The Kern River Outing of IQ12. 



19 



pictures, seen while the morning was still young enough for 

 the shadows to be long and blue. And then the meadow, Upper 

 Funston on the map — "Sky Parlor," they call it — but really 

 just the meadow, park-like in its green, pine-fringed, flower- 

 carpeted and guarded by ragged peaks, some with patches of 

 snow, others in their granite nakedness, all clear-cut as a 

 cameo against the blue. A few moments more and we were 

 at Moraine Lake, a shining gem, cut with perfect symmetry, 

 green-fringed like the meadow and, like it, surrounded by 

 sharply chiseled peaks reflected on its surface. The air was 

 keen and invigorating. It felt like the top of the world, and 

 the lofty mountains were fitting company. 



The excitement of the day was the catching of some rainbow 

 trout of prodigious size, the result of the Club's planting in 

 1908, and when Mr. Colby came in with a monster of eight 

 and a half pounds and a smile to match, we all felt that come 

 what might, the summer had not been in vain. 



One more rare experience rounded out a perfect day. A 

 small group of us had an early supper and climbed to the top of 

 the little ridge back of the lake. At our very feet opened the 

 Big Arroyo, its granite walls falling sheer away beneath us, 

 while from either side and at its head towered the splendid 

 peaks of the Great Western Divide and the Kaweah range, 

 forming a sky-line of wild beauty. A tiny ribbon of green, 

 white-flecked, threaded in and out among the trees on its floor, 

 and only its insistent roar, heard plainly in the mountain silence, 

 told us that it was in reality a rushing torrent. Almost oppo- 

 site to us Lost Creek and Soda Creek poured in their white 

 waters from Sawtooth and Needham. As the sun sank, its 

 light played upon the weather-beaten faces of the peaks, lending 

 them new beauty and filling the arroyo with a violet light. We 

 were loath to leave, but had to go while it was still light enough 

 to find our way back to camp. 



Who can forget the vision of Moraine Lake at night, silent 

 and black, so still, so clear, so perfect in its reflection of each 

 shining star that the beholder felt transported to some other 

 sphere where heaven lay at his feet. Five days were spent 

 at this lake, a center for most interesting trips. There was the 

 much-heralded foot-tour to Columbine Lake and Sawtooth, 



