CHAPTER I.

OVER THE SIERRAS NEVADAS.

The beauties of nature are scattered with a more lavish hand across thecountry lying between the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and theshores where the surf romps and rolls over the auriferous sands of thePacific, in Golden Gate Park, than in a journey of the same length inany other part of the world. Such, at least, is the verdict of many whosefortune it has been to traverse that favored stretch of country. Nothingbut the limited power of man's eyes prevents him from standing on thetop of the mountains and surveying, at a glance, the whole gloriouspanorama that stretches away for more than two hundred miles to the west,terminating in the gleaming waters of the Pacific Ocean. Could he do this, he would behold, for the first seventy-five or eighty miles, avast, billowy sea of foot-hills, clothed with forests of sombre pine andbright, evergreen oaks; and, lower down, dense patches of white-blossomedchaparral, looking in the enchanted distance like irregular banks ofsnow. Then the world-renowned valley of the Sacramento River, with itslevel plains of dark, rich soil, its matchless fields of ripening grain,traversed here and there by streams that, emerging from the shadowydepths of the foot-hills, wind their way, like gleaming threads of silver,across the fertile plain and join the Sacramento, which receives them,one and all, in her matronly bosom and hurries with them on to the sea.

Towns and villages, with white church-spires, irregularly sprinkled overhill and vale, although sown like seeds from the giant hand of a mightyhusbandman, would be seen nestling snugly amid groves of waving shadeand semi-tropical fruit trees. Beyond all this the lower coast-range,where, toward San Francisco, Mount Diablo and Mount Tamalpais - grimsentinels of the Golden Gate - rear their shaggy heads skyward, and seemto look down with a patronizing air upon the less pretentious hills thatborder the coast and reflect their shadows in the blue water of SanFrancisco Bay. Upon the sloping sides of these hills sweet, nutritiousgrasses grow, upon which peacefully graze the cows that supply SanFrancisco with milk and butter.

Various attempts have been made from time to time, by ambitious cyclers,to wheel across America from ocean to ocean; but - "Around the World!"

"The impracticable scheme of a visionary," was the most charitableverdict one could reasonably have expected.

The first essential element of success, however, is to have sufficientconfidence in one's self to brave the criticisms - to say nothing of thewitticisms - of a sceptical public. So eight o'clock on the morning ofApril 22, 1884, finds me and my fifty-inch machine on the deck of theAlameda, one of the splendid ferry-boats plying between San Franciscoand Oakland, and a ride of four miles over the sparkling waters of thebay lands us, twenty-eight minutes later, on the Oakland pier, that jutsfar enough out to allow the big ferries to enter the slip in deep water.On the beauties of San Francisco Bay it is, perhaps, needless to dwell,as everybody has heard or read of this magnificent sheet of water, itssurface flecked with snowy sails, and surrounded by a beautiful frameworkof evergreen hills; its only outlet to the ocean the famous Golden Gate - anarrow channel through which come and go the ships of all nations.

With the hearty well-wishing of a small group of Oakland and 'Friscocyclers who have come, out of curiosity, to see the start, I mount andride away to the east, down San Pablo Avenue, toward the village of thesame Spanish name, some sixteen miles distant. The first seven miles area sort of half-macadamized road, and I bowl briskly along.

The past winter has been the rainiest since 1857, and the continuouspelting rains had not beaten down upon the last half of this imperfectmacadam in vain; for it has left it a surface of wave-like undulations,from out of which the frequent bowlder protrudes its unwelcome head, asif ambitiously striving to soar above its lowly surroundings. But thisone don't mind, and I am perfectly willing to put up with the bowldersfor the sake of the undulations. The sensation of riding a small boatover "the gently-heaving waves of the murmuring sea" is, I think, oneof the pleasures of life; and the next thing to it is riding a bicycleover the last three miles of the San Pablo Avenue macadam as I found iton that April morning.

