to in the lower part of its course know that for more than 200 miles it is a bright clear dashing stream, flowing through wild and romantic scenery. For, like many large rivers, it is shorn of half its glory by being called by another name in the upper part of its course; Pit River, rising in the very north-eastern corner of California, in the mountains west of Surprise Valley called Warner's Range, and flowing to the south-west for over 200 miles, being the true Sacramento.

There is much of early romance connected with this river. Cutting as it does, right through the Sierra Nevada mountains, and coming from the east, the early explorers accredited it with being the continuation of the Humboldt and the outlet of Utah Lake. Under the name of Buenaventura, it was searched for by Lieutenant Fremont, in his first expedition to this coast, all along the eastern base of the Sierra Nevada.

The origin of the name "Pit River" is uncertain. In the Government explorations it seems to be assumed that it was named after the great English premier, as Mount Pitt in Oregon undoubtedly was; but a general impression prevails that it was named from the fact that the early settlers found upon its banks pits dug by the Indians, in which to catch grasshoppers and other game.

Where the Pit River cuts through the Sierra is the "cañon." This includes the portion from the mouth of Fall River to the Sacramento-about a hundred miles by the windings of the stream, Though not a cañon proper throughout its whole extent, this portion is so

At

anyone who has told or left a record of the trip. Still, the cañon of Pit River was not altogether terra incognita. some points hundreds have crossed it. The former town of Pittsburg, on Squaw Creek, had its mining "excitement once, and its votaries all crossed the Pit River in the cañon. In its deeply sequestered nooks some half-wild White men have long consorted with the Indians. But no one cared to pass along the difficult precipices and jungle-like slopes to make the long journey through the cañon.

Last August, it became my duty, in the way of business, to make a reconnoissance of this cañon. Knowing it to be impassable to such animals as horses or mules, my first plan was to take but one companion with me, in order to have as few impediments as possible, and to hire Indians to pack what we had on their backs along the river-bank.

Redding, the terminus of the California and Oregon Railroad, is reached in about seventeen hours from San Francisco, and from there the stage started with us a little after midnight on our long moonlit ride. The beauty of hill and forest and river, by moonlight, was at once impressive as we emerged from the woods down on the banks of the Sacramento at Reed's Ferry. Between the dark shadowy sycamores the glittering river, whirling and gurgling, swept by without any intimation of the dangers and hardships and death which awaited us along its waters. Steeped in the full enjoyment of the scene, and free from forebodings of evil, we lumbered through the low hills on the east bank

of the river, under the shadows of the oaks and pines, and past the dark thickets of manzanita—the night - wind just strong enough to blow the dust away, and bring that coolness and sense of freshness befitting the moonlight-past the gravelly flats of Buckeye, where, in former days, miners made their "pile" or lost their hopes of fortune, and where still some hopeful ones struggle and toil. Presently the hills grow higher, and beyond Basser's, where we changed horses, steep slopes of what Whitney tells us is carboniferous limestone overlook the road. Through these hills we wound; then up steep summits, from the slopes of which we caught dim weird views of moonlit forests; down into dark shady valleys, until at last we descended the longest slope of all, and found ourselves on the banks of the Pit River at Smith's Ferry.

The United States Fish Commissioners' camp, four miles above on the McCloud River, was our destination, and there were the Indians we hoped to employ. So we had another long winding range to cross, and must descend into another valley of shadows, before we could find the McCloud dashing and roaring down below the road. Soon we saw the white tent and new board houses of the fishery slumbering in the moonlight, and just beyond them, towering high in air, the spectral range of limestone mountains that wall in the river above. The stillness of death-or its brother, sleep-overhung the camp, and not disturbing it, we spread our blankets and were soon numbered among the sleepers.

At the fishery next morning all was bustle and preparation. Mr. Stone was arranging to gather double his former amount of salmon-eggs. In the prosecution of my own plans I encountered my first difficulty. The Indians I expected to accompany me were uncertain, unwilling, and taciturn. While Mr. Lie

ber, my companion, was trying to induce the splashing salmon to bite at his hook, I went down to see the Indians in their camp. Crossing on the dam constructed by Mr. Stone, and following down the river a winding trail among the sand and bowlders for half a mile, under a group of oaks I came upon the rancheria. All around the brush-wood was covered with salmon, split open and drying in the sun. A circular structure of willow poles sheltered a group of Indians. In the foreground four "bucks" were playing cards. Half a dozen more were sitting back of these watching the game. Still farther in the background some half-dozen mahalas were busy at domestic occupations. On approaching this little group the barking of a small dog was my only greeting, and the glances of the Indians were half- averted, so that it was necessary for me to speak at once.

Indians have no word of greeting, but watch a stranger, who comes up and sits down among them, in silence, until little by little they find out his purpose and where he comes from. When they get up to leave they say, "I am going;" and the answer comes, "Go." On this occasion I could not wait for all this ceremony, and so spoke up at once: "I want to see Jim."

