[Dan DeQuille, The Perils of the High Sierras, The Overland Monthly, March 1887]

 

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THE PERILS OF THE HIGH SIERRAS.

 

            Shepherd. What are mony o' the pleasures o' memory, sirs, but the pains o' the past spirit realeezed?

            North. Tickler?

            Tickler. Good.

                                    -- Noctes Ambrosianae.

            In September, 1859, in company with a brawny six-footer named Alexander Cameron, from Camptonville, Yuba County, California, I prospected as far south as Big Oak Flat, in old Tuolumne County. At that place we heard that rich placer diggings had been struck near Mono Lake. The " big thing," as ever is the case, was still ahead. However, being already on the wing, we concluded to continue our flight across the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the latest El Dorado.

            The first part of our route lay along the Yosemite trail, but in a short distance after leaving Cascade Creek this trail bore to the right and entered the beautiful valley, at the head of which are situated the world-famed falls, leaving us to turn to the left on what was then called the Walker River trail. This consisted almost wholly of " blazes" (ax marks) on the trees, as so few had been over the route that no pathway had been worn. This so-called trail led across the mountains to the northward of Yosemite Valley, yet so near that we had frequent and grand views of the valley and of some of the falls. It was a most wild and rocky region. There were granite peaks and granite plains—granite everywhere. Where there were no trees to " blaze " our industrious predecessors had lopped the branches of bushes, or had made small heaps of stones on the points of rocks and on the tops of prominent boulders. In many places these marks were so few and far between that it was necessary to scout for them.

            About the time of our leaving Cascade Creek to strike out upon this trail—or rather these premonitory symptoms of a trail--Cameron and I were joined by two Germans, Pete and Zeb, from the neighborhood of Vallecito, Calaveras County. Pete was a huge, raw-boned, double-fisted fellow, with a voice like a steam whistle and an ungovernable temper—was full of the senseless fury of a spoiled child. Zeb was just the opposite of his partner in everything. He was short, rather plump, good-natured, and timid—in fact was so thoroughly subjugated that he was almost afraid to open his mouth in the presence of Pete. In the Vaterland, Zeb had been for many years the servant of an officer in the German army. This life of servitude had so thoroughly imbued all his instincts and impulses that poor Zeb seemed to have utterly forgotten that there was such a person as himself in existence. How he managed to live when alone I do not know, but whenever there were others about the good little man constantly ministered to them in every way. Taking advantage of Zeb's self-abnegation and timidity, Pete not only made a regular lackey of him, but by his outbursts of idiotic rage kept the poor little man in a chronic state of terror.

            The pair had with them a powerful iron-gray horse, on whose back was piled a mountain of provisions, mining tools, and bedding—the whole topped out with a scythe and pitchfork. Never before had I seen such tools as these last packed by miners. It may be guessed that the scythe gave no end of trouble on such a wild trail as we were traveling. Either the blade or the snath was constantly fouling with trees and bushes. Pete would not detach the blade from the snath, for the reason, as he

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said, that we were liable at any moment to reach a meadow, when the tool would be required for immediate use. It would be nearer the truth, however, to say that Pete thus carried the scythe for the reason that it gave him opportunity to swear and scold at Zeb every ten minutes during the day.

            After one of these cursing scenes, Zeb would say, almost in a whisper: " Pete, he is a goot man, but he do git so tam awful, awful mad!" and the poor fellow would tremble in his boots.

            At the first camping ground reached after passing Cascade Creek, we were overtaken by a party of four others, bound like ourselves for the new Mono diggings. One of these we called Chowchille, because he was eternally talking about the mines of the Chowchille River. The three others were from Kern River, and were known to us as " Uncle Bob," " Old Dave," and " Steve." These were the only names I ever heard given them.

            Our trail led us to Lake Tenaya, thence to the headwaters of the Tuolumne, and across the Sierras through what was then known as the Mono Pass, but is now called " Bloody Cañon," for the reason that the jagged rocks projecting into the trail leading through it so wound all passing animals as to spatter the rocky pathway with blood from top to bottom. At the head of this pass, on the main range of the Sierras, stand as sentinels on either hand Mount Dana and Mount Lyell, respectively 13,227 and 13,217 feet in height, while at its foot are stretched the desert plains lying south of Mono Lake.

