214 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



I turned in betimes and coyotes obliged with a 

 lullaby. It seemed about twenty minutes afterward 

 that I awoke to see the red pennon of dawn flying 

 on the horizon. It was inspiriting, however, to be 

 now close upon the mountains, with the prospect of 

 being for a few days among them, with genuine 

 trees, grass that is green, not gray, perhaps even a 

 brook to drink from. This variation from my desert 

 programme was for the purpose of getting mail and 

 supplies at Warner's Springs, the only postal point 

 I should even approach until I reached the settle- 

 ments of Imperial Valley. 



I turned now northwesterly, following the route 

 taken (as I think likely) by Anza and his fellow 

 explorers. To my right rose an isolated dark mass 

 called Coyote Mountain, which Figtree John claims 

 as his birthplace. One could hardly imagine a more 

 unattractive place to call one's native spotfyet no, 

 I remember the slums of man's cities. It is there 

 one reaches the ne plus ultra of the hideous. On 

 the other side at a few miles' distance were the 

 abrupt foothills of the Peninsular Range, the high 

 ridge of San Ysidro overlooking them and showing 

 on its crest tantalizing tokens of pines. 



Near here there is a place that has gained, not 



pioneer of about the same period (I think it was Padre Garces: there 

 were not many travellers on these deserts a century and a half ago). 

 These natives had never seen mules before, and, astounding as it 

 sounds, found them charming. Moved with compassion at seeing 

 the animals hobbled, at night they removed the fetters and led them 

 tenderly away to where a banquet of soothing pumpkins was spread. 

 And when a jack fell into a quagmire, they "all came to his assistance, 

 took him in their arms, carried him to the fire, and warmed and con- 

 soled him." This is like the snug experiences of Nick Bottom. 



