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Sierra Club Bulletin 



so charmingly in snow as does the fir. The decorations of the pre- 

 vious storm had all melted and dropped off and the branches stood 

 out level and green, or massed in black against the pure white of the 

 snow. The stream ran sometimes in the open, sometimes completely- 

 buried in the rounding drifts that had choked its valley and roofed 

 it over. About four o'clock a sleety rain began, and an hour later I 

 reached the cabin, glad of its stove and wood, its roof and bunks. 

 There is no question about the work involved in skiing up-hill, 

 through deep wet snow and under a pack. It was bedtime the instant 

 supper was over, and the next instant the dawn was graying the east 

 window. 



It was still raining hard when I struck out Monday morning. I 

 had seen it snow up here in summer; I hardly considered rain in 

 winter a possibility; and I had to admit failure as a weather fore- 

 caster. But it was only a few miles to the summit of the pass, then 

 a glorious down-hill stretch to Meyer's, and the Grove Hotel on the 

 shores of Tahoe only eight miles beyond that for the night's stop, a 

 total of but sixteen miles. Still the day before had given me more 

 respect for sixteen miles than I had ever entertained before. 



In spite of the rain and wet snow, the trip from Phillips' to the 

 top was a lovely one. The snow was about six feet deep on the level, 

 and the woods were silent except for the song of the storm-gusts that 

 now and then crashed through the tree-tops. The sense of peace and 

 calm repose was more tangible and definite here than anywhere else 

 on the trip. I wished for the chance to spend a month or two with 

 the snug cabin as a base from which to explore this new wilderness 

 of white. 



Finally the pass was reached, and the clouds blowing through the 

 mountain rifts in long banners were tearing and whipping them- 

 selves to shreds in the great space to eastward. Every few moments 

 the curtain would rise and disclose the valley below, with the Upper 

 Truckee making a black meander pattern on the white valley-floor. 

 Then the cloud streamer would shift and the big moraine south of 

 Fallen Leaf Lake would dimly outline itself and fade into gray 

 again. Once a lift of the clouds disclosed the bulk of Job and his 

 fellows and the whole southern Tahoe Basin. I slipped off pack and 

 skis and sat a few moments in the little snowed-up rest-house that 

 stands in the pass. As I sat in its shelter out of the wind, the deep 

 jarring crash and roar of a small avalanche off to the right and out 



