About
seven
o'clock
one
blistering
hot
morning—for
it
was
now
dead
summer
time—Higbie
and
I
took
the
boat
and
started
on
a
voyage
of
discovery
to
the
two
islands.
We
had
often
longed
to
do
this,
but
had been
deterred
by
the
fear
of
storms;
for
they
were
frequent,
and
severe
enough
to
capsize
an
ordinary
row-boat
like
ours
without
great
difficulty—and
once
capsized,
death
would
ensue
in
spite
of
the
bravest
swimming,
for
that
venomous
water
would
eat
a man's
eyes
out
like
fire,
and
burn
him
out
inside, too,
if
he
shipped
a sea.
It
was
called
twelve
miles, straight
out
to
the
islands—a
long
pull
and
a
warm
one—but
the
morning
was
so
quiet
and
sunny,
and
the
lake
so
smooth
and
glassy
and
dead,
that
we
could
not
resist
the
temptation.
So
we
filled
two
large
tin
canteens
with
water
(since
we
were
not
acquainted
with
the
locality
of
the
spring
said
to
exist
on
the
large
island),
and
started. Higbie's brawny
muscles
gave
the
boat
good
speed,
but
by
the
time
we
reached
our
destination
we
judged
that
we
had
pulled
nearer
fifteen
miles
than
twelve.
We
landed
on
the
big
island
and
went ashore.
We
tried
the
water
in
the
canteens, now,
and
found
that
the
sun
had spoiled it;
it
was
so
brackish
that
we
could
not
drink
it;
so
we
poured
it
out
and
began a
search
for
the
spring—for
thirst
augments
fast
as
soon
as
it
is
apparent
that
one
has
no
means
at
hand
of
quenching
it.
The
island
was
a long, moderately high
hill
of
ashes—nothing
but
gray
ashes
and
pumice-stone,
in
which
we
sunk
to
our
knees
at
every
step—and
all
around
the
top
was
a forbidding
wall
of
scorched
and
blasted rocks.
When
we
reached
the
top
and
got
within
the
wall,
we
found simply a shallow, far-reaching basin, carpeted
with
ashes,
and
here
and
there
a
patch
of
fine
sand.
In
places,
picturesque
jets
of
steam
shot
up
out
of
crevices,
giving
evidence
that
although
this
ancient
crater
had gone
out
of
active
business,
there
was
still
some
fire
left
in
its
furnaces. Close
to
one
of
these
jets
of
steam
stood
the
only
tree
on
the
island—a small
pine
of
most
graceful
shape
and
most
faultless symmetry;
its
color
was
a
brilliant
green,
for
the
steam
drifted
unceasingly
through
its
branches
and
kept
them
always
moist.
It
contrasted
strangely
enough,
did
this
vigorous
and
beautiful outcast,
with
its
dead
and
dismal
surroundings.
It
was
like
a cheerful spirit
in
a
mourning
household.
We
hunted
for
the
spring
everywhere,
traversing
the
full
length
of
the
island
(two
or
three
miles),
and
crossing
it
twice—climbing ash-hills patiently,
and
then
sliding
down
the
other
side
in
a sitting posture, plowing
up
smothering
volumes
of
gray
dust.
But
we
found
nothing
but
solitude,
ashes
and
a heart-breaking silence. Finally
we
noticed
that
the
wind had risen,
and
we
forgot
our
thirst
in
a
solicitude
of
greater
importance; for,
the
lake
being quiet,
we
had
not
taken
pains
about
securing
the
boat.
We
hurried
back
to
a
point
overlooking
our
landing place,
and
then—but
mere
words
cannot
describe
our
dismay—the
boat
was
gone!
The
chances
were
that
there
was
not
another
boat
on
the
entire
lake.
The
situation
was
not
comfortable—in truth,
to
speak
plainly,
it
was
frightful.
We
were
prisoners
on
a desolate island,
in
aggravating
proximity
to
friends
who
were
for
the
present
helpless
to
aid
us;
and
what
was
still
more
uncomfortable
was
the
reflection
that
we
had
neither
food
nor
water.
But
presently
we
sighted
the
boat.
