High Places of the South 



51 



road that has no end. As a rule, most of the party return from 

 the peak by way of the "Devil's Backbone," leaving the summit 

 from the eastern end. This route has thrills of its own, re- 

 gardless of the season. But even this trail, if we may call it 

 such, does not furnish excitement enough to the more adven- 

 turesome ones, who, to satisfy the daredevil spirit that is ram- 

 pant within them, plunge straight down the mountain side for 

 Camp Baldy, coasting on snow part of the way, slipping with 

 the loose shale on steep slides part of the time, dropping from 

 ledge to ledge in narrow gulches, darting from tree to tree on 

 the steep pine-covered slopes to keep themselves from going 

 headlong, and so on, until they suddenly land on the banks of 

 San Antonio Creek, a mile in vertical depth below. It is hard 

 on shoe-leather, but it furnishes the thrills. 



Magnificent is the term which rightly describes the view 

 from the top of Mount San Antonio. Far below on the south 

 lies the Orange Empire, looking the giant landscape that it is, 

 with its checkerboard network of groves and highways drawn 

 in fine detail. On the north is the Mojave Desert stretching 

 away to the eastward until its limits are lost in the haze, and 

 beyond whose northerly edge rise the Tehachapi Mountains, 

 the frayed-out end of the Sierra Nevada. If the atmosphere 

 is clear enough, the Mount Whitney group is plainly discern- 

 ible. Eastward, the San Bernardino Mountains, with San Gor- 

 gonio's old gray head rising from their midst, seem very near 

 at hand; while toward the west the view takes in the jumble of 

 lesser mountains and wider valleys that fill the space between 

 San Antonio and the sea. Offshore stands Catalina, the "Ma- 

 gic Isle." 



With all its attractions, however, the Mount San Antonio 

 trip is not altogether satisfying to many of the Sierra Club. 

 The place is too near civihzation. The "outlanders" are too 

 numerous. The trail is too crowded. There is no camp-fire, 

 for the night is spent at Camp Baldy. The dance-pavilion is a 

 poor substitute for the night-gathering around the big log fire 

 in the open. There are altogether too many reminders of the 

 daily grind of life. So it is that many of us come av/ay from 

 there with our longings not fully satisfied. 



But San Gorgonio and San Jacinto — ah, they are different ! 