            At the head of a small creek on the north side of Mono Lake lay the placers we had come so far to prospect. We found all the paying ground to which water could be carried fully occupied. All the placer diggings for a mile up and down the creek were claimed, and a town called Monoville had been laid out.

            Our party prospected about Monoville, and in the neighborhood of where the town of Bodie now stands, until in October. A few miles north of Bodie we found lying on the desert a brass gun—a mountain howitzer—left there by Fremont in 1846, which I caused to be brought to the Comstock, in 1860, by a man named James Whitten, who was packing provisions from Virginia City to Bodie. The gun lay in the sand untarnished and glittering.

            Presently there began to be seen signs of winter, and many of those in the camp left for California. The majority crossed the Sierras by way of the Sonora Pass, but not a few went north to have a look at the silver mines of the Comstock, then recently discovered, thence to cross back to California by the old emigrant road—the Placerville route. Finally a meeting was called of the miners left in the camp, and a resolution was adopted by the terms of which all claims were to hold good without further work until June 1st, 1860.

            This meeting was held at the canvas saloon of Mart Taylor, famous throughout the mining towns of California in the early days for the size of his nose and his ability to string out impromptu local songs miles in length. Johnson, the author of the songs of " Joe Bowers" and " Sweet Betsy from Pike," was also present. The meeting was made the occasion of a farewell blow-out. In a day or two all would scatter and depart for California. Mart Taylor had made a song for the parting, and he also disposed of all the chain-lightning left in his tent at a pinch of gold dust for each drink, through which many were "slaughtered" both physically and financially.

            We had eaten up everything in Monoville, and the day before that on which we intended setting out on our return trip, two of us went over to the East Walker River, where a Frenchwoman kept a store, but all we could buy there was a half-sack of flour, molasses and tea. Pete and Zeb had ten or twelve pounds of flour ; the Kern River

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men as much more, and two men from Grass Valley, Nevada County, who joined us, about the same amount, with a few pounds of beans; but we had not five pounds of bacon for our whole party. On taking an account of our stock of provisions, we all saw that we must lose no time in getting out of that inhospitable region. It was decided to move camp that very evening to Mono Lake, and from that point make an early start next morning.

            Hardly had we halted in a small grove by a spring at the west end of Mono Lake, before flakes of snow began to come timidly circling down. This was a sight by no means "beautiful" to us. There was consternation in camp. In view of our small stock of provisions, every man at once became ravenously hungry. Each snowflake seemed as big as an ordinary slap-jack. More provisions must be had. Far round on the north shore of the lake was a small ranch, where it was known that a few swine were herded. Two men were sent thither to buy, beg, or borrow a hog. No matter what the cost might be, they were not to return without meat.

            After the two men had started for the ranch, I took my gun and managed, just in the edge of the evening, to bag half a dozen ducks of the spoon-bill variety, the only species ever seen on the lake. Long after dark our foraging party returned with a pig that would weigh about sixty pounds. The two men reported that they found no one at the ranch, therefore they shot the hog and left a note, saying they would pay for it the next spring. It is probable that the pleasure of spelling out that note was all the pay that the rancher ever got for his pig. However, our case was much the same as that of the boy who was after the woodchuck. As we had no means of scalding the pig, it was skinned and the skin thrown away—a wasteful proceeding, which we afterwards regretted.

            On awaking the next morning, we found that only enough snow had fallen to whiten the ground. This soon disappeared under a bright sun. Nearly all our party then said, " All the snow is now out of the air; this ends it—there will be no big storm for a month." Such was the talk that morning with a bright sky above us.

            Skirting the western shore of the lake and crossing a considerable stretch of low, barren sand-hills, we presently reached the mouth of Bloody Cañon, and began its ascent. In coming we arrived at the head of the cañon at sunset and passed clown it in the night, a thing no man will voluntarily undertake a second time. We had never seen the cañon, but we had felt it. Shoes had been torn off our horses; packs had been pitched over the heads of mules and donkeys in jumping these down terraces from three to five feet in height, and animals of all kinds had been more or less flayed by raking against sharp rocks.

            Now we saw the trail by daylight, and wondered that we got down it with our lives in the darkness of a moonless night. The rocks over which the trail passes are sprinkled with blood, and sharp, projecting points hold as trophies bunches of hair and strips of skin. So numerous are the zigzags and so short the turns that in passing, an animal must either be raked by rocks or forced from the trail down into rocky chasms of great depth.

