322 CHANNEL ISLANDS OF CALIFORNIA 



have walked many times, facing the hard west wind. 

 Then I turned into a deep sandy canon, in which myr- 

 iads of slate-colored miniature mountains rose, with 

 here and there patches of sand grasses in gold, yellow, 

 and red — vivid pictures against the white sand that 

 scurried along before every vagrant breeze. Here I 

 imagined the Lost Woman might have found some of 

 her material for making baskets. As I lay in the lee 

 in the sun, it was not an unlovely prospect, if one can 

 see beauty in the purest sand, in gold and green and 

 red grasses, and in skies of eternal blue, across which 

 are racing the genii of the fog in streamers and banners. 



I found a deep canon filled with siliceous stumps, 

 which looked like trees where the wind had blown the 

 sand away and left the ghost of a forest with phantom 

 stone trees. I found a battle-ground, for so it appeared, 

 of scores of skeletons, where perhaps the San Nicolanos 

 had gone down before the Russians or Inunits. 



There was a doleful lack of verdure here. The ice 

 plant, a few cacti, low wind-beaten buckthorn, and 

 grasses that jangled in the wind and wrote their story 

 on the sands. I floundered over sand-dunes, dropped 

 down into deep canons, discovered a curious natural 

 stairway, which might have been carved by an artist, 

 but nowhere was there any evidence of the Lost 

 Woman's life or home, if I except the whale ribs near 

 the point. 



All my visits to San Nicolas were made in August 

 and September. In February or March, after torren- 

 tial rains, the island in parts shows not a little verdure, 

 enough to support a large flock of sheep. Mrs. Blanche 

 Trask, who has seen all these islands through a poet's 

 eye, has collected about one hundred species of plants 



