ake glistening in pearly
brilliancy below.

At the end of the Squaw Peak ridge, on the right, is a mass of
andesite, looking like rude cordwood, and just above is a mass of
breccia very similar to that found in the Truckee Valley a few miles
below Tahoe Tavern.

Below us, at the head of Squaw Creek is a small blue pond, scarcely
large and important enough to be called a lake, yet a distinctive
feature and one that would be highly prized in a less-favored
landscape.

On the very summit of the ridge we get fine views of Mounts Ralston,
Richardson, Pyramid Peak and the whole Rock Bound Range, while close
at hand to the north is Needle Peak (8920 feet), and to the south,
Mt. Mildred (8400 feet). To our left is Fort Sumpter, to the right the
Granite Chief, and between the two a stiff breeze is blowing.

Have you ever stood on a mountain ridge or divide when a fierce gale
was blowing, so that you were unable to walk without staggering, and
where it was hard to get your breath, much less speak, and where it
seemed as if Nature herself had set herself the purpose of cleansing
you through and through with her sweetening pneumatic processes? If
not, you have missed one of the blessed influences of life.

Rough? harsh? severe? Of course, but what of that, compared with the
blessings that result. It is things like that that teach one to
love Nature. Read John Muir's account--in his _Mountains of
California_--and see how he reveled in wind-storms, and even
climbed into a tree and clung to its top "like a bobolink on a reed"
in order to enjoy a storm to the full.

Immediately at our feet lie the various mazes of canyons and ravines
that make the diverse forks of the American River. In one place is
a forbidding El Capitan, while in another we can clearly follow for
miles the Royal Gorge of this many branched Sierran river. To the
right is Castle Peak (9139 feet) to the north and west of Donner Lake,
while nearby is Tinker's Knob (9020 feet) leading the eye down to
Hopkins' Soda Springs. Beyond is Donner Peak (8135 feet) pointing
out the location of Summit Valley, just to the left (west) where the
trains of the Southern Pacific send up their smoke-puffs and clouds
into the air.

At our feet is the Little American Valley, in which is the road, up
the eastern portion of which we have so toilsomely climbed. With a
little pointing out it is possible to follow the route it followed on
the balance of its steep and perilous way. Cro