The wave-like macadam abruptly terminates, and I find myself on a commondirt road. It is a fair road, however, and I have plenty of time to lookabout and admire whatever bits of scenery happen to come in view. Thereare few spots in the "Golden State" from which views of more or lessbeauty are not to be obtained; and ere I am a baker's dozen of milesfrom Oakland pier I find myself within an ace of taking an undesirableheader into a ditch of water by the road-side, while looking upon a scenethat for the moment completely wins me from my immediate surroundings.There is nothing particularly grand or imposing in the outlook here; butthe late rains have clothed the whole smiling face of nature with abright, refreshing green, that fails not to awaken a thrill of pleasurein the breast of one fresh from the verdureless streets of a large sea-port city. Broad fields of pale-green, thrifty-looking young wheat, anddarker-hued meads, stretch away on either side of the road; and awaybeyond to the left, through an opening in the hills, can be seen, asthrough a window, the placid waters of the bay, over whose glittering,sunlit surface white-winged, aristocratic yachts and the plebeian smacksof Greek and Italian fishermen swiftly glide, and fairly vie with eachother in giving the finishing touches to a picture.

So far, the road continues level and fairly good; and, notwithstandingthe seductive pleasures of the ride over the bounding billows of thegently heaving macadam, the dalliance with the scenery, and the all toofrequent dismounts in deference to the objections of phantom-eyedroadsters, I pulled up at San Pablo at ten o'clock, having covered thesixteen miles in one hour and thirty-two minutes; though, of course,there is nothing speedy about this - to which desirable qualification,indeed, I lay no claim.

Soon after leaving San Pablo the country gets somewhat "choppy," andthe road a succession of short-hills, at the bottom of which modest-lookingmud-holes patiently await an opportunity to make one's acquaintance, orscraggy-looking, latitudinous washouts are awaiting their chance tocommit a murder, or to make the unwary cycler who should venture to "coast," think he had wheeled over the tail of an earthquake. One neverminds a hilly road where one can reach the bottom with an impetus thatsends him spinning half-way up the next; but where mud-holes or washoutsresolutely "hold the fort" in every depression, it is different, andthe progress of the cycler is necessarily slow. I have set upon reachingSuisun, a point fifty miles along the Central Pacific Railway, to-night;but the roads after leaving San Pablo are anything but good, and the dayis warm, so six P.M. finds me trudging along an unridable piece of roadthrough the low tuile swamps that border Suisun Bay. "Tuile" is thename given to a species of tall rank grass, or rather rush, that growsto the height of eight or ten feet, and so thick in places that it isdifficult to pass through, in the low, swampy grounds in this part ofCalifornia. These tuile swamps are traversed by a net-work of small,sluggish streams and sloughs, that fairly swarm with wild ducks andgeese, and justly entitle them to their local title of "the duck-hunters'paradise." Ere I am through this swamp, the shades of night gatherominously around and settle down like a pall over the half-flooded flats;the road is full of mud-holes and pools of water, through which it isdifficult to navigate, and I am in something of a quandary. I am sweepingalong at the irresistible velocity of a mile an hour, and wondering howfar it is to the other end of the swampy road, when thrice welcome succorappears from a strange and altogether unexpected source. I had noticeda small fire, twinkling through the darkness away off in the swamp; andnow the wind rises and the flames of the small fire spread to the thickpatches of dead tuile. In a short time the whole country, including myroad, is lit up by the fierce glare of the blaze; so that I am enabledto proceed with little trouble. These tuiles often catch on fire in thefall and early winter, when everything is comparatively dry, and fairlyrival the prairie fires of the Western plains in the fierceness of theflames.

The next morning I start off in a drizzling rain, and, after going sixteenmiles, I have to remain for the day at Elmira. Here, among other itemsof interest, I learn that twenty miles farther ahead the Sacramento Riveris flooding the country, and the only way I can hope to get through isto take to the Central Pacific track and cross over the six miles ofopen trestle-work that spans the Sacramento River and its broad bottom-lands,that are subject to the annual spring overflow. From Elmira my way leadsthrough a fruit and farming country that is called second to none in theworld. Magnificent farms line the road; at short intervals appear largewell-kept vineyards, in which gangs of Chinese coolies are hoeing andpulling weeds, and otherwise keeping trim. A profusion of peach, pear,and almond orchards enlivens the landscape with a wealth of pink andwhite blossoms, and fills the balmy spring air with a subtle, sensuousperfume that savors of a tropical clime.

