It cost $3.85 per hundred pounds and $5.73 war-tax to ship the car to Reno (or to San Francisco--no difference in the rate to either place). It weighed, including four spares and other equipment, 4960 pounds, and the bill was $196.69. On inquiring about reservations, the agent said: “I doubt if you can get even an upper berth; the Limited is always full. Now that the strike is off, it is sure to be crowded.” Would he wire? “No use; the train has left Ogden hours ago.” I would have gladly sat up all night in the train to be out of the desert. In another hour we were in a drawing-room, scrubbed and brushed, looking less like two tramps and more like respectable people. Unless you have been through a like experience, you cannot share our feelings, as we sat down to a perfectly good, _clean_, wholesome meal in the diner, and slept in clean linen that night. I am glad that we had the experience and can appreciate that phase of Western life. I am equally glad that we shipped the car, which reached us at the California border a week later, in good order and still white with sand. The road to Reno, after leaving the desert country, follows the oldest transcontinental route to the Coast--the trail of the early pioneers, the gold-seekers of ’49. For miles it follows the Humboldt River, through Palisade Canyon, past the thriving town of Elko, Battle Mountain, and Lovelock. Reno, the metropolis of Nevada, is the seat of the state university. There is much of interest to see and many side trips to the mining regions, all worth while. It is but a few miles from the state line of California, where the motorists’ troubles are ended, for from here to San Francisco the roads are smooth as marble, with no dust, and the signs read “Smile at Miles”--“Miles of Smiles”--our welcome to California, the beautiful land of sunshine and flowers, of which so much has been said in song and story and the half can never be told. “Why do all the people have the tops of their cars up?” “Why? Because the sun always shines.” And we were soon to enjoy the glad sunshine that makes you feel young and happy, with a joy in living like that experienced in the Riviera. XIV THE END OF THE ROAD Beyond Reno the ascent of the Sierra Nevada begins, and you pass Lake Tahoe, six thousand feet high, the most delightful summer-resort region in America. The Lincoln Highway joins the other routes here, and is really a highway, making a glorious finish in Lincoln Park, San Francisco. One of the finest views is the mighty canyon of the American River, with the timbered gorge and the rushing stream two thousand feet below. You are held spellbound by the scenery, as you descend the western slope to Sacramento, the capital of California, 125 miles from San Francisco.