            Near the mouth of the cañon is a lake—then called Little Mono — about two miles long and half a mile wide; while above in the narrower part are two small circular lakes apparently of great depth. The basin of the upper lake occupies nearly the whole width of the cañon, and its walls are so steep that looking at the place by daylight, it seemed almost a miracle that we could have passed down that way in the night without tumbling into the dark blue water at the bottom. Towards the head of the cañon mountain, masses of rock, gray and brown, form the walls on either hand, and tower to

314      The Perils of the Sierra Nevadas. [March

such a height that on their tops appears to rest the blue roof of heaven. This cañon is about ten miles in length and approaches the vertical as nearly as any man could desire. On the very summit of the Sierras, at the head of the pass, is a circular pool of crystal water about forty feet in diameter. From this steals out through grass and water plants a tiny stream which, flowing westward, finally becomes a considerable branch of the Tuolumne River. A ditch a rod or two in length would drain this pool to the eastward and send its waters down Bloody Gulch.

            A strong breeze from the west seems to blow unceasingly through the great notch in the Sierras forming the head of Mono Pass. One must hold one's hat with both hands—it almost blows the button-holes out of one's coat. As we passed down from the summit there was less wind, and we presently began to meet masses of clouds of the cumulus variety, slowly drifting east. Some of these were not larger than an average haystack and of much the same shape. It was rather weird to see the head of our cavalcade pass into one of these and instantly disappear from sight. Within one of these cloud-banks twilight prevailed, though outside the sun was shining brightly; and there was a earthy smell such as I have observed in a thick fog on the Sacramento River.

            On the headwaters of the Tuolumne River are some of the most beautiful meadows to be seen anywhere in the mountains. Here and there on these stand detached masses of granite from fifty to one hundred feet in height. Nearly all are surrounded by dense groves of small silver firs. At a distance these masses of rock look like the gray ruins of the castles of the Old World. The water of all the streams is of crystal clearness, and many kinds of wild flowers deck the meadows. From near the summit of a high, timbered mountain on the south, a great avalanche has rushed down, bearing with it trees and rocks, which lie in an immense semi-circular heap where they were shoved out into a large meadow. From the starting point on the mountain to where the avalanche halted in the valley, a distance of over a mile, everything is swept clean in its track, the trees being broken and ground to fragments among the rocks in the moving mass.

            In this beautiful region, alongside of one of the castellated rocks that rose a hundred feet above us, we halted for the night. So near at hand that its waters reflected the light of our camp fire flowed the Tuolumne, now a stream five or six yards in width. Our tired animals were busy in the meadows, where sweet mountain grass reached to their knees. The heavens were now full of stars, and there seemed no danger of a storm ; yet I felt uneasy. Consulting with Uncle Bob, an old mountain man, I found that he looked for bad weather. He said he could "smell snow" in the air. However, he was easy-going and much inclined to trust to luck in every case. I therefore gave Zeb instructions—he was an early bird—to rouse the whole camp at peep of day. I also had a private talk with Cameron, telling him that if we were to get safe across the mountains we had no time to lose.

            After supper it was decided to put on and boil a camp kettle of beans for use the next day. For a wonder, Pete volunteered to attend to the beans. After the pot had been boiling for nearly an hour it partly tipped over, and a little water slopped into the fire, sending up a cloud of ashes. Pete bounded to his feet in a great rage. Grasping his pitchfork (he still clung to that and his scythe), he caught the bail of the pot on its prongs and began whirling the whole in a circle above his head, swearing like a pirate. Beans were flying in all directions ; and he heeded no call to desist until " Old Dave " took up a shot gun and swore he would drop him in his tracks if he did not replace the pot. Little was left in the kettle when Pete

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was done sporting with it ; and no one felt well towards him for this wanton and idiotic waste of provisions. Poor Zeb was nearly frightened out of his wits. He crept close to me and whispered : " Pete, he is a goot man, but he do get so tam awful mad! "

            Next morning at daybreak, Zeb began crowing like a cock. Some of the men swore, and Pete loudest of all, but all turned out as soon as a fire was started.

