230 EAST PRUSSIA TO THE GOLDEN GATE 



On Saturday, June 5th, our progress began to be diffi- 

 cult. Constantly up and down steep mountains, through 

 a dense gloomy forest of firs and pines, showing but sel- 

 dom an open space, the road was a genuine mountain 

 trail, rocky and narrow. It led along the edges of fright- 

 ful precipices, and at times in going down the ravines it 

 was SO' steep that not only did we have to clog three of 

 the wheels, but we had to cut down some of the small fir 

 trees and fasten them to the wagon, so as to help in hold- 

 ing it back. In spite of all these precautions it would 

 at times shoot forward with such a velocity that for a mo- 

 ment I gave up all hope of ever seeing it or the two old 

 oxen, the leaders, again, who alone were left in the yoke 

 at places like these. By hard work we managed to reach 

 "Frenchman's Ranch," a cluster of five or six houses on 

 the South Fork of the Feather River, at high noon, and 

 here we took a short rest. 



After starting again I remained yet for a short time 

 with the team; but, getting disgusted with the continual 

 yelling and the whipping of the poor animals, I stole off, 

 i. e., I walked ahead, at first slowly and then faster. I 

 soon found myself alone on the road which I followed now 

 more leisurely— my rifle on my shoulder. Silence like 

 that of a sepulcher lay over the primeval forest around 

 me, and the sighing of the trees rather increased than 

 disturbed it. 



This was a virgin forest! Dense brushwood covered 

 the ground between these giants which had witnessed the 

 change of winter and summer for centuries. There they 

 stood; the mighty yellow pine, the sombre black fir, and 

 the slender, magnificent cedar, "the gazelle among 

 trees," running up straight as an arrow, often two hun- 

 dred feet high, into the clear, blue atmosphere. Many 

 of them had fulfilled their destiny and paid the debt of 

 nature. Phantom-like stood the immense trunks, often 

 eight feet in diameter, and a hundred feet high, devoid 

 of bark and branches, and bleached by storms of count- 

 less years as they looked down on the wanderer, or show- 

 ing by their charred or blackened stems that they had 



