stand as aisles and the vaulted ceiling is the clear blue dome of
heaven. Rustic and simple, it harmonizes exquisitely with its
surroundings, and strangely insensible must that worshiper be who, as
he kneels in this Nature shrine, and the organ peals forth its solemn
notes, with a wonderful accompaniment of hundreds of singing birds,
and the ascending incense of a thousand flowers, does not feel his own
soul lifted into a higher and more spiritual mental frame.

One of the chief troubles about a hotel like Tahoe Tavern is that it
is _too_ tempting, _too_ luxurious, _too_ seductive to the senses. The
cool, delicious breezes from the Lake make the nights heavenly for
sleep. With Sancho Panza we cry aloud: "Blessed be the man that
invented sleep," and we add: "Blessed be the man that invented cool
nights to sleep in." And I have no fault to find with the full
indulgence in sleep. It is good for the weary man or woman. It is well
to make up arrears, to pay oneself the accumulated debts of insomnia
and tossing and restlessness with an abundance of calm, dreamless,
restful sleep. Nay, not only would I have men claim their arrearage,
but lay in a surplus stock against future emergencies, future drafts
upon their bank account of "restorer."

Nor would I find any fault with the allurements of the Lake, either
for swimming, boating, "launching," canoeing or fishing. Indulge them
all to your heart's desire and you will not only be none the worse,
but immeasurably better for every hour of yielding. A plunge every
morning is stimulating, invigorating and jolly. It clears the brain,
sets the blood racing up and down one's spine, arms, fingers, legs and
toes, and sweeps the cobwebs out of the brain. A row is equally good.
It pulls on the muscles of the lower back, as well as the arms, chest
and shoulders. It drives away Bright's disease and banishes asthma and
lung trouble. It makes one breathe deep and long and strong, and
when inbreathing, one can take in power from Tahoe's waters, forests,
mountains and snow-fields. It means a purifying of the blood, a
clearing of the brain, a sending of a fuller supply of gastric juices
to the stomach, of digestive sauces to the palate, and a corresponding
stimulus to the whole body, which now responds with vim, energy,
buoyancy and exuberance to all calls made upon it by the spirit.

So with walking through the woods, by the Lake, along the River Trail,
up the mountains. The results are the same until the man who hates and
despises the poets shouts out with glee and exclaims: "_Them's_
my sentiments!" when you throw out with fervor such lines as:

Oh! the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The  strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool's living water...
How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

While all the conventional amusements are provided at Tahoe Tavern a
large number of the guests, like myself, find much pleasure in feeding
and making friends with the chipmunks, which have been so fostered
and befriended that there are _scores_ of them, most of them so
fearless as to climb into the laps, eat from the hands, run over the
shoulders, and even explore the pockets of those who bring nuts
and other dainties for their delectation. Children and adults,
even gray-haired grandpas and grandmas, love these tiny morsels
of animation, with their quick, active, nervous movements, their
simulations of fear and their sudden bursts of half-timorous
confidence. With big black eyes, how they squat and watch, or stand,
immovable on their hind legs, their little forepaws held as if in
petition, solemnly, seriously, steadily watch, watch, watching,
until they are satisfied either that you are all right, or are to be
shunned. For, with a whisk of the tail, they either dart towards
you, or run in the other direction and hide in the brush, climb with
amazing speed up a tree, or rush into their holes in the ground.

Some of them are such babies that they cannot be many months old, and
they feel the friendly atmosphere into which they have been born. And
it is an interesting sight to see a keen, stern, active business man
from "the city" saunter with his wife after lunch or dinner, sit down
on the steps leading down to the water's edge, or on a tree stump,
or squat down on his haunches anywhere on the walk, the lawn, or the
veranda, fish some nuts out of his pocket and begin to squeak with his
lips to attract the chipmunks. Sometimes it is a learned advocate of
the law, or a banker, or a wine-merchant, or the manager of a large
commission-house. It seems to make no difference. The "chips" catch
them all, and every one delights in making friends with them.

