THE PASSES 95 



tween were narrow specimen zones of all the princi 

 pal climates of the globe. 



On the bank of a small brook that comes gurg 

 ling down the side of the left lateral moraine, I 

 found a camp-fire still burning, which no doubt 

 belonged to the gray Indians I had met on the sum 

 mit, and I listened instinctively and moved cau 

 tiously forward, half expecting to see some of their 

 grim faces peering out of the bushes. 



Passing on toward the open plain, I noticed three 

 well-defined terminal moraines curved gracefully 

 across the canon stream, and joined by long splices 

 to the two noble laterals. These mark the halting- 

 places of the vanished glacier when it was retreat 

 ing into its summit shadows on the breaking-up of 

 the glacial winter. 



Five miles below the foot of Moraine Lake, just 

 where the lateral moraines lose themselves in the 

 plain, there was a field of wild rye, growing in mag 

 nificent waving bunches six to eight feet high, bear 

 ing heads from six to twelve inches long. Robbing 

 out some of the grains, I found them about five 

 eighths of an inch long, dark-colored, and sweet. 

 Indian women were gathering it in baskets, bend 

 ing down large handfuls, beating it out, and fan 

 ning it in the wind. They were quite picturesque, 

 corning through the rye, as one caught glimpses of 

 them here and there, in winding lanes and open 

 ings, with splendid tufts arching above their heads, 

 while their incessant chat and laughter showed 

 their heedless joy. 



Like the rye-field, I found the so-called desert 

 of Mono blooming in a high state of natural culti- 



