4.68 The National Geographic Magazine 



uary, 1907, caught the hotel people un- 

 awares, and a dozen of the patient toilers 

 of the trail perished before the relief ex- 

 pedition could break its way through. 



When a sea of fog is hiding the sun 

 from the valley beneath and the peaks 

 around Mount Wilson are revealed as 

 islands in the midst of a vast ocean, it is 

 hard to recall the extensive valley and 

 ocean panorama of a few hours previous, 

 when the green checker-board squares of 

 cultivated ranches and the white smoke 

 of the locomotive colored the broad level 

 of the landscape. Mount Harvard, 

 closely joined to Mount Wilson by a sad- 

 dle and well wooded with spruce on the 

 near side, lends greatest value to the 

 cloud scenes, while Mounts Lowe, Mark- 

 ham, and San Gabriel rear their succes- 

 sive elevations in one, two, three order 

 to the west. 



Gradually lifting as the day advances, 

 the level sea of fog will often break into 

 the fluffy billowyness of shifting clouds 

 just as the setting sun lends rose-colored 

 tints of loveliness. Pouring over the 

 connecting ridges and downward into 

 the canyons about Wilson's Peak the 

 fog, in the twinkling of an eye, forms 

 waterfalls and rapids, and, filling into 

 the West Fork Valley across the Sierra 

 Madre range, constructs beautiful rivers. 



The night view from Mount Wilson is 

 doubtless unequaled by any other moun- 

 tain of the world. The star-lit heavens 

 upside down is at once suggested to the 

 amazed tourist, who is overcome by the 

 unexpectedness of the sparkling area of 

 electric lights beneath him. Pasadena, 

 eight miles distant in an air line, spreads 



her scintillating splendor almost to the 

 foot of the mountain, and is connected 

 by bands of whiteness with Los Angeles 

 and the nearer beach towns of Venice, 

 Ocean Park, and Santa Monica. Long 

 Beach and San Pedro, over thirty miles 

 away, are plainly revealed, and the loca- 

 tion of over thirty cities and towns can 

 be determined by their lights. 



Not the least feature of Mount Wilson 

 as a pleasure mountain for the people of 

 Los Angeles and vicinity is the eight- 

 mile trip by trail from the old foothill 

 town of Sierra Madre to the peak. To 

 those accustomed to the dryness of the 

 valley and coast region, and who have 

 their sole idea of the mountain from the 

 bare southern face of the range revealed 

 to the cities below, the wild freshness of 

 the Little Santa Anita Canyon is a won- 

 derful surprise. 



The grateful, refreshing sound of 

 tumbling water greets the ear, beautiful 

 waterfalls appear in the deep canyon 

 below the trail, the rocky banks are 

 green with moss and ferns, and the plen- 

 tiful profusion of pine, spruce, and 

 mountain oak is a welcome surprise. 

 Deer have been killed within two hours 

 of Los Angeles, and the wildcat is fre- 

 quently seen on the trail. 



Whether the stubborn burro or 

 "Shanks' mare" is depended upon, the 

 excursion furnishes one of the most com- 

 plete and quickest changes from the 

 atmosphere of civilization to be found 

 near any large city of the world. The 

 general dryness of southern California 

 renders the transition all the more no- 

 ticeable and welcome. 



