I introduce the journal of my mule-hunting adventures at this part of the volume, as it enables me to explain the systems of transport and travelling resorted to in wild countries, where roads and railways are unknown. I transcribe my journal, the events of each day as hastily recorded:— _Feb. 29th, 1860._—Left Esquimalt Harbour in the steamer ‘Panama,’—my destination San Francisco,—my mission to purchase mules. The island is still in its winter garb; not a bud has burst into leaf, and very few migratory birds have made their appearance. At 10.30 a.m. we are steaming out of the harbour; no wind, water smooth as a lake; run pleasantly down the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and pass Cape Flattery about 4 p.m. Wind blowing unpleasantly fresh, and a heavy tumbling swell makes the ‘Panama’ disagreeably lively. Passengers rapidly disappear; various gulping sounds, heavy sighs, and impatient calls for the steward, tell clearly enough that the most terrible leveller next to death, seasickness, has begun its work below. _March 1st._—A bleak misty morning, a heavy sea, wind dead ahead, and cold driving hail-showers. The ship, rolling from side to side, renders it difficult for even practised hands to guide anything spillable to the mouth; and walking, save to a sailor or a housefly, is an impossible performance. _March 2nd._—Managed to scramble on deck about 7 a.m., by going through a series of acrobatic performances, that came near to dislocating all my joints; wind moderated, but a heavy sea still rocked us very rudely. We are close inshore, passing Cape Blanco, 350 miles below Cape Flattery. Port Orford, a place celebrated for its cedar, is just visible through the haze; the rounded hills behind it are quite white with snow. Kept close inshore all day, but the weather is too cold, and sea too rough, for one to enjoy the scenery. _March 3rd._—Scrambled on deck again about 7 a.m.; wind still ahead, but altogether a better morning than yesterday. Had a good look at Cape Mendozena, a bold rocky headland, to the south of which is Mendozena city, consisting of a few houses and a groggery. The coast-line is exceedingly picturesque and pretty: between this headland and Point Arena a series of undulating hills, capped with massive pine-trees; their sides and grassy slopes, reaching down to the sea-line, remind me of English hayfields; it seems almost like enchantment, the change in the vegetation three days only from Vancouver Island.