Already I realize that there is going to be as much "foot-riding" asanything for the first part of my journey; so, while halting for dinnerat the village of Davisville, I deliver my rather slight shoes over tothe tender mercies of an Irish cobbler of the old school, with carteblanche instructions to fit them out for hard service. While diligentlyhammering away at the shoes, the old cobbler grows communicative, andin almost unintelligible brogue tells a complicated tale of Irish life,out of which I can make neither head, tail, nor tale; though nodding andassenting to it all, to the great satisfaction of the loquacious manipulatorof the last, who in an hour hands over the shoes with the proud assertion,"They'll last yez, be jabbers, to Omaha."

Reaching the overflowed country, I have to take to the trestle-work andbegin the tedious process of trundling along that aggravating roadway,where, to the music of rushing waters, I have to step from tie to tie,and bump, bump, bump, my machine along for six weary miles. The SacramentoRiver is the outlet for the tremendous volumes of water caused everyspring by the melting snows on the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and theselong stretches of open trestle have been found necessary to allow thewater to pass beneath. Nothing but trains are expected to cross thistrestle-work, and of course no provision is made for pedestrians. Theengineer of an approaching train sets his locomotive to tooting for allshe is worth as he sees a "strayed or stolen" cycler, slowly bumpingalong ahead of his train. But he has no need to slow up, for occasionalcross-beams stick out far enough to admit of standing out of reach, andwhen he comes up alongside, he and the fireman look out of the windowof the cab and see me squatting on the end of one of these handy beams,and letting the bicycle hang over.

That night I stay in Sacramento, the beautiful capital of the GoldenState, whose well-shaded streets and blooming, almost tropical gardenscombine to form a city of quiet, dignified beauty, of which Californiansfeel justly proud. Three and a half miles east of Sacramento, the hightrestle bridge spanning the main stream of the American River has to becrossed, and from this bridge is obtained a remarkably fine view of thesnow-capped Sierras, the great barrier that separates the fertile valleysand glorious climate of California, from the bleak and barren sage-brushplains, rugged mountains, and forbidding wastes of sand and alkali, that,from the summit of the Sierras, stretch away to the eastward for over athousand miles. The view from the American River bridge is grand andimposing, encompassing the whole foot-hill country, which rolls in broken,irregular billows of forest-crowned hill and charming vale, upward andonward to the east, gradually getting more rugged, rocky, and immense,the hills changing to mountains, the vales to ca¤ons, until they terminatein bald, hoary peaks whose white rugged pinnacles seem to penetrate thesky, and stand out in ghostly, shadowy outline against the azure depthsof space beyond.

After crossing the American River the character of the country changes,and I enjoy a ten-mile ride over a fair road, through one of thosesplendid sheep-ranches that are only found in California, and which havelong challenged the admiration of the world. Sixty thousand acres, Iam informed, is the extent of this pasture, all within one fence. Thesoft, velvety greensward is half-shaded by the wide-spreading branchesof evergreen oaks that singly and in small groups are scattered atirregular intervals from one end of the pasture to the other, giving itthe appearance of one of the old ancestral parks of England. As I bowlpleasantly along I involuntarily look about me, half expecting to seesome grand, stately old mansion peeping from among some one of thesplendid oak-groves; and when a jack-rabbit hops out and halts at twentypaces from my road, I half hesitate to fire at him, lest the noise ofthe report should bring out the vigilant and lynx-eyed game-keeper, andget me "summoned" for poaching. I remember the pleasant ten-mile ridethrough this park-like pasture as one of the brightest spots of the wholejourney across America. But "every rose conceals a thorn," and pleasantpaths often load astray; when I emerge from the pasture I find myselfseveral miles off the right road and have to make my unhappy way acrosslots, through numberless gates and small ranches, to the road again.

There seems to be quite a sprinkling of Spanish or Mexican rancherosthrough here, and after partaking of the welcome noon-tide hospitalityof one of the ranches, I find myself, before I realize it, illustratingthe bicycle and its uses, to a group of sombrero-decked rancheros anddarked-eyed se¤oritas, by riding the machine round and round on theirown ranch-lawn. It is a novel position, to say the least; and oftenafterward, wending my solitary way across some dreary Nevada desert,with no company but my own uncanny shadow, sharply outlined on the whitealkali by the glaring rays of the sun, my untrammelled thoughts wouldwander back to this scene, and I would grow "hot and cold by turns," inmy uncertainty as to whether the bewitching smiles of the se¤oritas weresmiles of admiration, or whether they were simply "grinning" at thefigure I cut. While not conscious of having cut a sorrier figure thanusual on that occasion, somehow I cannot rid myself of an unhappy, ban-owing suspicion, that the latter comes nearer the truth than the former.