            I had been so often down to Mono Lake during our stay at Monoville, and had waded so much in its alkaline waters—for I had kept our whole party supplied with game—that my boots were completely eaten up " sole and body." It was just as though they had been baked in an oven. I did not find this out until I got among the rocks of Bloody Cañon, where my foot-gear went to pieces. The soles broke into fragments, and the uppers were such a total wreck that no tying up with strings would keep them on my feet. Zeb had a pair of new boots, and had on his left foot an old boot that was not bad, while on the right was its mate with the top cut off, making it a shoe. Before leaving this camp, Zeb put on his new boots and gave me the boot and the shoe, enabling me to get about very well. On this trail there was very little riding, though the old men—Uncle Bob and Old Dave--stuck to their horses in places where they risked their necks.

            We left camp under a bright sky. After leading for a time down the Tuolumne meadows, our trail left them and struck southward into a region of rolling hills heavily timbered with pines. Our next point was Lake Tenaya, distant about eight or ten miles. After we had traveled about seven miles we came to a place where our trail branched. We had seen no branch in going out. Here all came to a halt, and a grand pow-wow was held. The majority were for taking the left hand trail, because it seemed most distinct. Two or three of us were positive that we ought to take the dim trail to the right. But the heavens were beginning to darken, and a few flakes of snow came circling down. It was absolutely necessary that we should take some trail and get down out of the mountains. The pine timber in which we were was so tall and dense that we could see none of the bare surrounding peaks—no landmarks.

            We took the left hand trail—some of us very reluctantly—and had followed it about a mile when we reached a high ridge, from which we had a pretty fair view of the surrounding country. Miles away to the west and on our right, I saw towering above the pines a conical peak of granite that was cleft in twain from top to base. On my way out I had sketched this rock. I now took out my memorandum book and exhibited the sketch. All recognized the " Two Brothers," as we had named the twin rocks, as the same I had sketched when camped within a hundred yards of their base.

            My sketch settled the matter. We returned and took the right hand trail. Before we reached the trail, however, Pete left us, and striking out into the dense forest cried out to us: " I takes one little cut-off—I beats you all!" In vain we pointed to the sky, black above the pines, and called upon him to keep with the others of the party; he went out on his " little cut-off."

            Soon our trail brought us to places we recognized. We could not mistake the rocky walls that lead out to the northeast from Lake Tenaya, towering as they do on either hand to the height of a thousand feet or more. Over the beetling brow of the cliff on our left hand tumbled the waters of a small creek, exploding and becoming a mere veil of mist long before reaching the ground. This curtain of mist, wafted to and fro by every breeze, gave life to a great variety of creeping mosses and trailing water plants, which were to be seen clinging to clefts and hanging over narrow ledges in the

316      The Perils of the High Sierras.     [March

face of the precipice. But we now had little time to spare to these things. More serious matters claimed our attention. The tops of some of the surrounding mountain peaks were quite white with snow, and the ground over which we were passing wore a mottled appearance.

            Passing down the great chasm for a distance of about a mile, we found its walls so far receding as to give place to broad meadows. These became about half a mile in width at the upper or east end of Lake Tenaya. The lake is situated near the centre and widest part of an immense crevice, about eight miles long and running in a northeast and southwest direction. The walls of this chasm rise to the height of hundreds, and in places thousands, of feet; are everywhere steep, but on the north side almost perpendicular.

            Lake Tenaya is about three miles long by one mile in width. It is a beautiful sheet of water. Its surrounding walls are grand beyond the grandeur of the "pillared halls of the palace of Karnac." It is besides the dwelling place of all the echoes. High above the east end of the lake towers a great mountain with two granite peaks. Between the horns of this mountain, from the western shore, on the outward trip, I saw the full moon rise. Inverted in the dark bosom of the lake was another horned mountain and another rising moon. The place reminds one of Poe's "Dream-Land" where were

            "Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

            And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

            With forms that no man can discover

            For the dews that drip all over;

            Mountains tippling evermore

            Into seas without a shore ;

            Seas that restlessly aspire,

            Surging into skies of fire."

            Arriving at the upper end of the lake late in the afternoon, we sought shelter in a grove of Norway pines, lighted a fire, and cooked the first regular meal since breakfast. Nothing had been seen of Pete since he left us to take his " little cut-off." In passing down the chasm leading to the valley of the lake we had shouted for him time and again, but had received no answer. It was still snowing. The men in camp seemed to have given him up for lost. They began speculating in regard to his fate. Said one: "When his bones are found in the spring, I'll bet it will be behind yonder high mountain. He would steer for that." No one thought of trying to find the lost man.

