up from ''The Land of Little Rain" iii 



a bunch of timber, to which access is gained over mounds 

 of snow. Here is Camp Celeste. Just beyond in the basin 

 of a giant amphitheatre Hes Mirror Lake. Before the camp 

 are palisades of granite, studded with a few sturdy pines 

 which have gained a footing in the clefts of the rock. 



The snow is falling much as it did last night, not much 

 in quantity but the little balls fall upon my paper and 

 hands rapidly enough to make me think that far more are 

 coming. The clouds slide down over the crags, breaking 

 into wisps here, spreading out into palls there, then after 

 their force is spent, gradually fade out. The town of 

 Lone Pine, far down the slit in the mountain, is bathed 

 in bluish sunlight. 



Verily, this is "The Land of Little Rain." Even the 

 snow is sparse and dry. Mrs. Austin, who coined the 

 epithet and brought fame to this land, lives near the 

 mountain's foot. 



Marsh is not feeling well to-day. This will account 

 for his continued criticism of the sleds. The "go-devils" 

 have now become "hang-back devils" and "roll-over 

 devils." I suggested that what the Creator should have 

 produced was a man, mule, and flying machine combined 

 in one creature. He agreed that there might be room for 

 inventive genius in this direction. 



Our grove here is quite sheltered. We shall turn our 

 sleeping tent upside down on some tamarack supports 

 by the side of a boulder and stay out the storm. 



Sunday Evening. 

 In the shelter of the rock in the storm which has at 

 last arrived in its full strength we sit and hope. It may 

 be long or short, but to-night, at least, it has become a 

 blizzard. The air is full of snow and the old tamaracks 

 are powdery, while jets of snow are pouring from the 

 rocks. The wind is whistling in the trees, and a fine 

 sprinkle of snow is falling from our rock over us as we 

 sit under its lee. The fire is casting its ruddy glow in 

 defiance of the storm. 