The ground is gradually getting more broken; huge rocks intrude themselvesupon the landscape. At the town of Rocklin we are supposed to enter thefoot-hill country proper. Much of the road in these lower foot-hills isexcellent, being of a hard, stony character, and proof against the winterrains. Everybody who writes anything about the Golden State is expectedto say something complimentary - or otherwise, as his experience may seemto dictate - about the "glorious climate of California;" or else renderan account of himself for the slight, should he ever return, which heis very liable to do. For, no matter what he may say about it, the "glorious climate" generally manages to make one, ever after, somewhatdissatisfied with the extremes of heat and cold met with in less genialregions. This fact of having to pay my measure of tribute to the climateforces itself on my notice prominently here at Rocklin, because, in-directly, the "climate" was instrumental in bringing about a slightaccident, which, in turn, brought about the - to me - serious calamity ofsending me to bed without any supper. Rocklin is celebrated - and bycertain bad people, ridiculed - all over this part of the foot-hills forthe superabundance of its juvenile population. If one makes any inquisitiveremarks about this fact, the Rocklinite addressed will either blush orgrin, according to his temperament, and say, "It's the glorious climate."A bicycle is a decided novelty up here, and, of course, the multitudinousyouth turn out in droves to see it. The bewildering swarms of these smallmountaineers distract my attention and cause me to take a header thattemporarily disables the machine. The result is, that, in order to reachthe village where I wish to stay over night, I have to "foot it" overfour miles of the best road I have found since leaving San Pablo, andlose my supper into the bargain, by procrastinating at the village smithy,so as to have my machine in trim, ready for an early start next morning.If the "glorious climate of California " is responsible for the exceedinglyhopeful prospects of Rocklin's future census reports, and the said livelyoutlook, materialized, is responsible for my mishap, then plainly thesaid "G. C. of C." is the responsible element in the case. I hope thiscompliment to the climate will strike the Californians as about thecorrect thing; but, if it should happen to work the other way, I beg ofthem at once to pour out the vials of their wrath on the heads of the'Frisco Bicycle Club, in order that their fury may be spent ere I againset foot on their auriferous soil.

"What'll you do when you hit the snow?" is now a frequent question askedby the people hereabouts, who seem to be more conversant with affairspertaining to the mountains than they are of what is going on in thevalleys below. This remark, of course, has reference to the deep snowthat, toward the summits of the mountains, covers the ground to the depthof ten feet on the level, and from that to almost any depth where it hasdrifted and accumulated. I have not started out on this greatest of allbicycle tours without looking into these difficulties, and I remind themthat the long snow-sheds of the Central Pacific Railway make it possiblefor one to cross over, no matter how deep the snow may lie on the groundoutside. Some speak cheerfully of the prospects for getting over, butmany shake their heads ominously and say, "You'll never be able to makeit through."