            Some of the men began cutting pine boughs for shelter, saying we must camp on the spot until the storm was over. We were in the region of the ancient glaciers. After leaving the chasm in which is situated the lake we should soon enter upon the track of one of these. It is a plain of whitish granite about three miles in width, the surface of which is almost as smooth as glass. On this the steel shoes of horses leave no mark. Small heaps of stones from fifty to one hundred yards apart are the only guide. The surface of the rock is so polished by friction it appears to have a glaze like that of a piece of porcelain or other pottery. Looking across this ancient glacier field toward a declining sun, a luminous streak is seen, like that on a field of ice or a frozen crust of snow.

            I reminded the men of this trackless region, and told them we must not think of camping for the night until we had left it behind. There was much grumbling. Taking a horse, I told the men to pack all the animals; to load up everything except a meal for Pete;—then rode back in search of that "lost Dutchman," as the boys called him. On reaching the edge of the timber, I began firing my revolver.

            At last I heard an answering whoop. Riding in the direction whence it proceeded, I presently found the lost man. He emerged, wild-eyed, from a thicket of pines, and with face streaked where perspiration or melted snow had coursed down. He was exhausted and utterly subjugated. Mounting him upon my horse and directing

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him to follow my tracks back to camp, eat as quickly as possible, and be ready for a start by the time I arrived, I sent him off.

            On returning to the camp, I found a grand pow-wow in progress. About half the animals were packed, while the remainder had not yet been caught up. Telling Cameron, Zeb, and the others who were in readiness, to follow me, I struck out on foot to trace the route across the bed of the old glacier. Having my tracks to follow, all would proceed more rapidly; no time would be lost in searching for the route. When I left, about half the malcontents were still grumbling about breaking camp, while the remainder were amusing themselves by worrying Pete about his " little cut-off." Hardly a man appeared to realize the danger of our position.

            On passing out of the chasm in which is situated the lake, I could see from the summit of the high ridge I then occupied that the whole cavalcade was in motion, though a mile or more away. On descending to the track of the glacier, I found on the rocky plain about four inches of snow. Every mile gained was now important—was a mile nearer the valleys. With my one boot and one shoe, I walked as rapidly as possible in order to make a trail that might be quickly followed across this waste of rock by our mixed herd of horses, mules, and donkeys.

            As there was not on the whole glacier a blade of grass, a tree, nor a handful of vegetation of any kind, I had no fear of my party halting until across it. I felt sure of them that far, but the camp I had fixed upon was some miles beyond. After passing the glacier, there came a region of rocky hills in which no camp could be made, but beyond there was a deep wooded cañon, a small brook, and some grass. Here, in the shelter of a gorge with almost perpendicular walls, plenty of wood, good water, and sufficient feed for the animals, all would want to camp.

            Crossing the cañon and ascending the face of the opposite mountain a distance of one hundred yards, I awaited the train. As I had anticipated, there was an instant halt. I called down to the men to come on. No, they "would not travel another foot;" and some began unpacking their animals, while others set about collecting fuel.

            The shades of night were beginning to fall. Ahead, half a mile, was a place on the face of the mountain on which I was standing where the trail lay along ledges of rock not more than two feet in width. In one part, around the point of a great projecting rock, the pathway for a distance of thirty feet was not over eighteen inches in width, with a perpendicular precipice of great depth below. Here at times travelers must dismount, and lead their trembling animals around the point with long ropes. I called out to the men, and reminding them of this piece of road, told them that with the snow that would be on the trail the next morning, they would not be able to pass up the mountain.

            The men gathered in a knot for consultation. I called to Cameron to move out, and when I had seen him start I again took the trail. On looking back presently, I saw that mules were being repacked and all were preparing to again get under way. As they moved about in the gloom of the falling night, it was easy to imagine the grumbling that was being indulged in.

            Soon it was quite dark. From a little distance, I had seen them get safely round the difficult point, and now, at the top of the mountain, we were entering upon comparatively level ground, clothed with a dense forest of tall pines. I kept only about fifty yards in advance, but answered the frequent calls of the party as though at least half a mile ahead. All the time I could hear them swearing and abusing me, greatly to my amusement, for they were utterly helpless and did not know when or where they were to halt. Then they yelled till in

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danger of splitting their lungs, and got a faraway answer that they could just make out, while halted and intently listening. I was gaining ground toward the valleys. Although it had almost ceased snowing, I felt that the "storm fiend" was abroad in the mountains, and if we would escape him we must make use of every moment. After leading the party a distance of about three miles through the forest, I stepped behind a tree. As they came up they were saying: "We were fools for leaving the cañon. The fellow does not know where he is going. He will keep us trotting after him all night."

