The Tahoe region was once thrilled through and through by a real
mining excitement that belonged to itself alone. It had felt the
wonderful activity that resulted from the discovery of the Comstock
lode in Virginia City. It had seen its southern border crowded with
miners and prospectors hurrying to the new field, and later had heard
the blasting and picking, the shoveling and dumping of rocks while the
road from Placerville was being constructed.

It had seen another road built up from Carson over the King's Canyon
grade, and lumber mills established at Glenbrook in order to supply
the mines with timbers for their tunnels and excavations, as the
valuable ore and its attendant waste-rocks were hauled to the surface.

But now it was to have an excitement and a stampede all its own. An
energetic prospector from Georgetown, El Dorado County, named Knox,
discovered a big ledge of quartz in Squaw Valley. It was similar rock
to that in which the Comstock silver was found in large quantities.
Though the assays of the floating-rock did not yield a large amount of
the precious metals, they showed a little--as high as $3.50 per ton.
This was enough. There were bound to be higher grade ores deeper down.
The finder filed his necessary "locations," and doubtless aided by
copious draughts of "red-eye" saw, in swift imagination, his claim
develop into a mine as rich as those that had made the millionaires
of Virginia City. Anyhow the rumor spread like a prairie fire, and men
came rushing in from Georgetown, Placerville, Last Chance, Kentucky
Flat, Michigan Bluff, Hayden Hill, Dutch Flat, Baker Divide, Yankee
Jim, Mayflower, Paradise, Yuba, Deadwood, Jackass Gulch and all the
other camps whose locators and residents had not been as fortunate
financially as they were linguistically.

Knox started a "city" which he named Knoxville, the remains of
which are still to be seen in the shape of ruined log-cabins, stone
chimneys, foundations of hewed logs, a graveyard, etc., on the left
hand side of the railway coming from Truckee, and about six miles from
Tahoe.

One has but to let his imagination run riot for a few moments to see
this now deserted camp a scene of the greatest activity. The many
shafts and tunnels, dump-piles and prospect-holes show how busy a spot
it must have been. The hills about teemed with men. At night the
log store--still standing--and the saloons--tents, shacks and log
houses--were crowded with those who sought in the flowing bowl some
surcease from the burden of their arduous labors.

Now and again a shooting took place, a man actually "died with his
boots on," as in the case of one King, a bad man from Texas who had a
record, and whose sudden end was little, if any, lamented. He had had
a falling out with the store-keeper, Tracey, and had threatened to
kill him on sight. The former bade him keep away from his store, but
King laughed at the prohibition, and with the blind daring that often
counts as courage with such men--for he assumed that the store-keeper
would not dare to shoot--he came down the following day, intending
himself to do all the shooting there was to be done. But he reckoned
mistakenly. Tracey saw him coming, came to the door, bade him Halt!
and on his sneering refusal, shot the bad man dead.

In September, 1913, I paid a visit to Knoxville. Just above the town,
on the eastern slope of the mountain, were several tunnels and great
dump-piles, clearly showing the vast amount of work that had been
done. The quartz ledge that caused the excitement was distinctly in
evidence, indeed, when the Tahoe Railway roadbed was being graded,
this quartz ledge was blasted into, and the director of operations
sent a number of specimens for assay, the rock looked so favorable.

Here and there were the remains of old log-cabins, with their outside
stone chimneys. In some cases young tamaracks, fifteen and twenty feet
high, had grown up within the areas once confined by the walls. These
ruins extended all the way down to Deer Creek, showing the large
number of inhabitants the town once possessed.

I saw the graveyard by the side of the river, where King's body was
the first to be buried, and I stood in the doorway of the store from
which the shot that killed him was fired.

In imagination, I saw the whole life of the camp, as I have seen
mining-camps after a stampede in Nevada. The shacks, rows of tents,
and the rudely scattered and varied dwellings that the ingenuity and
skill of men hastily extemporized. Most of the log-houses are now
gone, their charred remnants telling of the indifferent carelessness
of campers, prospectors or Indians.

