The Ip20 Outing 



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Lake. Much recasting of plans this caused the Outing Committee. 

 To its enduring credit be it said that in all the following enforced 

 changes of plan never once did the party miss a meal. 



The country about the lake proved charming, wooded with great 

 Jeffrey pines and red firs, and groves of shining aspens. Dainty 

 crimson mimulus spread a rosy carpet under the trees. Fishing was 

 fair, swimming a rare luxury. There was a wonderful abundance 

 of bird-life. Rugged Kaiser Ridge opened up surprisingly wide 

 views of the Sierra from Mount Conness down to the Kings-Kern 

 Divide. Nevertheless, we were happy to break camp the third morn- 

 ing and start on the trail across Kaiser Pass. That was a day of 

 superb forests, a colorful day, rich in the warm reds of pine and fir 

 boles, in meadow green and yellow mats of flowers. A dozen times 

 distant Banner and Ritter shone in the vistas between the trees, ris- 

 ing above the blue canon of the San Joaquin, or, on the nearer 

 horizon, Red-and-White Peak, crowning Vermilion Valley. 



The Hot Springs camp, where we were again delayed for two 

 days, was the least attractive of the trip. Hot baths were too recent 

 a memory to rouse much enthusiasm; so, to pass the time away, 

 knapsacking began — up Bear Creek, or even as far as Seven Gables. 

 At Jackass Meadow, however, the third camp, the charm of the 

 High Country really began. 



Our camp there was in the upper meadow at the head of the cas- 

 cade. Hauntingly suggestive of the Tuolumne were the broad lu- 

 pine-painted meadows, the glimpses of white peaks, the soda spring, 

 the glaciated pavements. The low dome across the river offered 

 beautiful sunset views of the green lower meadows long-shadowed 

 with spiry pines, of sweeps of sunlit river, and of the burnished 

 sides of Bear Dome and Jackass Dyke. Above camp the San Joa- 

 quin River ran slow and deep, its swirling eddies giving little hint 

 of the strong, treacherous current that so nearly darkened our trip 

 with tragedy. No account of the outing would be complete without 

 tribute to the girl who unhesitatingly risked her own life in that 

 river to save another's, or praise of the group of level-headed women 

 who rescued them both in the end. 



After two days of fishing in the river and swimming in Lake 

 Florence we moved on again. So far we had not touched the route of 

 the John Muir Trail, but at Blaney Meadow, where the trail comes 

 down from Seldon Pass, we struck into this wonderful "highway" 