Rougher and more hilly become the roads as we gradually penetrate fartherand farther into the foot-hills. We are now in far-famed Placer County,and the evidences of the hardy gold diggers' work in pioneer days areall about us. In every gulch and ravine are to be seen broken and decayingsluice-boxes. Bare, whitish-looking patches of washed-out gravel showwhere a "claim " has been worked over and abandoned. In every directionare old water-ditches, heaps of gravel, and abandoned shafts - all telling,in language more eloquent than word or pen, of the palmy days of '49,and succeeding years; when, in these deep gulches, and on these yellowhills, thousands of bronzed, red-shirted miners dug and delved, and"rocked the cradle" for the precious yellow dust and nuggets. But allis now changed, and where were hundreds before, now only a few "oldtimers " roam the foot-hills, prospecting, and working over the oldclaims; but "dust," "nuggets," and "pockets " still form the burden ofconversation in the village barroom or the cross-roads saloon. Now andthen a "strike " is made by some lucky - or perhaps it turns out, unlucky -prospector. This for a few days kindles anew the slumbering spark of"gold fever" that lingers in the veins of the people here, ever readyto kindle into a flame at every bit of exciting news, in the way of alucky "find" near home, or new gold-fields in some distant land. Theseoccasions never fail to have their legitimate effect upon the businessof the bar where the "old-timers" congregate to learn the news; and,between drinks, yarns of the good old days of '49 and '50, of "streaksof luck," of "big nuggets," and "wild times," are spun over and overagain. Although the palmy days of the "diggin's" are no more, yet thefinder of a "pocket" these days seems not a whit wiser than in the dayswhen "pockets" more frequently rewarded the patient prospector thanthey do now; and at Newcastle - a station near the old-time mining campsof Ophir and Gold Hill - I hear of a man who lately struck a "pocket," outof which he dug forty thousand dollars; and forthwith proceeded to imitatehis reckless predecessors by going down to 'Frisco and entering upon acareer of protracted sprees and debauchery that cut short his earthlycareer in less than six months, and wafted his riotous spirit to wherethere are no more forty thousand dollar pockets, and no more 'Friscosin which to squander it. In this instance the "find" was clearly anunlucky one. Not quite so bad was the case of two others who, but a fewdays before my arrival, took out twelve hundred dollars; they simply,in the language of the gold fields "turned themselves loose," "madethings hum," and "whooped 'em up" around the bar-room of their villagefor exactly three days; when, "dead broke," they took to the gulchesagain, to search for more. "Yer oughter hev happened through here withthat instrumint of yourn about that time, young fellow; yer might hevkept as full as a tick till they war busted," remarked a slouchy-lookingold fellow whose purple-tinted nose plainly indicated that he had devoteda good part of his existence to the business of getting himself "fullas a tick" every time he ran across the chance.

Quite a different picture is presented by an industrious old Mexican,whom I happen to see away down in the bottom of a deep ravine, alongwhich swiftly hurries a tiny stream. He is diligently shovelling dirtinto a rude sluice-box which he has constructed in the bed of the streamat a point where the water rushes swiftly down a declivity. Setting mybicycle up against a rock, I clamber down the steep bank to investigate.In tones that savor of anything but satisfaction with the result of hislabor, he informs me that he has to work "most infernal hard" to panout two dollars' worth of "dust" a day. "I have had to work over allthat pile of gravel you see yonder to clean up seventeen dollars' worthof dust," further volunteered the old "greaser," as I picked up a spareshovel and helped him remove a couple of bowlders that he was trying toroll out of his war. I condole with him at the low grade of the gravelhe is working, hope he may "strike it rich " one of these days, andtake my departure.

Up here I find it preferable to keep the railway track, alongside ofwhich there are occasionally ridable side-paths; while on the wagon roadslittle or no riding can be done on account of the hills, and the stickynature of the red, clayey soil. From the railway track near Newcastleis obtained a magnificent view of the lower country, traversed duringthe last three days, with the Sacramento River winding its way throughits broad valley to the sea. Deep cuts and high embankments follow eachother in succession, as the road-bed is now broken through a hill, nowcarried across a deep gulch, and anon winds around the next hill andover another ravine. Before reaching Auburn I pass through "BloomerCut," where perpendicular walls of bowlders loom up on both sides of thetrack looking as if the slightest touch or jar would unloose them andsend them bounding and crashing on the top of the passing train as itglides along, or drop down on the stray cycler who might venture through.On the way past Auburn, and on up to Clipper Gap, the dry, yellow dirtunder the overhanging rocks, and in the crevices, is so suggestive of "dust," that I take a small prospecting glass, which I have in my tool-bag,and do a little prospecting; without, however, finding sufficient "color"to induce me to abandon my journey and go to digging.