"I am Jim," said one of the cardplayers, in very good English. "What you want?"

I looked at him a moment. A short thick-set young Indian, with glittering black eyes and rather a black but goodlooking face. "I want you to go with me up Pit River."

Immediately all eyes were turned on me, and Jim asked:

"Are you the man Mr. Stone tell me about?"

"Yes, I am the man. Are you ready to go with me?"

After some hesitation and talk with the other Indians, he answered:

"I can't get Indians to go."

After spending much time with them, and a great deal of talk, the reasons for their reluctance were at last elicited. The cañon, they said, was very rough, and without any continuous trails. Two tribes of Indians occupied the cañon. I was among the Wintoons. The upper half of the cañon was occupied by the Pushoosh. These tribes are unable to understand each other. Long hostility had left them still jealous of each other's encroachments, and the hunter of either tribe that followed his quarry into the territory of the other was himself in danger of being made game of at any moment. I argued that they would be safe from the Pushoosh while with me, and that, though the way was rough, we would make short journeys and get through.

At last, for the compensation of a dollar per day each, three of the Indians agreed to take my camp through, and would be on hand at the fishery early next morning. Early enough next morning our Indians came; our camp was ferried over the McCloud, and packed up the long winding trail, through groves of oak-trees and thickets of manzanita, where wild pigeons were feeding, and quails with their young broods were parading in great numbers; over the Crest of limestone; then down, down, through jungles of ceanothus and thickets of buckeye to the banks of the Pit River; then up along the river-bank to near the mouth of Squaw Creek, where we made our first camp.

That night we lay down to sleep full of pleasant anticipations. We seemed to have come into a land of beauty, of mountain, rock, and river. We were well equipped for our long trip, and this first day found us well supplied with game. Morning dawned with a different aspect of affairs. During the night two of my Indians had deserted, and Jim sat solitary and moody beside the crackling camp-fire. A promise to take

him with me eventually to San Francisco had kept him faithful, but the night's reflections had given him another idea. He would not go on unless he could take his young wife, Hilda, along. In this dilemma I sought advice of Doctor Silverthorn. The doctor is one of those early pioneers who came into this country on the flood-tide of the gold-fever, and was left stranded in one of the farthest nooks to which the argonauts attained. He adapted himself to circumstances, took a daughter of the forest to wife, and made a home on the banks of Pit River. Here he established a ferry and built a toll-road when Pittsburg was a thriving mining-camp. And when the camp was deserted, and that occupation gone, he raised grapes and traded with the Indians. A gray-haired and graybearded man, erect and vigorous, and full of stories of combats and adventures with Indians and grizzlies. The doctor's dark-eyed tall young son ferried me over, and the doctor himself was ready with an expedient. It was useless, he said, to try and get Indians to pack us up the river. But he could take us, with Jim and his mahala (whom he advised us to engage), in his wagon round by the stage-road to Fall River, at the head of the cañon, where we could get a boat, in which he judged it would be practicable to descend the river. I had already been inclined to adopt this plan, and now decided to do so. I hastened across to have the camp packed up, and make Jim glad with permission to take his Hilda with us; and, in spite of our disappointment, it was a merry party that rattled past Woodman's in the doctor's new wagon.

Our route lay up Cow Creek, over the excellent grade built by the patrons of the new mining-camp. As the shadows of evening crept up the hill-side we passed shafts, dumps, and prospect - holes. all showing the freshness of recent work. Right on the road workmen are grading

out a place for the furnace of the "Afterthought"—a mine that is filling its owners with golden dreams. The smelting furnaces where Mr. Peck is successfully turning his copper-ore into mat are next passed. Several times we are stopped where some dusty miner steps into the road, brushes his hat back from his glowing face, and holds up his specimen, taken out that day, for our inspection. Splendid specimens they were, of copper, silver, or gold ores. On a more lonesome part of the road two deer crossed in front of us, but got away into the thicket before we could get a shot at them. Darkness compelled us to camp on the bank of Cow Creek, and Jim and Hilda showed their usefulness in camp by placing a good supper before us.

All day on the morrow we were climbing higher and higher into the mountains. We soon entered the region of the fir, the sugar-pine, and the pitchpine. The blue valley quail gave place to the more handsome mountain variety, and many a specimen of both Mr. Lieber secured. At evening we were tramping through the still forest of great firs and sugar-pines, looking for grouse and gray squirrels. It would be impossible for me to convey to those who have not witnessed them an idea of the grandeur of these forests. At an altitude of 5,000 to 6,000 feet all these conifers reach their grandest proportions. Many a symmetrical tree shoots up from the ground in a mighty column eight to ten feet in diameter. Among these grand trees, beside a mountain spring, we camped, to be serenaded by the great owls until a shot brought one from the dark treetop, another specimen for my taxidermist friend.