Here is a tiny little chap, watching me as I loll on the stairs. His
black, twinkling eye fixes itself on me. He is making sure. Suddenly
he darts toward my outstretched fingers where a peanut is securely
held. He seizes it with his sharp teeth, but I hold on. Then with his
little paws he presses and pushes, while he hangs on to the nut with a
grip that will not be denied. If he doesn't get it all, he succeeds in
snapping off a piece and then, either darting off, with a quick whisk
of his tail, to enjoy it in his chosen seclusion, or, squatting down
on his hind legs, he holds the delicious morsel between his fore-paws
and chews away with a rapidity as astonishing as it is interesting and
amusing.

Now a fat old fellow--he looks like a grandpa in age--comes up. He
is equally suspicious at first, takes his preliminary reconnaissance,
darts forward and just about reaches you, when he darts away again.
Only for a moment however. On he comes, seizes the nut, and eats it
then and there, or darts off with inconceivable rapidity, up the tree
trunk to a branch twenty, forty feet up, and then sits in most cunning
and _cute_ posture, but in just as big a hurry and in equally
excitable fashion to eat his lunch as if he were within reach.

Sometimes half a dozen or more of them, big and little, will surround
you. One leaps upon your knee, another comes into your lap, while
another runs all over your back and shoulders. Now and again two
aim at the same time for the same nut, and then, look out. They are
selfish little beggars and there is an immense amount of human nature
in such tiny creatures. The bigger one wants the morsel and chases
the smaller one away, and he is so mad about it and gets so in earnest
that sometimes he chases the other fellow so far that he forgets
what it was all about. He loses the nut himself, but, anyhow, he has
prevented the other fellow from getting it. How truly human!

Then the younger one, or the smaller one, or the older one, will whisk
himself up a tree, perch on a branch and begin to scold, or he climbs
to the top of a stump, or a rock, or merely stands upright without
any foreign aid, and how he can "Chip, chip, chip, chip!" His piercing
little shriek makes many a stranger to his voice and ways wonder
what little bird it is that has so harsh a cry, and he keeps at it so
persistently that again you say, How human! and you wonder whether it
is husband scolding wife, or wife husband, or--any of the thousand
and one persons who, because they have the power, use it as a right to
scold the other thousand and one poor creatures who have to submit, or
think they have (which is pretty much the same thing).

These proceedings at Tahoe Tavern are diversified by the presence of
a friendly bluejay. He is one of the smartest birds in the world. Some
relation, no doubt, to the bird told of by Mark Twain in his _Tramp
Abroad_. This bluejay has watched the visitors and the chipmunks
until he has become extra wise. He has noticed that the latter toil
not neither do they spin and yet neither Solomon Levi nor Kelly feed
more sumptuously or more often than do they, simply because they have
succeeded in beguiling the hearts of the guests who are so bored
with each other that association with the "lower" animals is a great
relief. So he has started the "friendly chipmunk" role. He stifles
his raucous cry, he puts on a shy, timid and yet friendly demeanor.
He flies conveniently near, and gives forth a gentle note, asking,
_please_, your kind and favorable attention to the fact that he
is a bluejay. As soon as he sees your eye upon him, he hops a little
nearer; not too near, however, either to mislead you or to put himself
in your hands, but just near enough to tempt you to try to tempt him.
You hold out a nut, and then, with a quick dart and a sharp peck with
a bill trained to certain and sure work, your thumb and finger lose
that which they held, and Mr. Bluejay is eating it in perfect security
well beyond your reach. Oh, he is a fascinating creature is this
bunch of beautiful blue feathers decorating the harshest voice of all
birddom in the region of Lake Tahoe.

But birds, squirrels, flowers, scenery, sports, worship, fine
music, the best kind of food, "air the angel's breathe," and sleep
recuperative enough to revivify the old and decrepit, fishing, rowing,
swimming and the like are not all that need fill one's days at Tahoe
Tavern.

_Hike_[1] out, afoot or horseback. Take the trails. Get Bob
Watson, or one of his under-studies, to pilot you to Watson Peak and
lake, go to Ellis, Squaw or a score of other peaks, visit the various
Sierran lakes, or take a camping out or hunting trip to Hell Hole, the
Yosemite, or any one of the scenic spots, one, two, five, or ten days
away. Then, my word for it, you will return home "a new man," life
will put on a new meaning, and sensations long since lost will
come back with unthought-of force, for you will have "regained your
youth"--that dream of the old of all the ages.