Before reaching Clipper Gap it begins to rain; while I am taking dinnerat that place it quits raining and begins to come down by buckets full,so that I have to lie over for the remainder of the day. The hills aroundClipper Gap are gay and white with chaparral blossom, which gives thewhole landscape a pleasant, gala-day appearance. It rains all the evening,and at night turns to heavy, damp snow, which clings to the trees andbushes. In the morning the landscape, which a few hours before was whitewith chaparral bloom, is now even more white with the bloom of the snow.My hostelry at Clipper Gap is a kind of half ranch, half roadside inn,down in a small valley near the railway; and mine host, a jovial Irishblade of the good old "Donnybrook Fair" variety, who came here in 1851,during the great rush to the gold fields, and, failing to make his fortunein the "diggings," wisely decided to send for his family and settledown quietly on a piece of land, in preference to returning to the "ould sod."He turns out to be a "bit av a sphort meself," and, aftershowing me a number of minor pets and favorites, such as game chickens,Brahma geese, and a litter of young bull pups, he proudly leads the wayto the barn to show me "Barney," his greatest pet of all, whom he atpresent keeps securely tied up for safe-keeping. More than one evil-mindedperson has a hankering after Barney's gore since his last battle for thechampionship of Placer County, he explains, in which he inflicted severepunishment on his adversary and resolutely refused to give in; althoughhis opponent on this important occasion was an imported dog, broughtinto the county by Barney's enemies, who hoped to fill their pockets bybetting against the local champion. But Barney, who is a medium-sized,ferocious-looking bull terrier, "scooped"the crowd backing the importeddog, to the extent of their "pile," by "walking all round" his adversary;and thereby stirring up the enmity of said crowd against himself, who - sosays Barney's master - have never yet been able to scare up a dog able to"down" Barney. As we stand in the barn-door Barney eyes me suspiciously,and then looks at his master; but luckily for me his master fails togive the word. Noticing that the dog is scarred and seamed all over, Iinquire the reason, and am told that he has been fighting wild boars inthe chaparral, of which gentle pastime he is extremely fond. "Yes, andhe'll tackle a cougar too, of which there are plenty of them around here,if that cowardly animal would only keep out of the trees," admiringlycontinues mine host, as he orders Barney into his empty salt-barrelagain.

To day is Sunday, and it rains and snows with little interruption, sothat I am compelled to stay over till Monday morning. While it is rainingat Clipper Gap, it is snowing higher up in the mountains, and a railwayemployee 'volunteers the cheering information that, during the winter,the snow has drifted and accumulated in the sheds, so that a train canbarely squeeze through, leaving no room for a person to stand to oneside. I have my own ideas of whether this state of affairs is probableor not, however, and determine to pay no heed to any of these rumors,but to push ahead. So I pull out on Monday morning and take to therailway-track again, which is the only passable road since the tremendousdownpour of the last two days.

The first thing I come across is a tunnel burrowing through a hill. Thistunnel was originally built the proper size, but, after being walled up,there were indications of a general cave-in; so the company had to goto work and build another thick rock-wall inside the other, which leavesbarely room for the trains to pass through without touching the sides.It is anything but an inviting path around the hill; but it is far thesafer of the two. Once my foot slips, and I unceremoniously sit down andslide around in the soft yellow clay, in my frantic endeavors to keepfrom slipping down the hill. This hardly enhances my personal appearance;but it doesn't matter much, as I am where no one can see, and a clay-besmeared individual is worth a dozen dead ones. Soon I am on the trackagain, briskly trudging up the steep grade toward the snow-line, whichI can plainly see, at no great distance ahead, through the windingsaround the mountains.

All through here the only riding to be done is along occasional shortstretches of difficult path beside the track, where it happens to be ahard surface; and on the plank platforms of the stations, where I generallytake a turn or two to satisfy the consuming curiosity of the miners, whocan't imagine how anybody can ride a thing that won't stand alone; atthe same time arguing among themselves as to whether I ride along on oneof the rails, or bump along over the protruding ties.

This morning I follow the railway track around the famous "Cape Horn,"a place that never fails to photograph itself permanently upon the memoryof all who once see it. For scenery that is magnificently grand andpicturesque, the view from where the railroad track curves around CapeHorn is probably without a peer on the American continent.

When the Central Pacific Railway company started to grade their road-bedaround here, men were first swung over this precipice from above withropes, until they made standing room for themselves; and then a narrowledge was cut on the almost perpendicular side of the rocky mountain,around which the railway now winds.

Standing on this ledge, the rocks tower skyward on one side of the trackso close as almost to touch the passing train; and on the other is asheer precipice of two thousand five hundred feet, where one can standon the edge and see, far below, the north fork of the American River,which looks like a thread of silver laid along the narrow valley, andsends up a far-away, scarcely perceptible roar, as it rushes and rumblesalong over its rocky bed. The railroad track is carefully looked afterat this point, and I was able, by turning round and taking the downgrade, to experience the novelty of a short ride, the memory of whichwill be ever welcome should one live to be as old as "the oldestinhabitant." The scenery for the next few miles is glorious; the grandand imposing mountains are partially covered with stately pines down totheir bases, around which winds the turbulent American River, receivingon its boisterous march down the mountains tribute from hundreds ofsmaller streams and rivulets, which come splashing and dashing out ofthe dark ca¤ons and crevasses of the mighty hills.

