FOREST AND STREAM 
July, 1918 
394 
The Stephen T. Mather party on the Wh itney Meadow in the core of the Sierras 
down stairs at night, they all concluded to 
stay where they were until daylight. The 
packers took the lead mule firmly by his 
forefeet and spread them out, one on one 
rock and another on another. Then they 
adjusted his hind legs in similar fashion. 
The mule stood three or four hours until 
daybreak, then yawned, wagged an ear, and 
went on down the mountain. 
That was the mule my friend McCor¬ 
mick, Vice-President of the Southern Pa¬ 
cific Railroad, rode when we climbed 
Mount Whitney. I had another mule of 
equal capability. If they had not halloaed 
at us and stopped us, we would have rid¬ 
den clear on up, and probably never found 
the mountain top at all. They said it 
was not professional to ride a mule all the 
way up—that it is considered better form 
to stop at the foot of the Chimney, and 
take two or three hours to go up on foot 
—it must be at least 2,500 feet that you 
are supposed to climb on foot. It is a 
good thing they told us about that, or 
McCormick and I might never have gotten 
into the Sierra Club at all. 
M ount whitney is 14,502 feet 
high in its stocking feet, a few, at 
least, higher than anything else in 
our proud republic—that is to say, in the 
United States proper. There are moun¬ 
tains up in Alaska which make it look 
like a bent nickel, but it is not necessary 
to refer to these when you are out after a 
reputation as a mountain climber. I know 
Mount Whitney is this high because Brad¬ 
ford Marshall, Chief Geographer of the 
United States Geological Survey, says it is 
that high. He is the man that makes the 
maps, put in all the contour lines, and 
measures all the mountain peaks. He is 
the only sensible mountain climber I know 
of—he gets a salary for doing it. None 
of us did. 
You can climb Mount Whitney from the 
east side or from the west side. Some 
day there will be a road across the Sier¬ 
ras in there somewhere—it was part of 
our business to find out whether one could 
be built. Usually parties go in from the 
west side, which means that they go 
through the Sequoia National Park, or 
else up the Kaweah Valley; thence, wind¬ 
ing around via Timber Gap and Farewell 
Gap or the Franklin Pass, until they get 
over into the Kern River Valley. The 
usual camp for climbing Mount Whitney 
on the west side is at what is known as 
the Crabtree Meadows. 
When you get there you are in the 
heart of the famous Golden Trout country. 
There are several streams here each of 
which has a yellowish bottom and which 
hence raises Golden Trout. It is consid¬ 
ered the correct thing to have a species of 
these named after you. There were 
eighteen in our party, and each of us had 
a new species named after him. When 
you are in the business of getting famous 
there is no use drawing a line too soon. 
Of course, going in to climb Mount 
Whitney means a pack train for a week 
or two weeks—the longer you are there 
the better you will like it. Our party was 
a very modest and simple one—we only 
had fifty-odd horses and mules, and half a 
dozen packers and a dozen or two guests. 
It is perfectly simple to run a pack train 
of this kind if you are a friend of Stephen 
T. Mather, Assistant to the Secretary of 
the Interior at Washington. He has Alad¬ 
din skinned both ways of the deck. He 
gets a princely salary of $2,700 a year, or 
maybe, as has earlier been said, $2,750. 
Incidentally—and very usefully—he is the 
king of the Cannibal Borax Islands, and 
has been for so long that it takes a twen¬ 
ty mule team now to haul his cigarette 
money. Still, you need that much money 
to climb Mount Whitney, if you are also 
engaged in being an Assistant to the Secre¬ 
tary of the Interior. 
This brings one to certain studies of 
our government at Washington. Mr. 
Lane, Secretary of the Interior, is justly 
famous for his skill in picking out assist¬ 
ants. Having induced such a one to aban¬ 
don his own business for the sake of the 
aforesaid princely salary, Mr. Lane ex¬ 
plains to him gently the special avenues 
along which the Department must needs 
be assisted. 
“Now, take that new automobile road 
across the Sierras,” he says—“I suppose a l 
very fair survey could be made for thirty | 
or forty thousand dollars. Then we need 
another hotel at one of the other Parks— i 
—it wouldn’t cost a cent over fifty thou- 1 
sand dollars. Now Steve—or Adolph—or 1 
George—(here fill in any suitable name for 
an assistant)—think of all the money I 
give you in that salary of $2,750 here. Out 
of that you can spend this $50,000 for your 
pore old boss, can’t ya ?” 
Here there is business of the Secretary 
leaning against the door of his office, his 
lip trembling, and his eyes suffused with 
tears. Of course, there is nothing for 
Steve, or Adolph, or George to do except 
to come across, whereupon the Secretary 
goes back into his office, dries his tears on 
the corner of the blotter and thinks up 
some new place where the Secretary ought 
to be assisted. 
If this thing keeps up we certainly will 
have some National Parks—if borax lasts. 
It would not surprise me if the Honor¬ 
able Franklin K. Lane would come out 
any minute with the suggestion of a four 
story hotel on top of Mount Whitney and 
an upholstered hand-rail leading all the 
way up. It is even money that if he 
thinks of it he will get it. The Horn 
Stephen T. Mather has proved himself a 
grand little Assistant so far. 
The reader of average intelligence will 
already have divined the best way in 
which Mount Whitney can be climbed—it 
is by the assistance of the Assistant to 
the Secretary. In our party we had the 
said Assistant—about the quietest man in 
the party, although he rode a large and 
gaudy white mule whose loquacity annoyed 
him very much. And then came the Chief 
Geographer aforesaid, and likewise the 
Landscape Engineer of all the National 
Parks. Besides that we had a real live 
congressman from Massachusetts—the old¬ 
est congressman in the House, a bachelor 
