aracteristic of the place itself he never made a greater blunder.
Instead, it is a paradise of delightful surprises. A large, fairly
level area--hundreds of acres at least--through which runs the clear
and pellucid waters of the Rubicon River on their way to join those of
the American, and dotted all over with giant cedars, pines, firs and
live oaks, with tiny secluded meadows, lush with richest grasses,
it is a place to lure the city-dweller for a long and profitable
vacation. Whether he hunts, fishes, botanizes, geologizes or merely
loafs and invites his soul, it is equally fascinating, and he is
a wise man who breaks loose from "Society"--spelled with either a
capital or small letter--the bank, the office, the counting-house,
the store, the warehouse, the mill, or the factory, and, with a genial
companion or two, buries himself away from the outer world in this
restful, peaceful, and God-blessed solitude.

When I first saw it I exclaimed: "Hell Hole? Then give me more of it,"
and instead of hastening on to other places of well-known charm,
I insisted upon one day at least of complete rest to allow its
perfection to "seep in" and become a part of my intimate inner life of
remembrance.

It was under Bob Watson's efficient guidance I left Tahoe Tavern, for
a five day trip. We took a pack-horse well laden with grub, utensils
for cooking and our sleeping bags. Riding down the Truckee, up Bear
Creek, past Deer Park Springs, I was struck more forcibly than ever
before by the marvelous glacial phenomena in the amphitheater at the
head of the canyon through a portion of which the trail passes, and
also with the volcanic masses that rest upon the granite, mainly on
the right hand side of the pass. Its first appearance shows a cap
of from two hundred to three hundred feet in thickness; later on two
other patches of it appear, the upper one presenting the granite and
superposed granite on the same level, clearly indicating a channel of
early erosion filled up by the later flow of volcanic matter.

Passing by Five Lakes and down Five Lake Creek to its junction with
the canyon down which we had come from the Little American Valley, we
were soon headed down the creek for the Rubicon. To the right towered
Mt. Mildred (8400 feet), on the other side of which is Shank's Cove.
Shank was a sheep-man who for years ran his sheep here during the
summer, taking them down to the Sacramento Valley in winter. After
passing several grassy mea