The weather is capricious, and by the time I reach Dutch Flat, ten mileseast of Cape Horn, the floodgates of heaven are thrown open again, andless than an hour succeeds in impressing Dutch Flat upon my memory as aplace where there is literally "water, water, everywhere, but not adrop to -;" no, I cannot finish the quotation. What is the use of lying'.There is plenty to drink at Dutch Flat; plenty of everything.

But there is no joke about the water; it is pouring in torrents fromabove; the streets are shallow streams; and from scores of ditches andgullies comes the merry music of swiftly rushing waters, while, to crownall, scores of monster streams are rushing with a hissing sound from themouths of huge pipes or nozzles, and playing against the surroundinghills; for Dutch Flat and neighboring camps are the great centre ofhydraulic mining operations in California at the present day. Streamsof water, higher lip the mountains, are taken from their channels andconducted hither through miles of wooden flumes and iron piping; andfrom the mouths of huge nozzles are thrown with tremendous force againstthe hills, literally mowing them down. The rain stops as abruptly as itbegan. The sun shines out clear and warm, and I push ahead once more.

Gradually I have been getting up into the snow, and ever and anon amuffled roar comes booming and echoing over the mountains like the soundof distant artillery. It is the sullen noise of monster snow-slides amongthe deep, dark ca¤ons of the mountains, though a wicked person at GoldRun winked at another man and tried to make me believe it was the grizzlies"going about the mountains like roaring lions, seeking whom they mightdevour." The giant voices of nature, the imposing scenery, the gloomypine forests which have now taken the place of the gay chaparral, combineto impress one who, all alone, looks and listens with a realizing senseof his own littleness. What a change has come over the whole face ofnature in a few days' travel. But four days ago I was in the semi-tropicalSacramento Valley; now gaunt winter reigns supreme, and the only vegetationis the hardy pine.

This afternoon I pass a small camp of Digger Indians, to whom my bicycleis as much a mystery as was the first locomotive; yet they scarcely turntheir uncovered heads to look; and my cheery greeting of "How," scarceelicits a grunt and a stare in reply. Long years of chronic hunger andwretchedness have well-nigh eradicated what little energy these Diggersever possessed. The discovery of gold among their native mountains hasbeen their bane; the only antidote the rude grave beneath the pine andthe happy hunting-grounds beyond.

The next morning finds me briskly trundling through the great, gloomysnow-sheds that extend with but few breaks for the next forty miles.When I emerge from them on the other end I shall be over the summit andwell down the eastern slope of the mountains. These huge sheds have beenbuilt at great expense to protect the track from the vast quantities ofsnow that fall every winter on these mountains. They wind around themountain-sides, their roofs built so slanting that the mighty avalancheof rock and snow that comes thundering down from above glides harmlesslyover, and down the chasm on the other side, while the train glides alongunharmed beneath them. The section-houses, the water-tanks, stations,and everything along here are all under the gloomy but friendly shelterof the great protecting sheds. Fortunately I find the difficulties ofgetting through much less than I had been led by rumors to anticipate;and although no riding can be done in the sheds, I make very good progress,and trudge merrily along, thankful of a chance to get over the mountainswithout having to wait a month or six weeks for the snow outside todisappear. At intervals short breaks occur in the sheds, where the trackruns over deep gulch or ravine, and at one of these openings the sinuousstructure can be traced for quite a long distance, winding its tortuousway around the rugged mountain sides, and through the gloomy pine forest,all but buried under the snow. It requires no great effort of the mindto imagine it to be some wonderful relic of a past civilization, when aventuresome race of men thus dared to invade these vast wintry solitudesand burrow their way through the deep snow, like moles burrowing throughthe loose earth. Not a living thing is in sight, and the only sounds theoccasional roar of a distant snow-slide, and the mournful sighing of thebreeze as it plays a weird, melancholy dirge through the gently swayingbranches of the tall, sombre pines, whose stately trunks are half buriedin the omnipresent snow. To-night I stay at the Summit Hotel, seventhousand and seventeen feet above the level of the sea. The "Summit"is nothing if not snowy, and I am told that thirty feet on the level isno unusual thing up here. Indeed, it looks as if snow-balling on the "Glorious Fourth" were no great luxury at the Summit House; yetnotwithstanding the decidedly wintry aspect of the Sierras, the lowtemperature of the Rockies farther east is unknown; and although thereis snow to the right, snow to the left, snow all around, and ice underfoot, I travel all through the gloomy sheds in my shirt-sleeves, withbut a gossamer rubber coat thrown over my shoulders to keep off the snow-water which is constantly melting and dripping through the roof, makingit almost like going through a shower of rain. Often, when it is warmand balmy outside, it is cold and frosty under the sheds, and the drippingwater, falling among the rocks and timbers, freezes into all manner offantastic shapes. Whole menageries of ice animals, birds and all imaginableobjects, are here reproduced in clear crystal ice, while in many placesthe ground is covered with an irregular coating of the same, that oftenhas to be chipped away from the rails.

