Why California’s Most Famous Mansion Is Totally Forbidden

The house behind this iron fence has been called the second most photographed residence in America, behind only the White House, and although architectural critics have described it as breathtakingly preposterous, the mansion has become a pop culture icon in its own right, appearing on a range of book covers, posters and video games, as well as its own GQ feature for its perception as the world's most influential haunted house. But here's the strange thing. In contrast to its notoriety, almost no one can go inside, and those who do are forbidden from taking any photographs, suggesting that the Carson Mansion is the most secretive place in California. In fact, according to an LA Times article from 1980, when the California State Commissioner arrived at its front door in 1974 as part of an official government delegation, she was turned away. So how could this be? Who built this place and why is it completely forbidden to photograph the interior? Stay tuned to find out as we uncover the story of the Carson Mansion. I'm your host Ryan Socash and you're watching It's History. This tale begins in the Canadian province of New Brunswick, where William Coleman Carson was born in 1825 to Irish immigrants who made their living as lumberjacks. So naturally, young William grew up with an axe in hand, and by the time he was a teenager, he had aspired to follow in his father's footsteps. However, when news of the California Gold Rush arrived, the then 23-year-old, with nothing particular to lose, set out for California. He and four companions boarded a ship and endured the six-month voyage around Cape Horn before finally landing in San Francisco. From there, Carson headed north towards the Trinity Mountains, treading inland from Humble Bay along the Eel River. And although he spent two seasons panning alongside thousands of other men, he never found gold. Yet, he did notice another, perhaps more practical commodity. You see, that first winter, when the mines froze over, Carson had his eureka moment. It occurred to him that the trees, specifically the redwoods, were in extreme abundance. They stood in groves so dense that they blocked the midday sun. And these were trees of scale that he had never encountered back in Canada. Hence, in 1852, he abandoned the Gold Rush and went back into the lumber trade. The timing was almost impossibly good. For context, San Francisco was expanding in every direction, and every new building required timber. As luck would have it, the redwood forests of Humboldt County produced it on a scale that no other region in the western United States could match. Within just two years, he was operating his own mill, and within the decade, he was shipping redwood south in such volumes that the bay itself was congested with his schooners. Then, things got even better when Carson joined forces with a talented engineer named John Dolbier. Together, they founded the Dolbier-Carson Lumber Company. Among other accomplishments, the company was so successful that they patented the steam donkey engine, a stationary steam-powered winch capable of hauling logs out of terrain too steep for oxen. Just like that, timber, once commercially inaccessible, became viable. By the early 1880s, the company was producing 15 million board feet of lumber annually. Practically speaking, Carson owned the town. Four large mills, vast timberlands, a small railroad, stakes and local banks, and a fleet of schooners moving cargo up and down the Pacific. I should also mention that love was in the air as Carson married his lovely bride Sarah, and the new family moved into a modest two-story house near the mill. That's right, one of the greatest industrial titans in California history was living in a home that underrepresented his status. A reality that created a pretty confusing cognitive dissonance for the public. After all, Carson practically built Eureka from nothing. At this point, we can only speculate as to why he suddenly felt the need to express his status. My guess is that most like any man throughout history, mortality and legacy came to mind. Either way, towards the close of the century, this millionaire set out to build a monument for himself. Carson commissioned brothers Samuel and Joseph Newsome of Oakland and demanded something eclectic. He told people that his new home should represent, quote, the dignity, grandeur, and character of the Redwood country. Continuing, quote, if I build it poorly, they will say that I'm a damn miser. If I build it expensively, they will say I'm a show-off. I guess I'll just build it to suit myself. Construction began in 1884 at the corner of 2nd and M streets, overlooking the bay. Over 100 carpenters and artisans went to work on the site, with master woodcarvers brought in from as far away as Ireland and Switzerland. As Carson dispatched his own ships to South America to import 97,000 feet of a pale tropical hardwood, prized for the luminosity of The exterior was built entirely of pure-grain redwood from Carson's own mills, at a cost exceeding the equivalent of several million dollars today. After two years of labor, the structure that rose comprised three stories, a commanding observation tower, gables pointed in every direction, cupolas, bay windows, and fretwork cascading across every surface. Newspapers declared it, quote, the finest residence in the West. Inside, the entrance hall opened with massive twin doors, each bearing stained-glass panels depicting figures from Shakespearean drama. The central staircase was a grand construction in pale primavera. Four stained-glass panels on its west landing depict music, painting, drama, and science, and no two glass panels in the house repeat. The second floor hallway opens through boorish arches, their curves so precisely executed that visitors constantly mistook them for stone, as the dining room was modeled directly on the great hall of the Castle in Mexico City, and to great effect. Not to mention, there are eight fireplaces throughout the house, and in my opinion, perhaps one of the most defining features is that observation tower, where newspapers speculated that Carson could look out over the entirety of the city that he had such a major hand in building. Public reactions were divided. Eureka's society ladies adored it, whereas the loggers who worked in Carson's mills called it, quote, the