            They were passing on, when I stepped out and said: "Hello, fellows, which way are you traveling ?"

            "I think you are the man to tell us," said one.

            "Yes," said another, "where the hell are we going?"

            "You are going to camp right here tonight," said I.

            "A d— fine camping ground," said Old Dave; "here among the big timber, with not a bit of grass or water to he found."

            "Turn out of the trail and come this way," said I, and in two minutes all were under the shelter of a dense grove of firs, beside a small brook, with a large meadow stretching before them. It was for this place I had started, and it was this spot I had determined to reach, on leaving the cast end of Lake Tenaya.

            " How could you find this place in the dark ?" asked Uncle Bob.

            " Easily enough. Look off there to the west over the tops of the trees," said I.

            The men looked, and presently one of them exclaimed, " By thunder! The Two Brothers!"

            I had kept a sharp lookout for this huge splinter of granite. When I saw it standing dark above the trees against the gray of the sky, I knew that directly opposite, within one hundred yards, was the camping place from which I had made my sketch of the rocks on the outward trip.

            After a camp fire had been lighted, a pile of dead trees and logs was discovered under the shelter of a neighboring grove. This was set on fire, and soon there was a blaze that lighted the tallest pines to their tops. The animals could be seen grazing on the meadow, and by the light we were able to gather a great store of dry wood and old pine knots. After supper all was hilarity and good feeling. I was not such a bad fellow after all. All boasted about the great stretch of bad ground left behind. The clouds were breaking away, and a few stars could be seen shining directly overhead.

            Pete was utterly squelched by his " cutoff" adventure. Zeb began to look up. He no longer choked off a smile in the middle with a frightened glance at Pete. In a whisper he said to me: " Pete vas not been so awful as pefore. If we could lose him anoder times, he will be foos-trade."

            Chanticleer Zeb next morning aroused the camp at peep of day. The sun came up bright and warm. All said the storm was now surely over. It really seemed so. The heavens were cloudless and the warm sun rapidly melted the snow. We made our noon camp on bare ground. We had crossed Yosemite Creek and had passed over some mountains so thickly strewn with boulders and masses of granite—from the size of a haystack up to blocks as big as a first-class cathedral—that we could hardly find room for our animals to pass.

            In the afternoon we passed the beds of some creeks that were almost dry. In the granite floors of some of these creeks are worn huge "pot-holes," and boulders of immense size line and dot the empty channels. In these places we gathered wild onions and a species of wild cabbage or kale. We also crossed a field of bare and polished granite, marking the bed of another ancient glacier.

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            From the point of a huge mountain we were able to look down into Yosemite Valley—could even look down upon the top of the Semi-Dome on the south side of the valley. Invisible from the valley, on the smooth, rounded mass of granite forming the Semi-dome, lies an immense boulder. It is well up toward the top, and seen from a distance it looks as if the weight of a finger would send it tumbling down into the valley. I made a pencil sketch of this as the train went on. Far away across the valley to the south and southeast, vast gray peaks send up their tapering spires from fields of polished granite, the tracks of ancient glaciers. The jutting slopes of a great mountain to the eastward hide from view the principal falls. The Vernal Falls are about opposite the deep cañon in which my party were so determined to camp the night before.

            Our men knew where they were to camp this night, and all day had cheerfully pushed ahead. This camping-ground was in a grove of silver firs near some large and beautiful meadows. I had determined to reach that point that night. It was on the top of a mountain, from which a steep descent of about five miles would land us at Cascade Creek, and at the edge of a timbered valley, eight miles in width. On the top of that mountain I felt comparatively safe. Every foot of advance would decrease our altitude, until the region of rain was reached at the foot of the mountain.

            We reached our camping place before sundown. Uncle Bob and I at once took our guns and started down the course of the meadows to look for deer. Uncle Bob was a native of the State of Virginia, and a great hunter. I went on one side of the meadow and he on the other. I saw plenty of deer tracks, but all were leading down the mountain in the direction I was going. After traveling about two miles, we found the meadows narrowing to a width of about one hundred yards. In this narrow part there was a regular trail of fresh tracks of deer, all going down the mountain in the direction of a deep timbered cañon that lay far below.