East of the summit is a succession of short tunnels, the space betweenbeing covered with snow-shed; and when I came through, the openings andcrevices through which the smoke from the engines is wont to make itsescape, and through which a few rays of light penetrate the gloomyinterior, are blocked up with snow, so that it is both dark and smoky;and groping one's way with a bicycle over the rough surface is anythingbut pleasant going. But there is nothing so bad, it seems, but that itcan get a great deal worse; and before getting far, I hear an approachingtrain and forthwith proceed to occupy as small an amount of space aspossible against the side, while three laboriously puffing engines,tugging a long, heavy freight train up the steep grade, go past. Thesethree puffing, smoke-emitting monsters fill every nook and corner of thetunnel with dense smoke, which creates a darkness by the side of whichthe natural darkness of the tunnel is daylight in comparison. Here is adarkness that can be felt; I have to grope my way forward, inch by inch;afraid to set my foot down until I have felt the place, for fear ofblundering into a culvert; at the same time never knowing whether thereis room, just where I am, to get out of the way of a train. A cyclometerwouldn't have to exert itself much through here to keep tally of therevolutions; for, besides advancing with extreme caution, I pause everyfew steps to listen; as in the oppressive darkness and equally oppressivesilence the senses are so keenly on the alert that the gentle rattle ofthe bicycle over the uneven surface seems to make a noise that wouldprevent me hearing an approaching train. This finally comes to am end;and at the opening in the sheds I climb up into a pine-tree to obtaina view of Donner Lake, called the "Gem of the Sierras." It is a lovelylittle lake, and amid the pines, and on its shores occurred one of themost pathetically tragic events of the old emigrant days. Briefly related: A small party of emigrants became snowed in while camped at the lake,and when, toward spring, a rescuing party reached the spot, the lastsurvivor of the partly, crazed with the fearful suffering he had under-gone, was sitting on a log, savagely gnawing away at a human arm, thelast remnant of his companions in misery, off whose emaciated carcasseshe had for some time been living!

My road now follows the course of the Truckee River down the easternslope of the Sierras, and across the boundary line into Nevada. TheTruckee is a rapid, rollicking stream from one end to the other, andaffords dam-sites and mill-sites without limit. There is little ridableroad down the Truckee ca¤on; but before reaching "Verdi, a station a fewmiles over the Nevada line, I find good road, and ride up and dismountat the door of the little hotel as coolly as if I had rode without adismount all the way from 'Frisco. Here at Verdi is a camp of WashoeIndians, who at once showed their superiority to the Diggers by clusteringaround and examining; the bicycle with great curiosity. Verdi is lessthan forty miles from the summit of the Sierras, and from the porch ofthe hotel I can see the snow-storm still fiercely raging up in the placewhere I stood a few hours ago; yet one can feel that he is already in adryer and altogether different climate. The great masses of clouds,travelling inward from the coast with their burdens of moisture, likemessengers of peace with presents to a far country, being unable tosurmount the great mountain barrier that towers skyward across theirpath, unload their precious cargoes on the mountains; and the parchedplains of Nevada open their thirsty mouths in vain. At Verdi I bid good-byto the Golden State and follow the course of the sparkling Truckee towardthe Forty-mile Desert.