It
was
drifting
along, leisurely,
about
fifty
yards
from
shore, tossing
in
a
foamy
sea.
It
drifted,
and
continued
to
drift,
but
at
the
same
safe
distance
from
land,
and
we
walked
along
abreast
it
and
waited
for
fortune
to
favor
us.
At
the
end
of
an
hour
it
approached a jutting cape,
and
Higbie
ran
ahead
and
posted
himself
on
the
utmost
verge
and
prepared
for
the
assault.
If
we
failed
there,
there
was
no
hope
for
us.
It
was
driving
gradually shoreward
all
the
time, now;
but
whether
it
was
driving
fast
enough
to
make
the
connection
or
not
was
the
momentous question.
When
it
got
within
thirty
steps
of
Higbie I
was
so
excited
that
I fancied I
could
hear
my
own
heart
beat. When, a
little
later,
it
dragged
slowly
along
and
seemed
about
to
go
by,
only
one
little
yard
out
of
reach,
it
seemed
as
if
my
heart
stood still;
and
when
it
was
exactly abreast
him
and
began
to
widen away,
and
he
still
standing
like
a
watching
statue, I
knew
my
heart
did
stop.
But
when
he
gave a
great
spring,
the
next
instant,
and
lit
fairly
in
the
stern, I discharged a war-whoop
that
woke
the
solitudes!
But
it
dulled my enthusiasm, presently,
when
he
told
me
he
had
not
been caring
whether
the
boat
came
within
jumping distance
or
not,
so
that
it
passed
within
eight
or
ten
yards
of
him,
for
he
had
made
up
his
mind
to
shut
his
eyes
and
mouth
and
swim
that
trifling distance.
Imbecile
that
I was, I had
not
thought
of
that.
It
was
only
a
long
swim
that
could
be
fatal.
The
sea
was
running high
and
the
storm
increasing.
It
was
growing
late, too—three
or
four
in
the
afternoon.
Whether
to
venture
toward
the
mainland
or
not,
was
a
question
of
some
moment.
But
we
were
so
distressed
by
thirst
that
we
decide
to
try
it,
and
so
Higbie
fell
to
work
and
I
took
the
steering-oar.
When
we
had
pulled
a mile, laboriously,
we
were
evidently
in
serious
peril,
for
the
storm
had
greatly
augmented;
the
billows
ran
very
high
and
were
capped
with
foaming
crests,
the
heavens
were
hung
with
black,
and
the
wind
blew
with
great
fury.
We
would
have
gone back, now,
but
we
did
not
dare
to
turn
the
boat
around,
because
as
soon
as
she
got
in
the
trough
of
the
sea
she
would
upset,
of
course.
Our
only
hope
lay
in
keeping
her
head-on
to
the
seas.
It
was
hard
work
to
do
this,
she
plunged so,
and
so
beat
and
belabored
the
billows
with
her
rising
and
falling bows.
Now
and
then
one
of
Higbie's
oars
would
trip
on
the
top
of
a wave,
and
the
other
one
would
snatch
the
boat
half
around
in
spite
of
my cumbersome steering apparatus.
We
were
drenched
by
the
sprays constantly,
and
the
boat
occasionally
shipped
water.
By
and
by, powerful
as
my
comrade
was,
his
great
exertions began
to
tell
on
him,
and
he
was
anxious
that
I
should
change
places
with
him
till
he
could
rest
a little.
But
I
told
him
this
was
impossible;
for
if
the
steering
oar
were
dropped
a
moment
while
we
changed,
the
boat
would
slue
around
into
the
trough
of
the
sea, capsize,
and
in
less
than
five
minutes
we
would
have
a
hundred
gallons
of
soap-
suds
in
us
and
be
eaten
up
so
quickly
that
we
could
not
even
be
present
at
our
own
inquest.
But
things
cannot
last
always.
Just
as
the
darkness
shut
down
we
came
booming
into
port,
head
on. Higbie
dropped
his
oars
to
hurrah—I
dropped
mine
to
help—the
sea
gave
the
boat
a twist,
and
over
she
went!