            Hailing Uncle Bob, I asked: " See any deer tracks ?"

            " Yes, slathers," answered he.

            " Which way are they leading ?"

            "All going down the mountain."

            "Come across and we'll go to camp," said I, "not a deer will we find."

            When Uncle Bob had joined me, I said, "I suppose you know the meaning of what we have seen--of the deer leaving ?"

            "Yes, it means a big storm--the storm we have been looking for."

            That deer, and many other animals, leave the elevated pastures of mountain regions when a storm threatens, and descend to more sheltered places, is a fact known to all mountain men, and has been known for ages. Speaking of this an ancient poet says:

            "Where oaks the mountain dells imbranch on high.

            They seek to couch in thickets of the glen,

            Or lurk, deep sheltered, in some rocky den."

            When we reached camp and reported a big storm impending we were hooted at. Not a cloud was in the heavens and the air was calm.

            A party of ten men with sixteen animals loaded with goods for some place on the East Walker, came to our camp a little before dark. We tried to prevail upon them to stop with us, but they were determined to push on and camp in a little valley at the eastern foot of the mountain. We told them they would be much more secure on the top of the mountain with us, where there was a chance for retreat in case the storm should come. But they did not mean to retreat--they were determined to push on and cross the Sierras; and on they went. They had with them a large Newfoundland dog—a beautiful animal. This dog had lain down in our camp, and very reluctantly he got up and followed his party.

            That night when we turned in the stars

320      The Perils of the High Sierras.     [March

were shining brightly. There was some joking about the storm, but soon all were asleep. In the night I felt snow falling in my face and drew my blanket over my head. It was pitch dark, and seemed to be snowing at the rate of an inch a minute. I could hear others grumbling and covering their heads.

            In the course of an hour or two I was awakened by a tremendous clatter, followed by the barking of a dog in camp.

            "What was that ?" asked some one. "An avalanche," said Old Dave.

            "Whose dog is that ?" asked another.

            "Don't know, we have no dog," answered some one.

            Presently a rushing, roaring sound was heard that seemed to pervade the whole atmosphere. It was like snow sliding from a roof, but a thousand times louder. This sound was followed by three or four seconds of silence, then came the clatter and thunder of snow and rocks falling into Yosemite Valley, far below us ; and again the dog would begin barking.

            So wore away the night, a dozen such avalanches falling. The heat stored up in rocky slopes during the day caused the accumulating snow to melt at the bottom and slide off.

            At the first hint of day Zeb was up, crowing. He found one or two live coals, and managed to kindle a fire. By fire light all arose. A few of us who had believed in "the storm" had placed our stockings in our boots and our boots under our heads. The others were now to be seen engaged in raking with sticks in nearly two feet of snow--mining for boots and socks. The first stocking found was appropriated by the discoverer, no matter what its color or quality.

            For breakfast the last of our meat was cooked, and bread made of the last of our flour. It was forty miles to the nearest human habitation--Alex Black's, on Bull Creek--but we determined to start out on a full meal, so made a clean sweep of both bread and meat. Should we get into a very tight place we could eat a horse or two. This was settled then and there, and a handsome iron-gray pony ridden by Old Dave was fixed upon for the first victim, much to the old fellow's anger and disgust. He thought the donkeys should go first.

            By the light of our fire we found that the dog that had been barking during the night was the big Newfoundland belonging to the party that had gone down the eastern slope of the mountain the evening before. He had left his party as soon as it began snowing, and had taken the back track to our camp. His instinct, as true as that of the deer, had told him what was brewing in the heavens. Great must have been the fear felt by the noble animal to cause him to desert his master.

            As soon as it was light enough to see the blazes on the trees, I sent Cameron—the strongest of our party—ahead to search out the trail, in order that no time might be lost in getting off the mountain. It was not until the second searching party had been sent out that our animals were found, so densely was the air filled with falling snow. At last, mules, horses, and donkeys were found in a huddle under a clump of firs, but a few rods from camp. By the time we were under way the snow was over two feet deep on the mountain.

