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.  Crossing the valley beneath it zig-zagged over the bluff to the right, through the timber to the ridge between the North and Middle Forks, then down, down, by Last Chance to Michigan Bluff.  The reverent man instinctively thanks God that he is not compelled to drive a wagon, containing his household goods, as well as his wife and children, over such roads nowadays.

Just before making the descent we succeed in getting a suggestive glimpse of what is finely revealed on a clear day.  Slightly to the south of west is Mount Diablo, while northwards the Marysville Buttes, Lassen’s rugged butte, and even stately Mt.  Shasta are in distinct sight.  At this time the atmosphere is smoky with forest fires and the burning of the tules in the Sacramento and other interior valleys, hence our view is not a clear one.

It did not take us long to reach the old stage-station in the Little American Valley.  Here Greek George—­he was never known by any other name—­had a station, only the charred logs remaining to tell of some irreverent sheep-herder or Indian who had no regard for historic landmarks.  The pile of rocks which remain denote the presence of the chimney.  When the new stage-road was built and travel over this road—­always very slim and precarious—­completely declined, Greek George removed, but his log hotel and bunk-house remained until a few years ago.

We lunch by the side of the old chimney and ruminate over the scenes that may have transpired here in those early days.

On our way back we pass the stumps of two large firs which were undoubtedly cut down to supply George’s houses with shakes.  At the base of Ft.  Sumpter we leave the trail down which we have come, with the intention of going—­without a trail—­down Whisky Creek, over several interesting meadows to Five Lake Creek, and thence up by the Five Lakes, over the pass into Bear Creek Canyon, past Deer Park to the Truckee River and thus to the Tavern.