Next day we soon left the verdure of the western slope behind us, and descended to the sagebrush-covered valleys and lava ridges of the eastern slope. At night we camped in Fall River Val

ley.

Next day the camp was sent with Mr. Lieber to Miller's Bridge, six miles below the mouth of Fall River, while I gave my attention to procuring a boat. Finding none suitable, I had one built. In two days the Fall River was launched, the best and stanchest skiff ever seen in that country.

Fall River Valley, like Big Valley and Klamath Lake Valley, is one of those plateau basins that have been inland seas or lakes for eons, probably, before reaching their present elevation. An infusorial marl exposed in Big Valley and Birney Valley, formed during this time, is several hundred feet in thickness. The lava-flow covering them all is of a much later period, or rather of later periods, for several distinct overflows can be noticed. The present river-channels seem to have been established before the later lava-flow. The effect, in many cases, has been to fill up the channels for two-thirds or more of its length, and by that means compel the streams for that distance to be subterranean. In this manner many branches of the Pit River only come to the surface within a mile or two of their outlet. Fall River Lake bubbles up in the middle of the valley from subterranean streams of this kind, as if it was one giant spring; and the river flows out of it full-sized, deep, and broad, on its short but winding course to the Pit, into which it plunges over beautiful falls, that, the denizens claim, form the "finest waterpower in the world." Farm-houses are scattered all through the valley, and at the falls a little village has sprung up about the fine grist-mill and saw-mill of Winters & Cook. Thousands of dollars have been expended on these structures, and the bridges and roads leading here. These men are martyrs to their faith in the natural advantages of this locality. Religion and science have their martyrs; so, too, has civilization. The man who, recognizing the wants and advantages of

a district, risks his wealth in placing needed improvements there-risks it in an almost hopeless cause-risks and loses-is as much a martyr as if he suffered for some dogma or idea. While the wail of the lost spirit often is "Too late," the wail of these martyrs is "Too soon." The improvements may be wanted and the locality well adapted for them, but if population is lacking, cui bono? But there is an end to the struggle of our pioneer martyrs. If they can only hold out a little longer, humanity with its wants and wealth will soon fill these beautiful valleys.

At Captain Winters' mill our boat was built; but as the cañon immediately below this is full of rapids, I had it carried in a wagon six miles over the road to Miller's Bridge, where Lieber and the Indians were camped. Right glad I was to see them again, and I am sure they were equally glad to see me, and to feel that our explorations could now begin in earnest. Mr. Lieber had shot several species of birds new to him. Jim inspected the screws and calking of the boat, as it lay in the wagon, with a critical eye, and Hilda looked up from her culinary work at the camp-fire with a broad smile of welcome. On launching our boat we found it to possess all the qualities of stability and ease of management desired, so we determined to pack up and make a short trip that day.

I had previously explored the cañon between here and the mouth of Fall River. Immediately below the mouth of Fall River, for some ten miles or more, the Pit River winds, roaring and rushing, through a cañon of immense depth. Where it is deepest, and cut almost vertical for a thousand feet, a beautiful sample of a mountain section is presented. Above the talus at its base rises a great wall of sandstone and slate, the strata, distinctly visible, forming a great arch in this one wave of flexure.

Half-way up the rhyolites begin, layer after layer marking different periods of eruption, and showing an enormous depth of lava-flow, even high on the mountain. The graded road at points winds along the very edge of this cañon, and gives glimpses down into its yawning depths.

While we were packing up at Miller's Bridge, a band of Pushoosh came dashing up on their ponies, to the evident disquiet of our Wintoons. From the impudent bearing of these braves it was evident that only our presence prevented them from annoying Jim. I asked Jim what they would do if I was not there. "Maybe steal the pocta” (woman), he said. In spite of this interruption, we were soon packed and aboard of our boat, floating under the bridge and down the rapid current beyond. As we found ourselves gliding so swiftly among the bright dancing waves, we could not repress a cheer, which was answered from the bridge just as a bend of the river hid it from our sight.

Round willowy bends and under overarching oaks and sycamores we glided, now fast, now slow, as the current flowed, until at last we heard rapids roaring ahead, and our boat was to be tried. Not overconfident as yet, we ran ashore, and I went ahead to reconnoitre. Crushing through the brush into a sharp concave bend, I found the river roaring a white mass of foam among dark lava bowlders. The scene was wild and grand enough, but terrible when I thought that we must go down through those boiling waters. This is what I had been warned against, and I had laughed at their warnings, but now I must go through it. While I watched the white flakes of foam leaping up against the black rocks, Jim pushed his way through the brush and stood beside me.

"Pooty bad place."
"Yes, Jim; very bad."

"Have to let her down with the rope."