[Footnote 1: This word, slang or not, is finely expressive, and is
already fully established in the accepted nomenclature of mountain
climbers.]

There are a number of interesting walks, drives and automobile trips
which may be taken from the Tavern, besides the lakeshore walks which
are always interesting. Indian Camp is half a mile away; Tahoe City,
a little further, and here the interesting Fremont howitzer, to whose
history I have devoted a separate chapter, may be seen; Tavern Spring,
a beautiful walk through the woods, one and a quarter miles; the Fish
Hatchery, a mile away, where all the processes of hatching various
kinds of trout before they are distributed to the different lakes and
streams may be witnessed.

To those who prefer longer walks, or horseback rides,
there are the Logging Camp, three and a third miles;
Idlewyld, four miles; Stanford Rock, five miles; Ward Peak, six miles;
Blackwood Creek Dairy, six miles; Carnelian Bay, six miles; and Twin
Peaks, seven miles. Several of these interesting places can be reached
also by automobile.

An especially delightful walk or horseback ride is by the Truckee
River Trail to Deer Park Inn, six and a half miles, and thence two
miles farther to Five Lakes, near which the waters divide, one stream
flowing into the Rubicon, thence into the Sacramento and out by the
Golden Gate into the Pacific Ocean; the other by Bear Creek into the
Truckee River, thence into Pyramid Lake in the heart of the Nevada
desert.

Automobile trips from the Tavern are numerous, depending entirely upon
the length of time one can give to them. Chief of all is the Tahoe
Boulevard trip around the Lake to Tallac, and thence on by Lakeside
and by Cave Rock to Glenbrook, a distance of fifty miles. Hobart
Lumber Mills, twenty-two miles, are well worth a visit to those who
have never seen modern methods of making lumber; Independence Lake,
thirty miles, is easily reached in two hours, and it is one of the
charming spots of the High Sierras; Webber Lake, forty-three miles,
is another exquisite beauty spot, where there is an excellent Country
Club House. Reno is reached by three routes, all of them interesting,
and each well worth traveling over. An excellent trip is to leave the
Tavern after breakfast, ride on the Tahoe Boulevard to Glenbrook for
lunch, then over to Carson City, where a brief visit can be made
at the Capital of the State of Nevada, the Indian School and the
prehistoric foot-prints, that for years have been the wonder of the
scientists of the world. Then on to Reno, where at the Riverside
Hotel, mine host Gosse, one of the noted figures of the hotel world of
the West, will accord a hearty welcome. Next morning Pyramid Lake can
be visited and the return to the Tavern made by way of Truckee.

For those who enjoy motor-boating on the Lake excellent provision is
made. The Lake Tahoe Railway and Transportation Company own several
steam and gasoline launches, with varied capacities,--from six to two
hundred and fifty passengers--full particulars of which can always be
obtained.

Fishing boats in large numbers are to be had either with or without
oarsmen, together with full equipment for fishing or hunting trips.

The Tavern stables are prepared to supply all reasonable demands for
saddle-horses, driving-teams, and pack-animals for hunting trips, and
arrangements can be made for equipment and guides for mountain trips,
of any duration, from a couple of days to three months or more. There
is also a garage with first class cars and experienced chauffeurs for
hire.

[Illustration: Ladies' Lounging Room, the Casino, Tahoe Tavern]

[Illustration: The Front of Tahoe Tavern from a Table in the
Dining-Room]

[Illustration: The Launch _Catalini_, Lake Tahoe]

[Illustration: Bathing in Lake Tahoe, Near Tahoe Tavern]




CHAPTER XV

TRAIL TRIPS IN THE TAHOE REGION


To nature-lovers, more or less active, the trails all around and about
Lake Tahoe are a source of perpetual surprise and delight. I know of
no region in California that possesses such a wealth of trails--not
even the Yosemite or Mt. Shasta regions. The Lake is an ever-present
friend. From ridges, peaks, summits and passes, near at hand or scores
of miles away, it never fails to satisfy the eye. Again and again,
when one is least expecting it, a turn in the trail, or a few steps
forward or backward on a summit ridge brings it into sight, and its
pure blue surface, now seen smooth and glossy as a mirror, again
shining in pearly brilliancy in the sun, or gently rippled by a calm
morning or evening zephyr, or tossed into white caps by a rising
wind-storm, pelted with fierce rain or hail, or glimpsed only through
sudden openings in a snowstorm, at sunrise or sunset, each with its
own dazzling brilliancies--it always gives one a thrill and warming
sensation at the heart.

