202 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



might be too dull and mean and afraid ever to 

 cross the ocean at all. 



After steaming in around Shag Rock we landed 

 from a yawl on a half-submerged ledge, driving 

 off a bull sea-lion, an immense, disgruntled old 

 fellow, who evidently could not live with the 

 herd and his wretched temper, so had come out 

 here where he could have his fill of soured silence 

 and enjoy the solitary friendship of his precious 

 ugly soul. 



The rise and fall of the waves about the rocks 

 was fully six feet, so we backed the yawl up as 

 close as we dared, a man steadying it at the 

 oars, another standing ready in the stern to leap 

 when the sea should bring him up level with 

 the ledge. Having landed him, we tossed him 

 our cameras, provisions, a piece on every high 

 wave, and even my eleven-year-old son, who 

 scaled the rocks with us. 



Everything safely cached, we drew the yawl 

 upon the shelf of rock, ordered the tug to lie off 

 and anchor, then got ourselves in shape for the 

 climb. 



It was now nearly noon. Since early morning 

 an ugly fog had hung about us, but we had barely 



