July, 1918 
FOREST ANI) S T R E A M 
397 
The pack mules and the box hitch 
Roughly, the course of the journey from 
Visalia on the west of the Sierras to Lone 
Pine Station on the east is northeast to the 
Giant Forest; southeast to the Redwood 
Meadows; southeast to Mineral King over 
the Big Timber Gap; southeast to Soda 
Springs over the Farewell Gap—which 
brings one to the Kern River Valley. 
Thence one goes almost due north for two 
days’ journey, then turning to the east and 
southeast to reach the Crabtree Meadow, 
which is the usual camp for parties ascend¬ 
ing the mountain. Thence one goes south¬ 
east to the Whitney Meadows, due east to 
the Horseshoe Meadow, and thence down 
a steep pitch into the warm valley of the 
Owens River, where one reaches railway 
and automobile transportation once more. 
It will be seen that a ten days’ journey 
of this sort will have netted somewhere 
between 180 and 200 miles, as near as miles 
can be measured in this sort of travel. We 
cut out one camp, going from the Mineral 
King camp east over the Franklin Pass, 
instead of southeast to the Soda Springs 
and the Kern River Valley. It was well 
that we did so, for the view from the 
Franklin Pass off to the east is one of the 
wonderful views of the world. The Ka- 
weah Peaks, the Chagoopa Plateau, and all 
that mass of mountains which lie around 
Whitney proper can be seen far off to the 
east. One looks entirely across the deep 
cut valley of the Kern, indeed, would have 
no notion of its presence. North, south, 
east, or west are mountains, and again 
mountains—and such mountains! A sort 
of delirium seizes one in surroundings such 
as these. One does not wish to go back 
to civilization at all. The world seems 
very far away, and one seems put back 
into some primordial state of being in 
which civilization has not yet dawned. 
W E found snow on the Franklin Pass, 
but not enough to offer serious 
trouble. As we broke down from 
this summit, heading into the valley or Rat¬ 
tlesnake Creek, which was to form the stiff 
stairway down to the Kern River Valley, 
we had offered to us—at least those who 
went down in advance had it offered—one 
of the most splendid mountain pictures it 
ever was my fortune to see, and one which 
I fancy not many ever will see. Our pack 
train was coming down the trail—fifty-odd 
animals in all—and as it chanced they were 
all deployed on the steep mountain side 
where the trail zig-zagged sharply, the grad¬ 
ing being too steep to take straight down. 
As the animals were strung out on the trail 
they occupied a number of these short legs, 
so that they were moving in six or eight 
different directions at the same time. The 
whole mountain side seemed alive, and as 
the train came down, hurrying under the 
exhortations of the pack men, there was 
something military, or more than military, 
about the sight which made the blood of 
every man who saw it leap more rapidly. 
Had there been a moving picture camera 
there at the time there would have been 
an opportunity for such a picture as per¬ 
haps never again will be seen in the moun¬ 
tains. Ours was one of the largest pack 
trains which ever went into the Sierras, 
and it just chanced that, close-bunched to¬ 
gether, it struck this zig-zag descent at just 
such a place as would have offered a mov¬ 
ing picture camera 
the opportunity of a 
lifetime. But our 
moving picture man 
by this time had 
gone back home from 
Mineral Springs the 
day before, so 
no record ever was 
made of that splen¬ 
did and stirring spec¬ 
tacle, whose like not 
many mountain men 
ever have seen. 
It is a sharp and 
very difficult pitch 
down the Rattlesnake 
into the splendid val¬ 
ley of the Kern 
River, but once there 
the going is easier. 
We made a late camp 
on that day of the 
drive from Franklin 
Pass—and that the 
pack train came 
through without the 
loss of an animal was 
proof of as good 
train work in the 
mountains as this 
writer at least has 
ever seen—it must 
have been something 
like 25 miles that day, 
and the train was on 
the trot two-thirds 
of the time. 
But what a camp 
that night—and how 
Ty Sing did rise in 
the estimation o f 
every hungry moth¬ 
er’s son of us 1 Now 
we rested for a day, 
and got many scores 
of trout, and made 
little journeys here 
and there, and won¬ 
dered at the splendid 
and imperishable pictures, which are hung 
mile after mile along the steep wall of 
this canyon, so little known to us Ameri¬ 
cans who own it. 
There is a day’s journey from the Funs- 
ton Meadows, where we made our fourth 
camp, to the Junction Meadow, where one 
climbs up really out of the Kern River 
Valley and crosses the divide, to come that 
night into the open spaces of Crabtree 
Meadows, where one camps for the ascent 
of Mount Whitney proper. It runs quickly 
in the telling, and all too quickly in the 
actual experience; but the man who plans 
on the ascent of Whitney may figure that 
he is six days out at least when he camps 
on the night previous to his ascent of the 
mountain. 
U P to this time our worthy doctor had 
been in a state of gloom, since there 
was little for him to do. but now he 
chirked up and freely offered to take off 
an arm or a leg for any gentleman who 
needed such attention. At times during the 
trip the hopes of our company physician 
rose very high, especially when we were 
packing some of the mules. There was one 
jf the latter by the name of Joe Huntoon, 
which promised a tragedy every morning— 
one time he held still until the packs were 
put on him, and then calmly proceeded to 
vault over the horse of an adjacent cow- 
puncher who had done nothing but hold his 
ear to take his mind off himself. One mule 
and two horses went down in a bunch. I 
say the doctor looked cheerful then. But, 
wonderful to state, everybody got up un¬ 
hurt. I heard the medical man mutter 
things under his breath. “Curses on the 
luck!” said he. “Every plan gone wrong!” 
But now the worthy doctor chanced to no¬ 
tice a certain difficulty in the writer’s 
breathing apparatus—which later proved to 
be nothing less infantile than a good case 
of whooping cough—and his face once 
more was wreathed with smiles. 
“You must not climb,” said he. “If you 
do I will not be responsible for you.” 
“All right,” said I to him, “I wouldn’t 
ask that of anybody.” 
“No,” he went on, “if you climb that 
mountain you certainly will get fatty dila¬ 
tation of the heart and diaphanitis of both 
lungs. If you go up on that mountain you 
will never come down alive.” 
“Say not so, doctor,” said I, pleadingly. 
(continued on page 434) 
