The mining districts soon became almost destitute of provisions, and the country impassable in consequence of the immense fall of rain. There was a reported scarcity of flour, and it rose in one day, at San Francisco, from $16 to $40 per barrel, and in the mines from 30 cents to $1.50 per pound. I had laid in a good supply at a low price, but after this was exhausted the only way in which I could keep a supply, was to buy out those who were about to return to town. There was an almost universal desire to leave the mines, and but few remained excepting those who were from necessity compelled to. Some were preparing to return to the States; the number, however, was few. We had formed strong attachments, having participated in so many vicissitudes, and the thought of separating gave rise to gloomy reflections, particularly to those who were to remain. The supply of provisions had become so entirely exhausted, that many had resolved upon the hazardous alternative of going into the mountains, and wintering on the food procured with their rifles. At the head of the list was my friend Tracy. Nothing could induce him to go to town; he had as great an aversion to civilization as his friend Jim. He had left his home when a boy, and was probably never heard of by his parents; the connection was entirely severed, and he looked upon his rifle as his only true friend and reliance. Having sold out my stock, Mr. Fairchild, Mr. Jones, and myself had resolved to start on the 17th of November for San Francisco, Mr. F. and myself destined for home. The only preparation necessary was to distribute our surplus effects among our friends; at this particular time it afforded more pleasure to give than to receive. Nothing was movable, hardly ourselves; the earth had become so thoroughly saturated, we would either of us have been loth to accept a new suit of clothes, ragged as we were. We each reserved a pair of pantaloons, a flannel shirt, glazed cap, and stogy boots. These, in connection with our blankets, constituted our outfits. Our firearms we found it difficult to dispose of; they were entirely useless, and our friends accepted them merely as an act of courtesy. My revolver, I had carried across the Isthmus, and kept during my stay in California, and when I disposed of it, it had not had the honor of being charged.