enticing that I recommenced my travels with reluctance. No scenery can
be more beautiful than that of the small valleys of California.
Ascending the range of elevated mountains which border the Cache creek,
we had a most extensive view of the broad plain of the Sacramento,
stretching with islands and bells of limber far away to the south as
the eye could penetrate. The gorges and summits of these mountains are
timbered with largo pines, firs, and cedars, with a smaller growth of
magnolias, manzanitas, hawthorns, etc., etc. Travelling several miles
over a level plateau, we descended into a beautiful valley, richly
carpeted with grass and timbered with evergreen oak. Proceeding across
this three or four miles, we rose another range of mountains, and,
travelling a league along the summit ridge, we descended through a
crevice in a sleep rocky precipice, just sufficient in breadth to admit
the passage of our animals. Our horses were frequently compelled to
slide or leap down nearly perpendicular rocks or stairs, until we
finally, just after sunset, reached the bottom of the mountain, and
found ourselves in another level and most fertile and picturesque
valley.

We knew that in this valley, of considerable extent, there was a house
known as "Barnett's," where we expected to find quarters for the night.
There were numerous trails of cattle, horses, deer, and other wild
animals, crossing each other in every direction through the live
oak-timber. We followed on the largest of the cattle trails until it
became so blind that we could not see it. Taking another, we did the
same, and the result was the same; another and another with no better
success. We then shouted so loud that our voices were echoed and
re-echoed by the surrounding mountains, hoping, if there were any
inhabitants in the valley, that they would respond to us. There was no
response--all was silent when the sound of our voices died away in the