Oct. 4, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
425 
the pines above the river. Far behind, in the 
summer haze, could be seen glimpses of the 
great valley still sweltering in the heat, while 
ahead were vistas of inviting mountains and 
great stretches of virgin forest suggestive of 
coolness and comfort. The rest of my journey 
was to be midway between the main river and 
the Middle Fork, through an exceedingly sparse¬ 
ly settled country. My host that evening was 
a typical mountain inn keeper, who set a splendid 
table, bragged on the unusual capabilities of his 
cook, then, after you had eaten your fill, pro¬ 
ceeded to learn your mission in that section to 
the minutest detail. Before I was ready for 
bed that night he knew almost as much as I did 
about my family, my experiences in school, the 
kind of work I was looking for—all drawn out 
so cleverly no one could possibly take offense. 
I tried to get him started on some stories of 
early days in the mountains, but he insisted on 
telling me about a trip that he had taken to the 
coast the preceding winter. 
There is probably no story of the California 
coast quite as well known as that of the Chinese 
abalone fisherman who attempted to wrench an 
abalone from the rock with his hand, but was 
caught, held a prisoner, and drowned by the ris¬ 
ing tide. Such an occurrence is very possible, 
but it surely could not have taken place as many 
times as I have heard of it or read of it in the 
newspapers. This story has become such a stand¬ 
ing joke with one of my school friends and I, 
that whenever anyone tells it to us we have to 
smile and mark down in our memorandum book 
the variation in particular. From what we can 
learn there have been about one hundred per¬ 
sons—Chinese, Indians, Japanese and white men 
—held fast by abalone along the California coast 
and drowned. It was interesting to hear this 
story told again, back in the mountains, and to 
meet a man who had been on the spot and had 
seen the Chinaman brought in by his fellow 
countryman, a great red mark across his hand 
showing where the shell of the abalone had 
pressed. It was gratifying to at last meet a 
man who could swear that the abalone story was 
no hoax. 
I resumed my journey next morning and 
found walking much more agreeable than it had 
been the preceding day. The road was dusty, 
but led through the pines, and the heat of the 
day was tempered. I soon found that the moun¬ 
tains of Northern California were different in 
many ways from those of the central part of 
the State, where I had spent my boyhood days. 
Instead of rough granite peaks rising high above 
the timber line, and covered at this season of 
the year with glistening snow, there were 
rounded mountains with timber growing up to 
the very summits, a succession of these as far 
