Mount Shasta! Shasta the magnificent was before us, above us! And so sudden! And at last, and after so many many years!
As if a great iceberg of the north had broken loose, and, seamed and scarred by the sun, drifted through the air upon us.
The driver felt and silently acknowledged the power of this majestic presence, for he held the silk in his hands very quietly, and let the tired horses have it their own way till he drew the reins and called out at the end of the next half hour, "Fifteen minutes for supper!" Even the foaming horses, weary as they were, lifted their ears a little and stepped more alert and lively when the sun flashed back upon us from the snowy breastplate of kingly Shasta.
Here I determined to cross the Sacramento, climb the mountains of the other side, pierce the splendid forests, and reach the valleys of McCloud at the base of Shasta.
In my mind, the wigwams still sent up their smoke through the dense firs of the McCloud, and pretty maidens still bore water on their heads in willow baskets from the river to the village. I almost heard the ancient, wrinkled squaws, grinding acorn bread, and the shouts of the naked children at their sports.
I could get no ponies, and so had to take little lean Mexican mules, old and lazy as possible, the remnant of some of the great pack trains that strung across