Then, too, the number of peaks to the summits of which trails have
been cut, so that the walker, or the horseback rider may have easy
access, are many and varied. In all there are not less than forty
peaks, each of which is well worth a trip, each presenting some
feature of its own that renders its personality worth cultivating.

In this and other chapters, I present my own experiences as
illustrative to give the general reader an idea of what may be
expected if he (or she) is induced to try one of the chief delights of
a sojourn in this scenic region.


WATSON'S PEAK AND LAKE

Leaving Tahoe Tavern, crossing the bridge to Tahoe City, the trail
leaves the main road on the left about a mile and a half further on,
passing the horse pasture on the right. Near Tahoe City is the Free
Camping Ground owned by the Transportation Company. This has a mile
frontage overlooking the Lake, and scores of people habitually avail
themselves of the privilege, bringing their own outfits with them, as,
at present, there are no arrangements made for renting tents and the
needed furnishings to outsiders.

The slope up which the trail now ascends with gradual rise is covered
with variegated chaparral, making a beautiful mountain carpet and
cushion _for the eye_. To the foot and body it is entangling
and annoying, placing an effectual barrier before any but the most
strenuous, athletic and determined of men.

Now the white firs, with their white bark, and the red-barked yellow
pines begin to appear. They accompany us all the rest of the way to
the peak and lake.

Soon we cross Burton Creek, a mere creek except during the
snow-melting or rain-falling time. It empties into Carnelian Bay.
Burton was one of the old-timers who owned the Island ranch near the
Lake shore, and who came to the Tahoe region at the time of the Squaw
Valley mining excitement. When the "bottom fell out" of that he did
a variety of things to earn a living, one of which was to cut bunch
grass from Lake Valley and bring it on mules over the pass that bears
his name, boat it across to Lakeside at the south end of the Lake, on
the Placerville and Virginia City stage-road, and there sell it to the
stage station. Hay thus gathered was worth in those days from $80 to
$100 per ton.

About two and a half miles from the Tavern we come to a wood road,
which is followed for half a mile. Years ago all these slopes were
denuded of their valuable timber, which was "chuted" down to the Lake
and then towed across to the sawmills at Glenbrook. The remnants
are now being gathered up and used as fuel for the hotel and the
steamboats.

Here and there are charming little nurseries of tiny and growing
yellow pines and white fir. How sweet, fresh and beautiful they
look,--the Christmas trees of the fairies. And how glad they make the
heart of the real lover of his country, to whom "conservation" is not
a fad, but an imperative necessity for the future--an obligation felt
towards the generations yet to come.

Of entirely different associations, and arousing a less agreeable
chain of memories, are the ruined log-cabins of the wood-cutter's and
logger's days. Several of these are passed.

As we re-enter the trail, Watson's Peak, 8500 feet high, with its
basaltic crown, looms before us. At our feet is a big bed of wild
sunflowers, their flaring yellow and gold richly coloring the more
somber slopes. Here I once saw a band of upwards of 2000 sheep, herded
by a Basque, one of that strange European people who seem especially
adapted by centuries of such life to be natural shepherds. Few of them
speak much American, but they all know enough, when you ask them how
many sheep they have, to answer, "About sixteen hundred." The limit
allowed on any government reserve in any one band is, I think,
1750, and though a passing ranger may be sure there are more, he is
nonplussed when, on his making question, the owner or the shepherd
shrugs his shoulders and says, "If you don't believe me, they're
there. Go and count 'em!"

Before the officials treated some of the Basque shepherds with what
seemed to be too great severity there were numerous forest fires on
the reserve. These men were generally both self-willed and ignorant,
and we passed by at this spot a clump of finely growing firs, which
had been destroyed by a fire started by a shepherd the year before.