The main street was in a pretty little meadowed vale, lined on either
side with trees, and close to the Truckee, which here rushes and
dashes and roars and sparkles among the bowlders and rocks that
bestrew its bed.

When it was found the ore did not "pan out," the excitement died
down even more rapidly than it arose, and in 1863-4 the camp was
practically dead.

It has been charged that the Squaw Valley claims were "salted" with
ore brought from Virginia City. I am inclined to doubt this, and many
of the old timers deny it. They assert that Knox was "on the square"
and that he firmly believed he had paying ore. It is possible there
may have been the salting of an individual claim or so after the camp
started, but the originators of the camp started it in good faith,
as they themselves were the greatest losers when the "bottom" of the
excitement dropped out.

About a mile further up the river is still to be seen the site of the
rival town of Claraville, founded at the same time as Knoxville.
There is little left here, though the assay office, built up against
a massive square rock still stands. It is of hewed timbers rudely
dovetailed together at the corners.

It would scarcely be worth while to recount even this short history
of the long dead,--almost stillborn--Squaw Valley camp were it not for
the many men it brought to Lake Tahoe who have left their impress and
their names upon its most salient canyons, streams, peaks and other
landmarks. Many of these have been referred to elsewhere.

One of the first to arrive was William Pomin, the brother of the
present captain of the steamer _Tahoe_. His wife gave birth to
the first white child born on Lake Tahoe, and she was named after the
Lake. She now lives in San Francisco. When she was no more than two or
three months old, her mother took her on mule-back, sixty miles over
the trail to Forest Hill, _in one day_. Pomin removed to the
north shore of the Lake when Squaw Valley "busted," and was one of
the founders of Tahoe City, building and conducting one of the first
hotels there.

Another of these old timers was J.W. McKinney, from whom McKinney's
was named. He came from the mining-camp of Georgetown over the trail,
and engaged himself in selling town lots at Knoxville. He and Knox had
worked together in the El Dorado excitement.

He originally came over the plains in the gold-alluring days of '49.
When his party reached the land of the Indians, these aborigines were
too wise to make open attacks. They hit upon the dastardly method of
shooting arrows into the bellies of the oxen, so that the pioneers
would be compelled to abandon them. One night McKinney was on guard
duty. He was required to patrol back and forth and meet another
sentinel at a certain tree. There they would stop and chat for a few
moments before resuming their solitary march. Just before day-break,
after a few words, they separated. On answering the breakfast call
McKinney found he was alone, and on going back to investigate, found
his companion lying dead with an arrow through his heart. The moccasin
tracks of an Indian clearly revealed who was the murderer, and a
little study showed that the Indian had swam the river, waited until
the sentinel passed close by him, and had then sent the arrow true to
its fatal mark.

The next night the Indians shot an arrow into an ox. In the morning it
was unable to travel, but McKinney and his friends had determined
to do something to put a stop to these attacks. Taking the ox in the
shadow of a knoll, they shot it, and eight men then hid in the shelter
of some brush where the carcass was clearly in view.

When the train pulled out it seemed as if they had abandoned the ox.
It was scarcely out of sight when the watchers saw eight Indians come
sneaking up. Each man took the Indian allotted to him, but by some
error two men shot at the same Indian, so that when the guns were
fired and seven men fell dead the other escaped. On one of them was
found seven twenty-dollar gold pieces wrapped up in a dirty rag, which
had doubtless cost some poor emigrant or miner his life. Some of the
party wished to leave this gold with the dead Indian, but McKinney
said his scruples would not allow him to do any such thing, and the
gold found its way into his pocket.

