The trail is all washed away and our horses stumble and slide, slip and almost fall over the barren and rough rocks, and the scattered bowlders, a devastating cloud-burst could not wash away.
Here is a spring on the left, hidden in a grove of alders and willows, and now new and more fantastic spires arise on the right.

Higher up we see where those sturdy road-builders rolled giant rocks out of their way to make an impassable road look as if it could be traversed.
Reaching the point at the foot of Squaw Peak at last we look back over Squaw Valley.

In the late summer tints it is beautiful, but what must it be in the full flush of its summer glory and perfection?
Then it must be a delight to the eye and a refreshment to the soul.

How interesting, too, it is to rehabilitate it as a great glacial lake.
One can see its pellucid waters of clear amethystine blue and imagine the scenes that transpired when the ancestors of the present Indians fished, in rude dugouts, or on logs, or extemporized rafts, upon its surface.

Now it is covered with brown, yellowish grass, with tree-clad slopes rising from the marge.
Turning to the right we find ourselves in a country of massive bowlders.