Watson assures me that he has personally known many cases where a tree
had been blown across a trail, and the shepherd would stop his sheep,
set fire to the "wind-fall" and then leave it to burn--sometimes
allowing it to smolder for months, to the infinite peril of the forest
should an arousing wind blow the fire into life and make it spread.

Fire notices, however, now are everywhere, and a few severe
punishments have largely put a stop to all carelessness on the part of
shepherds, let alone their culpable neglect. There are still campers
and automobilists and others, of the so-called superior and educated
race, who need as severe lessons as some of these ignorant Basque
shepherds. They knock down the forest-service placards, throw down
matches, cigar and cigarette stumps, and often go off and leave a
campfire burning. The time is rapidly coming when severer and swifter
penalties will be meted out to this class of culprits, for not only
are their actions against the law, but they jeopardize all property
in and near to the forests, as well as the lives, sometimes, of many
innocent men, women and children, besides destroying the value of the
mountain slopes as watersheds.

As our trail winds and ascends, the rotting stumps of trees cut years
ago meet the eye on every hand, until at length, when at about 7000
feet altitude we see no more. The indications are clear that, though
the timber is abundant above this elevation, for some reason or other
cutting ceased. Careful observation reveals a possible reason for
this. From this point on up the soil is both thin and poor, and though
the trees seem to have flourished they are, in reality, gnarled,
twisted, stunted and unfit for a good quality of lumber. Many of them
are already showing signs of decay, possibly a proof that they grew
rapidly and are rotting with equal or greater speed.

[Illustration: Pleasure Party on the 'Wild Goose', Lake Tahoe]

[Illustration: Looking Toward the Casino, Tahoe Tavern, Lake Tahoe]

[Illustration: A Trail Party About to Leave Tahoe Tavern]

[Illustration: On the Trail Returning from the Summit of Mt. Tallac]

At this elevation, 7000 to 8000 feet, the red fir begins to appear. It
is an attractive and ever-pleasing tree, its dark red bark soon making
it a familar friend.

How remarkably a woodsman can read what would be an unintelligible
jumble of facts to a city man. Here on one trip we found a tree. Its
top was smitten off and removed a distance of forty to fifty feet.
Parts of the tree were scattered for a distance of two hundred yards.
What caused it? The unobservant man would have passed it by, and the
observant, though untrained and inexperienced, would have wondered
without an answer. And yet a few minutes' observation, with the
interpretation of Bob Watson, made it as clear as the adding of two
to two. The lightning had struck the tree, and shot the top off as if
lifted and carried away bodily, at the same time scattering the pieces
in every direction. Then, it had seemed to jump from this tree to
another, out of the side of which it had torn a large piece, as if,
like a wild beast in angry fury, it had bitten out a giant mouthful of
something it hated. It had then jumped--where? There was no sign. It
simply disappeared.

Near by we found quite a nursery of graceful, dainty and attractive
young firs; "Noah's ark trees," I always feel like calling them, for
they remind one constantly of the trees found in the Noah's arks of
childhood days, made by the Swiss during the long winter nights in
their mountain chalets, where the trees are of a similar character to
those of the Sierras.

Near to the point at which we turn to the left for Watson's Peak, and
to the right for Watson's Lake, is a delicious, cool, clear spring,
which I instinctively called, "the Spring of the Angels." When Bob
asked the _why_ of the name, the answer quickly came: "It is up
so high and is so pure and good." The elevation is about 8000 feet. We
take to the left.

Here also is found the mountain pine, its fine, smooth, black bark
contrasting markedly with that of the firs and pines further down. It
is generally found not lower than this elevation around Lake Tahoe.

Near by are some scattered hemlocks. This tree is found even higher
than the mountain pine, and is seldom found lower than 8000 feet. In
these higher elevations one sees what a struggle some of the trees
have for mere existence. Again and again a mountain pine will be
found, a tree perhaps fifty feet high, bowed over almost to the
ground. This was done by snow. Given the slightest list from the
perpendicular when the heavy, wet snow falls upon it, it is bound
slowly to be forced over. If it is a tough, strong tree it may sustain
the weight until melting time comes, when it is released. But it never
becomes upright again. On the other hand if a cold snap comes after
the snow has bent it over, it is no uncommon thing for it to snap
right in two, eight, ten or more feet from the ground.