Though a man of practically no education--it is even said by those who
claim to have known him well that he could neither read nor write,
but this seems improbable--he was a man of such keen powers of
observation, retentive memory, ability in conversation and strong
personality, that he was able to associate on an equality with men
of most superior attainments. John Muir was a frequent visitor to
his home, especially in the winter time when all tourists and resort
guests had gone away. John McGee, another well-known lover of the
winter mountains, was also a welcome guest, who fully appreciated the
manly vigor and sterling character of the transplanted Missourian.

John Ward, from whom Ward Creek and Ward Peak (8,665 feet) are named,
was another Squaw Valley mining excitement stampeder. He came in the
early days of the rush, and as soon as the camp died down, located on
the mouth of the creek that now bears his name.

The next creek to the south--Blackwood's,--is named after still
another Squaw Valley stampeder. For years he lived at the mouth of
this creek and gained his livelihood as a fisherman.

The same explanation accounts for Dick Madden Creek.

Barker who has peak, pass and valley named after him, came from
Georgetown to Knoxville, and like so many other of his unfortunate
mining brethren from over the divide, started a dairy on the west side
of the pass which bears his name. The valley, however, was so high and
cold that more than half the year the cream would not rise, so he gave
up dairying and went elsewhere.

These are but a few of many who might be mentioned, whose names
are linked with the Tahoe region, and who came to it in the hope of
"making their everlasting fortunes" when Squaw Valley "started up."




CHAPTER XXXV

THE FRÉMONT HOWITZER AND LAKE TAHOE


Hundreds of thousands of Americans doubtless have read "How a Woman's
Wit Saved California to the Union," yet few indeed know how intimately
that fascinating piece of history is linked with Lake Tahoe.

Here is the story of the link:

When Frémont started out on his Second Exploration (fairly well dealt
with in another chapter), he stopped at the Kansas frontier to equip.
When he finally started, the party (108) was armed generally with
Hall's carbines, which, says Frémont:

with a brass twelve-pound howitzer, had been furnished to me
from the United States arsenal at St. Louis, agreeably to the
command of Colonel S.W. Kearny, commanding the third
military division. Three men were especially detailed for the
management of this, under the charge of Louis Zindel, a native
of Germany, who had been nineteen years a non-commissioned
officer of the artillery in the Prussian army, and regularly
instructed in the duties of his profession.

As soon as the news that he had added a cannon to his equipment
reached Washington, the Secretary of War, James M. Porter, sent a
message after him, post haste, countermanding the expedition on the
ground that he had prepared himself with a military equipment, which
the pacific nature of his journey did not require. It was specially
charged as a heinous offense that he had procured a small mountain
howitzer from the arsenal at St. Louis, in addition to his other
firearms.

But Frémont had already started. He was not far on his way, and the
message could have reached him easily. It was not destined to do so,
however, until after his return. The message came to the hands of his
girl-wife, Jessie Benton Frémont, the daughter of Missouri's great
senator, Thomas H. Benton, and she knew, as Charles A. Moody has well
written, that

this order, obeyed, would indefinitely postpone the
expedition--probably wreck it entirely. She did not forward
it. Consulting no one, since there was no one at hand to
consult, she sent a swift messenger to her husband with word
to break camp and move forward at once--"he could not have
the reason for haste, but there was reason enough." And he,
knowing well and well trusting the sanity and breadth of
that girl-brain, hastened forward, unquestioning, while she
promptly informed the officer whose order she had vetoed,
what she had done, and why. So far as human wit may penetrate,
obedience to that backward summons would have meant, three
years later, the winning of California by another nation--and
what _that_ loss would have signified to the United
States none can know fully, but any may partly guess who
realizes a part of what California has meant for us.

In commenting later upon this countermand of the Expedition Frémont
remarks:

It is not probable that I would have been recalled from the
Missouri frontier to Washington to explain why I had taken an
arm that simply served to increase the means of defense for
a small party very certain to encounter Indian hostility, and
which involved very trifling expense. The administration in
Washington was apparently afraid of the English situation in
Oregon.

