The Climb of Dunderherg via Virginia Canon 291 



Lake — winking with laughing eyes of blue, send their glisten- 

 ing light to greet you. Beyond, to the east, mysterious, silent, 

 desolate, shadow-like, filled with shifting rainbow colors, lie 

 Mono Lake and Mono Desert. 



At the campfire that night, amid stories of adventure, nar- 

 row escapes, scientific discussion, etc., it was clearly demon- 

 strated to the entire satisfaction of the twenty campers, and to 

 the packer, that if a flying body. Homer Miller, for instance, 

 in a mad leap for lower ledges, comes in contact with a splinter 

 of Dunderberg, it is eminently fitting and necessary that he 

 come into camp last of all, and that he occupy his place at the 

 camp-fire in his sleeping bag, in order that Miss Bridges may 

 illustrate with needle and thread a new use for bandanas. 



Our cross-country trip from Virginia Cafion to Young Lake, 

 where we camped for the last night, was a constantly shifting 

 scene of forest, stream and mountain, with many surprises as 

 to distances. Young Lake, only a short distance from Soda 

 Spring, has not received the appreciation to which it is clearly 

 entitled. We voted it by acclamation a spot of almost unpar- 

 alleled beauty. Ragged Peak, White Mountain and Conness, 

 so encircle it from various sides that its setting is one of wild 

 beauty unsurpassed. The stunted trees, the broken granite 

 boulders, the snow edging its way into the waters of the lake, 

 the restless waves that nervously rock themselves from cliff to 

 sandy beach, all add to the impression that this spot is very far 

 from the world. One could well believe that no human being 

 had ever visited it until his eye falls upon a bit of obsidian, or 

 an exquisite arrowhead, giving evidence that in a bygone age 

 here was once a happy hunting ground of the Indians. 



The last day brought us to the top of Conness, and back by 

 Young Lake and the circuitous contours of Ragged Peak, to 

 the base camp at Soda Springs. Blessed is the side trip, so say 

 we all ; blessed is the spirit of the mountains ; and blessed are 

 the streams of crystal water and ice-cold plunge in lake and 

 pool. The stars are blessed, too, showing in untold myriads so 

 friendly and near. Blessed is the thunderstorm, and the sweet 

 mountain rain, and the trees and flowers that hold up grateful 

 heads. And blessed beyond all the comradeship that no one 

 knows who has not tested its sweetness in the High Sierra. 