Now we stand on the summit. This peak and its attendant lake were
named after my incomparable guide, Robert Watson, and it is well
that the name of so admirable a man should be preserved in the
region through which he has intelligently and kindly guided so many
interested visitors. The elevation is 8500 feet.

What a wonderful panorama is spread out before us. Close by, just
across the valley in which nestles Watson's Lake, 7900 feet elevation,
is Mt. Pluto, 8500 feet, the sides of which are covered with a dense
virgin forest, thus presenting a magnificent and glorious sight. There
is no trail through this forest though sheep are taken there to graze
in the quiet meadows secluded on the heights.

Further to the east and north is Mt. Rose, 10,800 feet, on which is
perched the Meteorological Observatory of the University of Nevada.
Beyond is the Washoe Range.

Even before reaching the summit we gain a fine view, through the
trees, of Castle Peak, 9139 feet, while further north is Mt. Lola,
9167 feet. Close at hand is a glorious specimen of red fir, fully four
and a half feet in diameter. Below us to the west is a patch of vivid
green, known as Antone Meadows. It was named after a Switzer who lived
there years ago and whose children now own it. Not far away is Round
Meadow, locally known as Bear-Trap Meadow, for one may still find
there an old bear-trap that hunters were wont to use thirty or forty
years ago. In this meadow is the cabin of the Forest Ranger, which we
shall see on the return trip.

Looking now over Lake Tahoe to the western horizon we see, over Tahoe
Tavern, and a little west of north, Needle Peak (8920 feet), to the
right of which is Lyon Peak (about 9000 feet). A trifle to the south
of Needle Peak is Granite Chief, followed by Squaw Peak (8960 feet),
Ward Peak (8665 feet), and Twin Peak (8924 feet) the one to the right
having the appearance of a buffalo feeding.

While these peaks appear in a line, and as if belonging to the same
range, a glimpse at the map will reveal that they are some miles
apart.

As we look further south, across the head of Ward and Blackwood Creek
Canyons, the mountains do not seem so high, though we discern Barker
Peak (over 8000 feet).

Still further southward is Ellis Peak (8700 feet) apparently well
timbered. It was named after Jock Ellis, who, on the further side, had
a dairy ranch for a while. But when he found the cream would not rise
in the colder periods of the year, he gave up his dairy, and went to
raising sheep. In the summer months, however, he had no trouble in
disposing of all the butter he could make, or milk and cream he
cared to sell, for he was on the road from Georgetown which passed by
Rubicon Springs to McKinney's on the Lake.

On the ridge to the left are the Rubicon Peaks (9199 feet) three of
them apparently, all closely overlooking Lake Tahoe, and leading the
eye down to Sugar Pine Point, which is at the south end of McKinney's
Bay.

To the west of Rubicon Peaks is Phipps Peak (9120 feet), and a little
farther back Mt. Tallac (9185 feet), while farther to the south is
Ralston Peak (about 9500 feet), at this angle and distance appearing
not unlike one of the domes of the Yosemite Valley. Near by, to the
right, is Pyramid Peak (10,020 feet), though from here it presents
a very different appearance from that it holds when viewed from
Mt. Tallac. Still farther to the right is Tell's Peak (9125 feet),
apparently at the end of a richly timbered ridge. Tell was an old
Switzer who used to keep a dairy ranch on the slopes of the mountain
bearing his name.

At the extreme south of Lake Tahoe stands Round Top (10,130 feet),
to the left of which are the three great peaks of the Tahoe region,
Freel's (10,900 feet), Job's (10,500 feet) and Job's Sister (10,820
feet). Freel was one of the old timers who used to have a cattle-range
on the slopes.

Then, allowing the eye to follow along the southeastern curve of
the Lake up to the mountains on the eastern side, the first great
depression is the pass over which the Placerville road goes down the
Kingsbury grade to Genoa. At the foot of the grade, at the entrance
to the Carson Valley is Van Sickle's old place, one of the early day
stage-stations on the Placerville road.

