is a strange attraction about the place - it would hold you apart from
its associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by
splendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the
noon-day sun, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of
day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in
the Sierras - with four faro tables running day and night - the pines
seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass
Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I
was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect
work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to
which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp
showed signs of a new lease of life.

Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious
difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I
abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following
with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt
end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and
there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson
Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How
much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied
that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However,
with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail
which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat
and joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hard
highway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially
lengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by
the road, to which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another
three!