Unconscious, therefore, of his wife's action,--which might easily have
ruined his career--Frémont pushed on. The howitzer accompanied him
into Oregon, back through into Nevada, and is clearly seen in the
picture of Pyramid Lake drawn by Mr. Preuss (which appears in the
original report), showing it after it had traveled in the neighborhood
of four thousand miles.

The last time it was fired as far as the Frémont Expedition is
concerned was on Christmas Eve, in 1843. The party was camped on
Christmas Lake, now known as Warner Lake, Oregon, and the following
morning the gun crew wakened Frémont with a salute, fired in honor of
the day. A month later, two hundred and fifty miles south, it was to
be abandoned in the mountains near West Walker River, on account of
the deep snow which made it impossible for the weary horses to drag it
further.

On the 28th of January Frémont thus writes:

To-night we did not succeed in getting the howitzer into camp.
This was the most laborious day we had yet passed through, the
steep ascents and deep snows exhausting both men and animals.

Possibly now the thought began to take possession of him that the
weapon must be left behind. For long weary days it had been a constant
companion. It had been dragged over the plains, mountains and canyons.
It was made to ford rivers, plunge through quicksands and wallow
through bog, mire, mud, marsh and snow. Again and again it delayed
them when coming over sandy roads, but tenaciously Frémont held on to
it. Now deep snow forbade its being dragged further. Haste over the
high mountains of the Sierra Nevada was imperative, for such peaks
and passes are no lady's playground when the forces of winter begin to
linger there, yet one can well imagine the regret and distress felt by
the Pathfinder at being compelled to abandon this cannon, to which he
had so desperately clung on all the wearisome miles his company had
hitherto marched.

On the 29th he writes:

The principal stream still running through an impracticable
canyon, we ascended a very steep hill, which proved afterwards
the last and fatal obstacle to our little howitzer, which was
finally abandoned at this place. [This place appears to be
about eight or ten miles up the river from Coleville, and
on the right or east side of the river.] We passed through
a small meadow a few miles below, crossing the river, which
depth, swift current, and rock, made it difficult to ford
[this brings him to the west bank for the first time, but the
cannon did not get this far, and therefore was left on the
east side of the river. This is to be noted on account of
the fact that it was found on the other side of the river in
another canyon], and after a few more miles of very difficult
trail, issued into a larger prairie bottom, at the farther end
of which we camped, in a position rendered strong by rocks and
trees.

The reader must not forget that the notes in brackets [ ] are
interjections in Frémont's narrative by Mr. Smith, (see the chapter on
Frémont's discovery of Lake Tahoe).

Frémont continues:

The other division of the party did not come in to-night, but
camped in the upper meadow, and arrived the next morning. They
had not succeeded in getting the howitzer beyond the place
mentioned, and where it had been left by Mr. Preuss, in
obedience to my orders; and, in anticipation of the snow-banks
and snow-fields ahead, foreseeing the inevitable detention to
which it would subject us, I reluctantly determined to leave
it there for a time. It was of the kind invented by the
French for the mountain part of their war in Algiers; and the
distance it had come with us proved how well it was adapted
to its purpose. We left it, to the great sorrow of the whole
party, who were grieved to part with a companion which had
made the whole
distance from St. Louis, and commanded respect for us on some
critical occasions, and which might be needed for the same
purpose again.

