stages had already arrived when we got to the station and were now tethered to a hitching rail in front of the El Toro store, where, no doubt, their drivers were refreshing themselves after the long trip from Laguna.

 “The passengers and their baggage are gathered on the station platform awaiting the arrival of the train from San Diego to Los Angeles.

“Along Front Street, which paralleled the rail tracks, was the Moulton Ranch warehouse and beside it, the smaller Whiting warehouse. Just beyond was the railroad water tower. On the other side were a number of dwellings and a blacksmith shop (another fascinating place for small boys.)”

Here Comes the Northbound!

“If you were a small boy, you suddenly became aware of a soft humming sound coming from the railroad rails.  This sound was caused by the friction of the wheels against rails, telegraphed through the steel, and was the first indication of the approaching train from San Diego long before it arrived.

“Since it is train time, there is an air of expectancy among the waiting passengers. Eyes are focused on ‘the cut,’ a mile south, waiting for the locomotive to appear.

“Suddenly there it is, framed in the cut, emitting clouds of smoke and steam after its long uphill pull to the summit. The whistle sounds as it approaches the station and comes to a stop with a hissing of steam and groaning of air brakes.

“The stationmaster loads the baggage and mail sacks in the baggage car. The passengers say goodbye to their friends at the platform and board the day coaches. The conductor sings out a long drawn ‘All aboard’ and the train starts moving slowly away, gathering speed as it goes.

Curious “Dirty George”

“If you happened to be on the train, as I often was, you looked out the window over the rolling brown Irvine plains, shimmering in the summer heat, toward the blue sea beyond. In the foreground was a symmetrical cone-shaped hill with a single pine tree on its summit. This hill was a landmark of sorts, then locally known as ‘Dirty George’s Hill.’ I have never been able to find out who Dirty George was or why the hill was so named.”

That’s where the essay-in-progress ends. And while you’ll undoubtedly agree with me that it’s a wonderful account, in my opinion at least a few questions remain.

For example, did Emily ever invoke the name of that hill to remind her youngest son that, come bath time, he must comply without complaint?

As for “the cut,” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a hunch. So one early weekend morning, with traffic lighter than usual, I turned east onto El Toro, crossing Muirlands Boulevard and approaching the railroad overpass.

Then, upon nearing the crest I slowed—making sure no other vehicles were behind me—and quickly gazed to my right where the track stretches into the distance. Sure enough, there’s a point—about a mile away, perhaps?—where the track curves. These days that curve is obscured by housing, but back when George Nathanial Whiting was a boy it would have been framed by groves of fruit trees and possibly a row or two of eucalyptus.

So after first hearing the rails hum, then the whistle, and suddenly seeing the belch of smoke above the trees, what a wondrous sight for anyone—but especially two boys—to witness the emergence of a shiny locomotive, glinting in the sun, as it steams up the grade, passenger and cargo cars in tow, toward the depot and those waiting out on the platform! 

Can't Stop the Music

As I read and reread George Whiting’s essay, a song popped into my mind. Maybe you’re humming it right now. It’s that wonderfully catchy tune, “On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe,” by Johnny Mercer and Harry Warren, from the 1946 MGM musical The Harvey Girls, featuring cowboys, newly arrived waitresses, the fictional town of Sandrock, Arizona, a Santa Fe depot, and a bravura performance by the incomparable Judy Garland.

But from now on, whenever I hear that famous song—and especially the following four lines—

“See the ol’ smoke risin’ ‘round the bend

I reckon that she knows she’s gonna meet a friend

Folks around these parts tell the time of day

From the Atcheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe!”

—I’ll also be thinking of the two Whiting boys, racing up the embankment from their dad’s property and onto the depot platform, and gazing with undivided attention as the great locomotive turns into view, huffing and puffing in their direction, then slowly hissing to a stop.