A Visit to Lake Maquata. 163 



genus Opuntia — which I always detested. Fortunately the open 

 plains of the desert which I had traversed were nearly destitute of 

 <?actus growth or this experience might have been repeated oftener 

 than agreeable. Once a diminutive fox crossed my path, and fol- 

 lowed me for a ways a few steps behind me, but no other sign of 

 animal life was encountered. 



About eleven o'clock I caught sight of the light of a lantern on 

 my wagon, nearly a mile away, and directly in liDe with the star 

 which I had been using as a guide for several hours past, and I soon 

 joined my companion and we had turned in together for the night — 

 or for what remained of it. 



After sunset my friend and I had both observed that there really 

 was water in the lake, as the phenomena of mirage are visible only 

 by sunlight. I had, however, previously decided that the mirage 

 had doubly fooled us, and had led us away from the genuine water. 

 Early the following morniug, therefore, we again faced the water, 

 and in an hour had approached as near the edge of the lagoon as 

 the muddy margin along the water would permit with a team. 

 Approaching nearer on foot I finally reached the water, which at 

 the outer edge was scarce a quarter of an inch deep. Digging a hole 

 in the mud and allowing the water to accumulate I was able to dip 

 up a little in my hands and to taste. One taste was enough. The 

 Mexican maps were correct — it was muy salada, in fact, as salt as 

 ordinary brine is usually made, rendered much Salter by evaporation 

 than the water of the oceau. 



On the further bank of the lagoon, which was probably consider- 

 ably deeper than the shore I visited, there was a flock of birds resem- 

 bling sea gulls, but at the distance of perhaps half a mile or a mile 

 (so deceitful are the distances) I could not positively identify them. 

 We spread not our net for the wary fish in this dead sea of the new 

 world, we fired not a shot, we cast not a line, but silently and quickly 

 we turned our faces in the direction of the north star, and made the 

 best time practicable back to Coyote wells. Brilliantly shone the 

 sun above our heads and sent the thermometer in the bottom of our 

 grub box above 100° F. Old Boreas, as if to celebrate our return, 

 gathered from far and near, and concentrating his forces around 

 Coyote wells succeeded well in diverting our minds from the igno- 

 minious end of our fishing (or rather, botanical) excursion to the land 

 of Laguna Maquata. My Companion could not light his fire, and we 

 went supperless to bed — he could not even light his pipe, and conso- 

 lation there was none. 



The next morning, after a day of fasting in the wilderness in good 

 earnest, we enjoyed a hearty breakfast and set our faces into the 

 west where lies San Diego. That night we camped at Dos Cabesas 

 springs, which proved to be the manufacturing and distributing cen- 

 tre of winds and cyclones for the Pacific coast. A little stout hut of 

 stones proved a very agreeable place of refuge from the wind and ra 