beautiful monstrosity. Even so, no one could deny that this structure was unique. In fact, groups of people showed up to look at it from day one. In the years to follow, the mansion became Eureka's social center, as the Carsons entertained on a scale matching their position, which is why the third floor of the building essentially functioned as the ballroom. Indeed, the house was a monument. It was proof that serious wealth had arrived to the region, and to be permitted inside as a guest was validation that you were among the class that symbolized said wealth. William Carson passed away on February the 20th, 1912, at the age of 86, after having lived in the mansion for 26 years. His funeral procession was the biggest in local history, moving along Fifth Street, Myrtle Grove Cemetery, with more than 200 employees falling behind the casket. The town's flags flew at half-mast, and many of the city's institutions closed for the day. When all was said and done, Carlson's estate was roughly valued at $20 million, and he passed the family home to his son, J.M. Carson, who in turn passed the asset down to the generation that followed. So, for four decades, the Carsons continued living there, but by the 20th century, they no longer had the means to maintain such an extravagant home. The reason for their decline is pretty simple, too. The great redwood groves of California had all basically been chopped down by this point. By the late 1940s, the Harris had relocated to San Francisco and were completely out of patience. So, they made an offer to the city of Eureka to buy the mansion for a dollar. The city declined, with officials stating, quote, they couldn't afford to paint the damn place. The second half of the 20th century was a dark time for this unusual home. Conversions to apartments were considered, but more than anything else, demolition was being discussed, and like most stories we cover here, that probably would have been the outcome, if not for a private men's club that reimagined the finest Victorian home in America as their new HQ. And so it was. In March of 1950, a sale appeared on the front page of the Humble Times. A group of approximately 120 county businessmen, organized as the Carson Club, later renamed, had purchased the grounds and all of its furnishings for $35,000. And it's from this point forward that information about the club and interior of the building becomes more scarce. But it was stated at the time that all future alterations to the architecture would be, quote, in keeping with the basic design and character of the house. Later sources suggest that this commitment has held to modern times. In 1985, the club launched a seven-year restoration, scraping surfaces back to their original colors and recreating wallpapers and carpets from surviving scraps. Based on that renovation, it is thought that the interiors today look essentially as it did when Carson was alive. And so the public was rather satisfied with this outcome, as the Carson Mansion was already a cultural icon at this point, and it wouldn't be demolished. But why was it an icon? Well, in addition to its peculiar look, the house was featured in prominent films as far back as 1919 productions. It was seen in Valley of Giants, Ruggles of Red Tape, and many, many other features. These appearances reached national audiences during the early years of American car culture, ceding exactly the kind of distinct curiosity that produces what's known as pilgrimage tourism. Travelers will detour hours specifically to stand in front of something that they have seen, to take a photograph. And the Carson Mansion is an extreme example of this. Even in 1950, it was already being described as the most photographed private house in the country. Yet, almost no one could go inside. And to be fair now, from the time it was purchased, it belonged to a private club. A club that, I'd like to emphasize, saved from demolition. So there's really no obligation to let the outside world in. A state of affairs that led to some pretty controversial headlines. For example, in the early days of its existence, the club did not admit women on any terms or at any time. After all, this was a gentleman's club, which before the civil rights movement of the 1960s, was a rather normal thing. But after that point, America had completely changed its perception. And so, the no woman policy produced a legal confrontation in when Ellen Stern Harris, vice chairman of the California Coastal Commission, arrived with her fellow commissioners for an official tour. And though I couldn't find out whether or not the other officials went in, she was turned away at the door. This was most probably political provocation since even officials with regulatory authority were not automatically granted tours. Plus, the state attorney general's office rapidly filed suit. The case ran until early 78, settling with the club agreeing that women could enter for, quote, any business, civic, or political function. But not as members, since California law at the time could not compel a private social club to admit members regardless of sex. Even so, the club has since opened full membership to women, and I found some stats suggesting that a third of the current members are indeed women. Though, putting that controversy aside, fundamental exclusivity in general has not changed. There are no public tours, and interior photography requires permission. And finally, the club has deliberately chosen not to apply for status on the National Register of Historic Places, a listing that would attach federal preservation guidelines, and with them, expectations of broader public access. In conclusion here, I actually think it's an interesting idea to restrict photography inside this mansion. In a weird way, that makes my imagination work harder, and I don't know about you, but in this day and age, it kind of makes it feel special. We'll leave it there for today, but a special thanks to our channel members for making this episode possible. Those contributions really add up and help me to cover unusual stories that I otherwise wouldn't afford to produce. So seriously, thank you all so much for the support, and if any of you hearing this out there would like to join our community and support the channel, just click that join button, and I'll see you on the other side. Otherwise, until next time, this is Ryan Socash, signing off.