Van Sickle was a noted character, a fearless, rude pioneer, but well
liked and highly respected. His fame was materially enhanced when he
killed Sam Brown, one of the noted desperadoes of the Tahoe region in
the days of the Virginia City mining excitement. Tradition says that
Brown was a fire-eating southerner, from Texas, a man proud of his bad
record of several murders. He was notorious in Virginia City, and when
the war broke out was one of the outspoken heralds and advocates of
secession. He had trouble with Van Sickle and had threatened to kill
him on sight. Coming to the place for this purpose he himself was
killed, for Van Sickle secured a shot-gun, "laid for him," and shot
him. A great sense of relief was felt by many people at this, what was
then considered not only a justifiable but highly laudable act, for
Brown was seeking to raise a body of men to go South and fight in
the Civil War. This event had much to do with stopping too vigorous
advocacy of the claims of the South from that time on in Virginia City
and the immediate neighborhood.

The road around the Lake forks at a place originally known as
Edgewood's, the branch to the left continuing along the eastern shore
of Lake Tahoe, past Round Mound and Cave Rock to Glenbrook, where it
swings over the grade to the east and over the summit, divides, one
branch going down Clear Creek Canyon, and the other down King's Canyon
to Carson City. It is thirteen and a half miles from Glenbrook to
Carson by way of King's Canyon, and automobiles use this route, while
stages run regularly over the other route via Clear Creek Canyon which
is only fourteen and a quarter miles to Carson.

It was during the lumbering days at Glenbrook that the railway ran
from the mills to the summit, nine miles, carrying carloads of lumber
there, which were then unloaded and shot down the water-flume to
Carson City.

Letting the eye still follow the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe
completing the circuit, northward, Snow Valley Peak and Marietta Peak
are reached. Under the latter, to the southwest, is Marlette Lake,
largely an artificial body over a mile long and half a mile wide,
which is the reservoir for the water supply of Virginia City. The
course of the conveying flume may distinctly be traced, for part of
its twenty-four miles of length. Both peak and lake were named after
S.H. Marlette, once Surveyor-General of Nevada, and a well-known
character of the earlier mining days.

Just below Marlette Lake, almost directly facing Tahoe Tavern, are
several scarrings, running almost parallel to each other and going in
the most direct fashion to Lake Tahoe. These denote where the flume
broke and the water made its own rude channels to the Lake beneath.

From this inadequate and imperfect description it can readily be
imagined what a sublime and comprehensive view is afforded from
Watson's Peak. Every visitor to Tahoe should take the trip, especially
those who stay for a few days or longer at Tahoe Tavern.

*       *       *       *       *

WATSON LAKE

About half a mile northwest from the summit of Watson Peak is Watson
Lake, 7900 feet. It is about 300 yards long by 250 yards broad, hence
rudely oval in shape. While about fifty feet deep in the center, it
shallows toward the edges, where lilies abound, and then becomes mere
marsh. Practically it is surrounded by trees. Restocked with a variety
of fish (trout) in large numbers each year, it is one of the best
fishing lakes at the northern end of Lake Tahoe, and a most enjoyable
day to the angler is to start early, take his lunch along, and spend
the day there.

To those who are not anglers this same day can be spent in the quiet
enjoyment of the trees, flowers, lake and sky.

The outlet from the lake is by Deer Creek, and thence into the Truckee
not far from the site of the old mining-camp of Knoxville.

The return trip to Tahoe Tavern is made through a virgin forest, on
a ridge between Watson Lake and the Truckee Valley, the trail having
been outlined only about five years ago. Later the Forest Rangers
considerably improved it, until now it is a very easy and comfortable
trail to traverse. One notices here the especial "blaze" on the trees,
of the rangers. It consists of a perpendicular parallelogram with a
square above, thus

[Illustration: 'Ranger's Blaze']

Wherever this blaze is found everybody in the region knows it for a
ranger's blaze, denoting a trail leading to a ranger's cabin.

On this ride one has a wonderful illustration of the popular fallacy
in woodcraft that moss is always found on the north side of the trees.
Here the moss is mainly on the west. The fact is the moss is generally
found on the side from which the rain-storms come, and here they are
mainly from the south and southwest. A mile or so away on the trail to
Watson's Lake the moss is all on the southwest side of the trees.

