We took a day for a long excursion to Cloud's Rest. This meant twenty-two miles of mule riding, but it also meant an even more comprehensive and exalted view from the mountain's top, of frozen lakes below, deep canyons, lofty mountain peaks where storms were raging far away, and solitary table lands. Only people of endurance can take such a jaunt, as one's joints grow very weary and aching from the slow riding hour after hour. When we were at Camp Curry, a party of some forty Germans, men and women, were there for the pleasure of "doing" the entire Valley. No climb was too hard for them. They were known as the "German climbing bunch." Every morning one might see them with their paper bags of luncheon and their climbing-sticks, walking gaily along to the beginning of some one of the mountains trails. They entertained us at the evening camp fire with their German songs, and were altogether an energetic and genial company. The open air life and the grandeur of the trails were very hard to leave, but we came away one noon and once more drove back to Wawona. There we were detained for a week by a break in the car. We started out one morning when the rain was pouring to take the Mariposa road. We found that with no chains and with the machine slipping and sliding on the steep clay road, progress would be impossible. I tried to help the matter by putting freshly cut branches of odorous balsam fir under the wheels to help them grip. I walked behind the machine with a log, throwing it under the wheels as they advanced foot by foot, T. fighting at the steering wheel like the pilot of a drifting ship. But it was impossible to make headway. We met some teamsters who had evidently been taking something hot to counteract the discomfort of their wet exteriors. One said solemnly of the sun when we expressed a wish that it would appear, "Yes, the sun is our father, and our step-father." Then he added, "I'd worship the sun if I were a heathen. I kinder do, now." He went on irrelevantly, "I do think Roosevelt's one of the best men we've got. I do think so. I do so." We were close to a deserted logging camp, which looked doubly melancholy in the falling rain. There was the deserted runway, there were the empty cottages, with broken windows and doors swinging open. Back of the cottages were piles of tin cans. One cottage still bore its old name, "Idle Burg." All about were blooming columbines and the odorous balsam.