Angling in the Siskiyous 235 



a noiseless highly-colored road which appeals to 

 one. Around Pokegema we are in the alleged 

 open. We can see the turquoise blue here and 

 there, like a mosaic above; turquoise and emer- 

 ald, sky and fir leaves, and there incense to 

 go with it; the very air is impregnated with it, 

 and as the wind comes soughing through the 

 deep glades we catch the tang, the essence of 

 it, clear and sweet, and realize why some men 

 love the forest, live in it, die in it. 



When it rains at Pokegema I fancy the na- 

 tives do not find it out for half an hour; and 

 if it had rained along the line in some dark 

 places I should not have been surprised to hear 

 that it was not discovered until it was all over. 

 Thirty-five miles of forest sugar pines that grow 

 from one hundred to three hundred feet into 

 the air, pillars supporting the sky, western 

 white pines from one hundred to two hundred 

 feet, Balfour pines nearly one hundred feet in 

 height, black pines, looming one hundred and 

 fifty feet, Douglas fir, three hundred feet, white 

 fir, two hundred feet, Shasta fir, three hundred 

 feet, Pacific red cedar, two hundred and fifty feet. 

 We are in a land of giants; they are the only liv- 

 ing things that we are passing here, there, over on 

 yonder range, with scores of others not so large. 

 The driver calls them off as he would old friends 

 who have established claims here, and so they 

 are, and every other day, in summer, he passes 