[It is the impression of those of the old settlers on Walker
River, of whom we have inquired regarding the subject, that
the cannon was found early in the 60's near the head of Lost
Canyon. This canyon comes into Little Antelope Valley--a
branch of Antelope Valley--from the south. This impression
evidently was accepted by the government geological surveyors,
for they twisted the name of the creek coming down this canyon
to "Lost Cannon Creek", and called a peak, which looks down
into this canyon, Lost Cannon Peak. The origin of the name of
this canyon lies in the fact that an emigrant party, on its
way to the Sonora Pass, and in an endeavor probably to avoid
the rough river canyon down which Frémont came, essayed this
pass instead of the meadows above. It is a canyon which,
at first, promises an easy pass but finally becomes almost
impassable. The party in question found it necessary to
abandon several of their wagons before they could get over.
They, or another party, buried one of their men there, also
some blacksmith tools. My endeavors to ascertain what party
this was have thus far not been successful. Mr. Timothy B.
Smith, who went to Walker River in 1859, says that the wagons
were there at that time. The cannon is supposed to have been
found with or near these wagons. Mr. Richard Watkins, of
Coleville, who went into that section in 1861, or soon after,
informs me that wagons were also found in one of the canyons
leading to the Sonora Pass from Pickle Meadow. The cannon,
according to Mr. Watkins, was found with these wagons. At any
rate, it seems likely that the cannon was not found at the
place where Frémont left it, but had been picked up by some
emigrant party, who, in turn, were compelled to abandon it
with several of their wagons.]

For several years the cannon remained where its emigrant finders
removed it, then at the breaking out of the Civil War, "Dan de
Quille," William Wright, the author of _The Big Bonanza_, the
fellow reporter of Mark Twain on one of the Virginia City newspapers,
called the attention of certain belligerent adherents of the south to
it, and they determined to secure it. But the loyal sons of the Union
were also alert and Captain A.W. Pray, who was then in the Nevada
mining metropolis, succeeded in getting and maintaining possession of
it. As he moved to Glenbrook, on Lake Tahoe, that year, he took the
cannon with him. Being mounted on a carriage with fairly high wheels,
these latter were taken and converted into a hay-wagon, with which,
for several years, he hauled hay from the Glenbrook meadows to his
barn in town. The cannon itself was mounted on a heavy wooden block to
which it was affixed with iron bands, securely held in place by bolts
and nuts. For years it was used at Glenbrook on all patriotic and
special occasions. Frémont never came back to claim it. The government
made no claim upon it. So while Captain Pray regarded it as his own
it was commonly understood and generally accepted that it was town
property, to be used by all alike on occasions of public rejoicing.

After Captain Fray's death, however, the cannon was sold by his widow
to the Native Sons of Nevada, and the news of the sale soon spread
abroad and caused no little commotion. To say that the people were
astonished is to put it mildly. They were in a state of consternation.
Frémont's cannon sold and going to be removed? Impossible! No! it was
so! The purchasers were coming to remove it the next day.

Were they? That remained to be seen!

That night in the darkness, three or four determined men quietly and
stealthily removed the nuts from the bolts, and, leaving the block
of wood, quietly carried the cannon and hid it in a car of scrap-iron
that was to be transported the next day from Glenbrook to Tahoe City.

When the day dawned and the purchasers arrived, the cannon was not
to be found, and no one, apparently, knew what had become of it.
Solicitations, arguments, threats had no effect. The cannon was gone.
That was all there was to it, and Mrs. Pray and the Nevada purchasers
had to accept that--to them--disagreeable fact.

But the cannon was not lost. It was only gone on before. For several
years it remained hidden under the blacksmith shop at Tahoe City,
its presence known only to the few conspirators--one of whom was my
informant. About five years ago it was resurrected and ever since then
its brazen throat has bellowed the salutation of the Fourth of July
to the loyal inhabitants of Tahoe. It now stands on the slight hill
overlooking the Lake at Tahoe City, a short distance east of the
hotel.




CHAPTER XXXVI

THE MOUNT ROSE OBSERVATORY


While Californians rightly and justly claim Tahoe as their own, it
must not be forgotten that Nevadans have an equal claim. In the Nevada
State University, situated at Reno, there is a magnificent band
of young men, working and teaching as professors, who regard
all opportunities as sacred trusts, and who are making for their
university a wonderful record of scientific achievement for universal
benefit.