Most of the trees here are red fir and mountain pine, some of them
being of large size, and noble specimens.

A little further on a fine opening reveals Deer Creek, through which
the waters of Watson Lake flow to the Truckee. It was nearing the hour
of sunset when I reached this point, and the trees were glowing
with flaming gold, reminding one of the pictures John Enneking, the
wonderful Boston artist, so loves to paint, while below the water
gleamed like dazzling diamonds.

Along here the side of the ridge below the trail seemed as if plowed
into a number of rudely parallel lines. These were sheep-trails made
as the sheep followed each other over the softer soil of the mountain
side.

A mile and a half from Watson Lake we came to a telephone box. This
was the signal box of the Forest Rangers connecting with Lake Tahoe,
five miles away, Truckee, eight miles, Shaffer's Mills, five miles and
thence to Brockway, six miles. In the direction we were going it was
but one mile to the ranger's log-cabin in Round Meadow.

In the winter time the ranger often finds it difficult to keep the
line in operation. The damp snow falling upon the wire, clings to it,
freezes and keeps receiving additions until it is bigger than a man's
arm, and the weight breaks it down.

As we rode along we saw a fat porcupine, weighing full twenty-five
pounds and deliberately walking up the slope near by, as if going to
its den in the rocks, but, though we yelled and shouted, it scorned
to notice us and indifferently went its way. A horned owl now and then
hooted and bade us begone, while a badger came out from his hole, but
hurried back when he saw or smelled who we were.

Now and again we caught marvelous sunset reflections on Lake Tahoe
through the trees, and on the eastern mountains was a peach glow more
soft and beautiful than the famous Alpen glow.

Soon the sun was gone, and then, as we rode through the' dark aisles
of the trees the stars came out and shone with dazzling splendor
overhead. Just as we left the ranger's cabin a long dark corridor of
majestic trees framed in a patch of black velvet in the upper sky, and
there, in the very center, shining in resplendent glory, was Venus,
the evening star.

The wind began to blow a regular cyclone from the north, so the
roaring of the trees told us, but we were largely sheltered, and as we
looked up through the dancing and whirling tree-tops there was not a
cloud in the sky.

Thus we returned to the Tavern, dramatically and gloriously bringing
our delightful and easy trip to an end.

I have been rather prolix, and have entered much more fully into
detail than some may deem necessary in the account of this trip, for
two important reasons. It is a trip that none should fail to take, and
I have made it a sort of general account, giving in broad outline what
the visitor may expect of any of the peak trips in the vicinity of
Tahoe Tavern. It goes without saying that, constantly, from a score or
more outlook points, the eye finds its resting place upon Lake Tahoe,
each view being different and more charming than the one that preceded
it.

*       *       *       *       *

TO SQUAW VALLEY, GRANITE CHIEF PEAK, FIVE LAKES AND DEER PARK SPRINGS

Leaving Tahoe Tavern we cross the Truckee River and ride down on the
north side. The flowing Truckee is placid and smooth, save where eager
trout jump and splash. The meadows are richly green and the mountain
slope on the further side is radiant with virgin tree-life in joyous
exuberance. Jays are harshly calling, chipmunks are excitedly running,
the pure blue of the sky over-arches all, the wine of the morning is
in the air, and we are glad we are alive. A spring of pure cold water
on the right, about a mile out, tempts us to a delicious morning
draught.

A little further down is "Pap." Church's "Devil's Playground,"
"Devil's Post," and devil's this, that and the other, out of which
he gained considerable satisfaction while driving stage-coach between
Truckee and Tahoe in the days before the railroad.

It is well carefully to observe these singular lava puddingstone
masses, for, according to the theory of John Le Conte, the eminent
physicist, recounted in another chapter, these were the restraining
masses that made the Lake at one time eighty or a hundred feet higher
than it is to-day.

Four miles from the Tavern we pass Engineer Von Schmidt's old dam, for
the history of which see the chapter on "The Truckee River."

Near Deer Park Station is another spring on the right. In the old