The
agony
that
alkali
water
inflicts
on
bruises,
chafes
and
blistered hands,
is
unspeakable,
and
nothing
but
greasing
all
over
will
modify
it—but
we
ate,
drank
and
slept well,
that
night, notwithstanding.
In
speaking
of
the
peculiarities
of
Mono Lake, I
ought
to
have
mentioned
that
at
intervals
all
around
its
shores
stand
picturesque
turret-looking masses
and
clusters
of
a whitish, coarse-grained rock
that
resembles
inferior
mortar
dried hard;
and
if
one
breaks
off
fragments
of
this
rock
he
will
find perfectly
shaped
and
thoroughly
petrified gulls'
eggs
deeply
imbedded
in
the
mass.
How
did
they
get
there? I simply
state
the
fact—for
it
is
a fact—and
leave
the
geological
reader
to
crack
the
nut
at
his
leisure
and
solve
the
problem
after
his
own
fashion.
At
the
end
of
a
week
we
adjourned
to
the
Sierras
on
a
fishing
excursion,
and
spent
several
days
in
camp
under
snowy
Castle Peak,
and
fished
successfully
for
trout
in
a bright, miniature
lake
whose
surface
was
between
ten
and
eleven
thousand
feet
above
the
level
of
the
sea; cooling ourselves
during
the
hot
August
noons
by
sitting
on
snow
banks
ten
feet deep,
under
whose
sheltering
edges
fine
grass
and
dainty
flowers flourished luxuriously;
and
at
night
entertaining
ourselves
by
almost
freezing
to
death.
Then
we
returned
to
Mono Lake,
and
finding
that
the
cement
excitement
was
over
for
the
present,
packed
up
and
went
back
to
Esmeralda. Mr. Ballou reconnoitred awhile,
and
not
liking
the
prospect,
set
out
alone
for
Humboldt.
About
this
time
occurred
a
little
incident
which
has
always
had a
sort
of
interest
to
me,
from
the
fact
that
it
came
so
near
"instigating" my funeral.
At
a time
when
an
Indian
attack
had been expected,
the
citizens
hid
their
gunpowder
where
it
would
be
safe
and
yet
convenient
to
hand
when
wanted. A
neighbor
of
ours
hid
six
cans
of
rifle
powder
in
the
bake-oven
of
an
old
discarded cooking
stove
which
stood
on
the
open
ground
near
a
frame
out-house
or
shed,
and
from
and
after
that
day
never
thought
of
it
again.
We
hired
a half-tamed Indian
to
do
some
washing
for
us,
and
he
took
up
quarters
under
the
shed
with
his
tub.
The
ancient
stove
reposed
within
six
feet
of
him,
and
before
his
face. Finally
it
occurred
to
him
that
hot
water
would
be
better
than
cold,
and
he
went
out
and
fired
up
under
that
forgotten
powder
magazine
and
set
on
a
kettle
of
water.
Then
he
returned
to
his
tub. I
entered
the
shed
presently
and
threw
down
some
more
clothes,
and
was
about
to
speak
to
him
when
the
stove
blew
up
with
a
prodigious
crash,
and
disappeared,
leaving
not
a
splinter
behind.
Fragments
of
it
fell
in
the
streets
full
two
hundred
yards
away. Nearly a
third
of
the
shed
roof
over
our
heads
was
destroyed,
and
one
of
the
stove
lids,
after
cutting a small
stanchion
half
in
two
in
front
of
the
Indian, whizzed
between
us
and
drove
partly
through
the
weather-boarding beyond. I
was
as
white
as
a
sheet
and
as
weak
as
a
kitten
and
speechless.
But
the
Indian
betrayed
no
trepidation,
no
distress,
not
even
discomfort.
He
simply stopped washing,
leaned
forward
and
surveyed
the
clean,
blank
ground a moment,
and
then
remarked: "Mph!
Dam
stove
heap
gone!"—and
resumed
his
scrubbing
as
placidly
as
if
it
were
an
entirely
customary
thing
for
a
stove
to
do. I
will
explain,
that
"heap"
is
"Injun-English"
for
"very much."
The
reader
will
perceive
the
exhaustive expressiveness
of
it
in
the
present
instance.