RIDE TO TUSCAN SPRINGS. 235 
I know no exercise half as exhilarating and 
exciting as the ‘lope,’ a kind of long canter, the 
travelling pace of a mustang; there is no jarring 
or jolting. All one has to do is to sit firmly in 
the saddle; the horse, obeying the slightest turn 
of the wrist or check of the rein, swings along 
for hours at a stretch, without any show of 
weariness. 
Having crossed the Sacramento in a ‘scow,’ a 
kind of rough ferry-boat, our road lay over broad 
plains and through scattered belts of timber. 
The grass was completely burnt up, and the 
series of gravelly arroyos, in and out of which 
we continually plunged and scrambled, marked 
clearly the course of the winter streams. 
The air felt hot and sultry, but fragrant with 
the perfume of the mountain cudweed. Not 
a cloud was visible in the lurid sky, and the 
distant mountains, thinly dotted with timber, 
seemed softened and subdued as seen through the 
blue haze. We entered a valley leading through 
a pile of volcanic hills that one could easily have 
imagined had been once the habitat of civilised 
man. The wooded glades had all the appearance 
of lawns and parks planted with exquisite taste ; 
_ the trees, in nothing resembling the wild growth 
of the forest, were grouped in every variety of 
graceful outline. 