Located on the Nevada side of the Tahoe region line, at the northeast
end of the Lake, is Mount Rose. It is one of the most salient and
important of the peaks that surround Tahoe, its elevation being
10,800 feet. The professor of Latin in the Nevada University, James E.
Church, Jr., a strenuous nature-lover, a mountain-climber, gifted with
robust physical and mental health, making the ascent of Mt. Whitney in
March, 1905, was suddenly seized with the idea that a meteorological
observatory could be established on Mt. Rose, and records of
temperature, wind, snow or rain-fall taken throughout the winter
months. The summit of Mt. Rose by road is approximately twenty miles
in a southwesterly direction from Reno, and Professor Church and his
associates deemed it near enough for week-end visits. The courage,
energy and robust manliness required to carry the work along can be
appreciated only by those who have gone over the ground in winter, and
forms another chapter of quiet and unknown heroism in the interest of
science written by so many of our younger western professors who are
not content with mere academic attainment and distinction.

The idea of obtaining winter temperatures on the mountains of the
Pacific Coast was first suggested by Professor McAdie, head of the
Weather Bureau in San Francisco.[1] He responded to the request for
instruments, and through his recommendation, thermometers, rain-gauge,
etc., were speedily forthcoming from the Weather Bureau. On June 24,
1905, with "Billy" and "Randy," family ponies, loaded with a newly
designed thermometer-shelter, constructed so as to withstand winter
gales and yet allow the easy exit of snow, the first advance on Mt.
Rose was made.

From that day the work has been carried on with a vigor and enthusiasm
that are thrilling in their inspiration. An improved instrument was
added that recorded temperatures on a self-registering roll, all
fluctuations, and the highest and lowest temperatures, wind-pressures,
all variations in humidity, temperature, and air pressure as well as
the directions and the velocity of the wind for periods of seventy
days and more. This instrument was the achievement of Professor S.P.
Fergusson, for many years a pioneer worker in mountain meteorology
at Blue Hill Observatory and an associate of Professor Church at the
Mount Rose Observatory, which has now become a part of the University
of Nevada.

After two winters' work it was discovered, on making comparisons with
the records at the Central Weather Station at Reno, 6268 feet
below, that frost forecast could probably be made on Mt. Rose from
twenty-four to forty-eight hours in advance of the appearance of the
frost in the lower levels, provided the weather current was traveling
in its normal course eastward from the coast.

[Footnote 1: Since this was written Professor McAdie has been
appointed to the chair of Meteorology at Harvard University.]

Second only in importance was the discovery and photographic
recording of evidence of the value of timber high up on mountains, and
especially on the lips of canyons, for holding the snow until late in
the season.

This latter phase of the Observatory's work has developed into a most
novel and valuable contribution to practical forestry and conservation
of water, under Dr. Church's clear and logical direction. At
Contact Pass, 9000 feet elevation, and at the base of the mountain,
supplementary stations have been established, where measurements of
snow depth and density, the evaporation of snow, and temperatures
within the snow have been taken. Lake Tahoe, with its seventy miles of
coast line also affords ready access throughout the winter, by means
of motor boat, snow-shoes and explorer's camp, to forests of various
types and densities where snow measurements of the highest importance
have been made.

Delicate instruments of measurement and weight, etc., have been
invented by Dr. Church and his associates to meet the needs as they
have arisen, and continuous observations for several years seem to
justify the following general conclusions. These are quoted from
a bulletin by Dr. Church, issued by the International Irrigation
Congress.

The conservation of snow is dependent on mountains and forests
and is most complete where these two factors are combined. The
mountain range is not only the recipient of more snow than
the plain or the valley at its base, but in consequence of
the lower temperature prevailing on its slopes the snow there
melts more slowly.

However, mountains, because of their elevation, are exposed
to the sweep of violent winds which not only blow the snow in
considerable quantities to lower levels, where the temperature
is higher, but also dissipate and evaporate the snow to a
wasteful degree. The southern slopes, also, are so tilted as
to be more completely exposed to the direct rays of the sun,
and in the Sierra Nevada and probably elsewhere are subjected
to the persistent action of the prevailing southwest wind.

