But no matter how he praised the weather he could not induce any one to winter with him until 1864.
He liked to describe the great flood of 1867, the year before I reached California, when all the walls were striped with thundering waterfalls.
He was a fine, erect, whole-souled man, between six and seven feet high, with a broad, open face, bland and guileless as his pet oxen.

No stranger to hunger and weariness, he knew well how to appreciate suffering of a like kind in others, and many there be, myself among the number, who can testify to his simple, unostentatious kindness that found expression in a thousand small deeds.
After gaining sufficient means to enjoy a long afternoon of life in comparative affluence and ease, he died in the autumn of 1876.

He sleeps in a beautiful spot near Galen Clark and a monument hewn from a block of Yosemite granite marks his grave..