            We put the strongest animals in the lead and pushed ahead as rapidly as possible on the trail made by Cameron. Presently, as we descended the mountain, the depth of the snow began to decrease. Soon we came to where mingled snow and rain were falling. At the foot of the mountain all was rain. It poured in floods. Here was a valley, eight miles in width to cross, and every foot of the way

                                                " Dismal rain

            Came down in slanting lines,

            And wind, that grand old harper, smote

            His thunder-harp of pines."

            Our blankets and packs were soaked through, and there was not a dry thread on

1887.]              The Perils of the High Sierras.     321

any man's back. In passing out from Lake Tenaya, a perpendicular cliff hundreds of feet in height on the northern shore left no trail on land and forced us to wade for half a mile through water from one to four feet in depth; but this rain was worse, for it drenched us from crown to sole. Behind us, on the mountain we had left, the snowstorm raged unabated, while before us lay another mountain on which raged a similar storm. Up this mountain and into the region of snow before us we must go, all drowned in rain as we were.

            It was not long after we left the valley before the snow was two feet deep; then as we reached a greater elevation, nearly three. Only the old men, Uncle Bob and Old Dave, remained mounted—all others were on foot. Sometimes the strongest among the animals were driven ahead, and sometimes men took the lead.

            Having on my right foot Zeb's old cut-down boot, I was not well equipped. A shoe could have been laced to keep out the snow, but the old piece of boot so stood open that it filled again at the first step after being cleared.

            After some hours' travel in the deep snow the old men began to tremble, and became so exhausted that they could hardly keep their saddles. Halting, a fire was built and two or three pots of very strong tea made. Enough molasses was put into the tea to make of it a kind of "black-strap." It was found to be very refreshing and strengthening. Thereafter about every three hours we halted and made a fresh supply of the "black-strap."

            On the tops of the ridges, the snow was from three and a half to four feet in depth. As we were nearing a place called Crow Flat, a donkey belonging to the Grass Valley men dropped dead in its tracks. Soon after passing the old camping ground known as Hazel Green, night overtook us. Men on foot were then obliged to go ahead and look up the trail. For hours we wallowed on through snow from two and a half to three feet deep. It was very dark and the wind drove blinding clouds of snow into our faces. It was difficult to keep the men traveling. Several wished to halt and camp in the snow. All tools and traps, except a pair of blankets to each man, were thrown away.

            A camping place called Deer Flat was finally reached, about one o'clock in the morning. All had kept together thus far. Here it was determined that the strongest among us should go ahead to Alex Black's station. Those left behind were instructed to follow our trail and keep moving. The trail was all the way down hill, along a small creek, and the snow would constantly decrease in depth. From Black's, relief parties were to be sent back in case those left behind failed to reach the station in due season.

            Black's place was reached about three o'clock in the morning. All the people about the place were aroused. Some were set to cooking, and others went out to look for those of our party left behind. They were found in motion on the trail, and all were safely brought in. The old men were given the only spare bed at the station, while the rest of us lay on the floor in our wet clothes till morning; but as we were near a hot stove this was considered no hardship.

            At Black's was kept a small stock of certain kinds of goods. We were able to get a small supply of provisions, and I got a pair of new boots. Here we parted from our traveling' companions, Uncle Bob taking with him the big Newfoundland dog, which he said had more sense than half the men who went into the mountains. At parting, Zeb whispered: "I dink Pete vill be goot mid one if I don't told about de cut-off."

            After we reached Big Oak Flat, men were being brought in off the mountain trails for three or four days. Two or three had hands or feet so badly frozen that am-

332      Recent Fiction.  [March

putation was found necessary, and two men were found in the snow frozen to death on a trail that led into the mountains to the northward of Alex Black's.

            We afterwards heard from the men to whom the Newfoundland dog belonged and who passed our camp above Yosemite Valley. They encamped the evening they passed us in a deep valley at the foot of the mountain. In the morning they attempted to continue their journey, but were forced back by the great depth of snow they encountered. They then tried to ascend the mountain to where they had found us encamped, but again were obliged to return to their little valley. They then built a log pen in which they stored their goods, roofing it over with logs, and felling trees across it to keep out the bears : then shot all their animals, and on foot made their escape by climbing down over the rocks into Yosemite Valley.

            Ours was the last party that crossed that section of the Sierras that winter. All old-timers will distinctly recollect the hard winter of 1859-60. Many hardships were suffered in the mountains, and many lives lost in the various passes north of that through which our party crossed.

Dan De Quille.