On the other hand, the mountain mass, by breaking the force of
the wind, causes much of the drifting snow to pile up on
its lee slope and at the base of its cliffs, where it finds
comparative shelter from the wind and sun.

Forests, also, conserve the snow. In wind-swept regions, they
break the force of the wind, catching the snow and holding it
in position even on the windward slopes of the mountains. On
the lower slopes, where the wind is less violent, the forests
catch the falling snow directly in proportion to their
openness, but conserve it after it has fallen directly in
proportion to their density. This phenomenon is due to the
crowns of the trees, which catch the falling snow and expose
it to rapid evaporation in the open air but likewise shut out
the sun and wind from the snow that has succeeded in passing
through the forest crowns to the ground. Both mountains
and forests, therefore, are to a certain extent wasters of
snow--the mountains because they are partially exposed to
sun and wind; the trees, because they catch a portion of
the falling snow on their branches and expose it to rapid
disintegration. However, the mountains by their mass and
elevation conserve immeasurably more snow than they waste, and
forested areas conserve far more snow than unforested. If the
unforested mountain slopes can be covered with timber, much
of the waste now occurring on them can be prevented, and by
thinning the denser forests the source of waste in them also
can be checked.

The experiences met with by the voluntary band of observers to secure
the data needed in their work are romantic in the extreme. An average
winter trip requires from a day and a half to two days and a half
from Reno. From the base of the mountain the ascent must be made on
snow-shoes. When work first began there was no building on the summit,
and no shelter station on the way. Imagine these brave fellows, daring
the storms and blizzards and fierce temperatures of winter calmly
ascending these rugged and steep slopes, in the face of every kind of
winter threat, merely to make scientific observations. In March, 1906,
Professor Johnson and Dr. Rudolph spent the night at timber-line in
a pit dug in the snow to obtain protection from a gale, at the
temperature of 5° Fahr. _below_ zero, and fought their way to
the summit. But so withering was the gale at that altitude even at
mid-day, that a precipitate retreat was made to avoid freezing. The
faces of the climbers showed plainly the punishment received. Three
days later Dr. Church attempted to rescue the record just as the storm
was passing. He made his way in an impenetrable fog to 10,000 feet,
when the snow and ice-crystals deposited by the storm in a state of
unstable equilibrium on crust and trees were hurled by a sudden
gale high into the air in a blinding blizzard. During his retreat he
wandered into the wildest part of the mountain before he escaped from
the skirts of the storm.

Other experiences read like chapters from Peary's or Nansen's records
in the Frozen North, and they are just as heroic and thrilling. Yet
in face of all these physical difficulties, which only the most superb
courage and enthusiasm could overcome, Dr. Church writes that, to
the spirit, the mountain reveals itself, at midnight and at noon,
at twilight and at dawn, in storm and in calm, in frost-plume and in
verdure, as a wonderland so remote from the ordinary experiences of
life that the traveler unconsciously deems that he is entering another
world.

In the last days of October, 1913, I was privileged to make the trip
from Reno in the company of Dr. Church, and two others. We were just
ahead of winter's storms, however, though Old Boreas raved somewhat
wildly on the summit and covered it with snow a few hours after
our descent. The experience was one long to be remembered, and the
personal touch of the heroic spirit afforded by the trip will be a
permanent inspiration.




CHAPTER XXXVII

LAKE TAHOE IN WINTER[1]

BY DR. J.E. CHURCH, JR., OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA

[Footnote 1: By courtesy of _Sunset_ magazine.]


