Excerpt from "History of Lake County 1881"
To say that Lakeport is a lovely place but faintly expresses its sweet charms. We might dwell upon its rare beauties for pages and yet it would not ---could not all be told. It is situated upon a series of terraced hills, one behind the others and all overlooking the charming lake which lies at its very feet. Native oaks stand on all sides dispensing their grateful shade, and adding charms to the landscape no other object can do.
The houses of the place play hide and seek amid their dense foliage. The air of summer is balmy and soft, and laden with the perfume of fragrant flowers. From the hills of the western portion of the town, a lovely landscape spreads out before the eye. First comes the lake with its placid bosom with scarcely a ripple upon it, then the grand majestic mountains which border it away to the east. What glorious sunsets may be seen from these vantage grounds. The roseate hues of the sinking sun fall in glowing splendor upon the distant mountains. Sometimes this mantle of sunlight is a sheen of gold and purple and mellow tinted blue.
To take a boat ride upon the waters of Clear Lake is to imagine that the road to bliss must lie along this way, and that the fields elysian cannot be far distant. Miss Frankie Jepson, a visitor there in 1880, writes of this boat ride as follows: “Clear Lake is an always breaking, never broken mirror of beauty, framed in with massive majesty. Trout revel joyously in purple caverns, and all among this enchanted region there lurk deer, bears, panther and foxes.”
Looking back from the lake, Lakeport presents a rise and fall of roofs and green, sloping to the brimming edge, and turning steely blue in the swathing of a distant misty glory. Looking forward, through the glass, the eastern mountains blossom out with pinks and violets. How far off the world seems, with its throbbing pulse-beats, as we float, poised between the gentle wings of sea and air, and the sweet benediction of the Sabbath resting over all! Fingers go trailing in the water, sea-birds flit in the air, the courtesying waves toss their white caps to the bending prow. Now the sunset is kindling the little hills to masses of shredded, tangled emeralds, while the bay lies half gloomy, half smiling, dovetailed with night and day. A dash of red drips above Uncle Sam like a great bloody scar on the brow of a giant, and its reflection lines the wave-rings with dusk and crimson.
Source: History of Lake County 1881. Fresno: Valley Publishers, 1974.