Lake Tahoe is an ideal winter resort for the red-blooded. For the
Viking and the near Viking; for the man and the woman who, for the
very exhilaration of it, seek the bracing air and the snow-clad
forests, Lake Tahoe is as charming in winter as in summer, and far
grander. There is the same water--in morning placid, in afternoon
foam-flecked, on days of storm tempestuous. The Lake never freezes;
not even a film of ice fringes its edge. Sunny skies and warm
noons and the Lake's own restlessness prevent. Emerald Bay alone is
sometimes closed with ice, but more often it is as open as the outer
Lake. Even the pebbles glisten on the beach as far back as the wash of
the waves extends.

But beyond the reach of the waves a deep mantle of white clads the
forests and caps the distant peaks. The refuse of the forests, the
dusty roads, and the inequalities of the ground are all buried deep.
A smooth, gently undulating surface of dazzling white has taken their
place.

The forest trees are laden with snow--each frond bears its pyramid and
each needle its plume of white. The fresh green of the foliage and the
ruddy brown of the bark are accentuated rather than subdued by their
white setting. But as the eye travels the long vista of ascending and
retreating forest, the green and the brown of the near-by trees fade
gradually away until the forest becomes a fluffy mantle of white
upon the distant mountain side. Above and beyond the forest's utmost
reaches rise the mountain crags and peaks, every angle rounded into
gentle contours beneath its burden of snow.

[Illustration: The Fergusson Metrograph on the summit of Mt. Rose,
wrecked by snow "feathers," some of which were six feet long.]

[Illustration: Refuge Hut and Headquarters for Snow Studies on
Mt. Rose, 9000 Feet]

[Illustration: Skiing from Tallac to Fallen Leaf Lodge]

[Illustration: Snow Surveyor on the Mountains Above Glen Alpine
in Winter]

Along the margin of the Lake appear the habitations and works of
men deeply buried and snow-hooded until they recall the scenes in
Whittier's _Snow Bound_.

The lover of the Lake and its bird life will miss the gulls but will
find compensation in the presence of the wild fowl--the ducks and the
geese--that have returned to their winter haunts.

Lake Tahoe is remarkably adapted as a winter resort for three prime
reasons: first, it is easily accessible; second, no place in
the Sierra Nevada, excepting not even Yosemite, offers so many
attractions; third, it is the natural and easy gateway in winter to
the remote fastnesses of the northern Sierra.

Among the attractions preeminently associated with Lake Tahoe in
winter are boating and cruising, snow-shoeing and exploring, camping
for those whose souls are of sterner stuff, hunting, mountain
climbing, photography, and the enjoyment of winter landscape. Fishing
during the winter months is prohibited by law.

If one asks where to go, a bewildering group of trips and pleasures
appears. But there come forth speedily from out the number a few of
unsurpassed allurement. These are a _ski_ trip from Tallac to
Fallen Leaf Lake to see the breakers and the spray driven by a rising
gale against the rock-bound shore, and, when the lake has grown
quieter, a boat ride to Fallen Leaf Lodge beneath the frowning
parapets of Mount Tallac. Next a _ski_ trip up the Glen to the
buried hostelry at Glen Alpine, where one enters by way of a dormer
window but is received to a cheerful fire and with royal hospitality.

Then under the skillful guidance of the keeper, a day's climb up the
southern face of Mount Tallac for an unrivalled panoramic view from
its summit and a speedy but safe glissade back to the hostelry far,
far below.

And if the legs be not too stiff from the glissade, a climb over
the southern wall of the Glen to Desolation Valley and Pyramid Peak,
whence can be seen the long gorge of the Rubicon. The thousand lakes
that dot this region present no barrier to one's progress, for they
are frozen over and lie buried deep beneath the snow that falls here
in an abundance hardly exceeded elsewhere in the Tahoe region.

A close rival of these is the climb from Rubicon Park up the stately
range in its rear to visit the mountain hemlock, the graceful queen
of the high mountain, and to gaze across the chasm at the twin crags
beyond.

And peer of them all, though requiring but little exertion, is a trip
to Brockway to enjoy the unrivalled view of the "Land's End" of the