After
the forty-mile desert drive, the eighty-odd miles under the cottonwoods
that fringed the Carson River were comparatively easy. Now and again a
finger of desert touched the trail to remind you of perils past. But at
last you came to the ledges in Carson Canyon (above) where the road leapt up to the frowning summits that lay between you and the gold. At the western end of Red Lake (below),
you faced the first and lesser summit of the Sierra. Here, where those
who had preceded you had shouldered up the road with logs so that
wagons might climb it, the very rocks seemed to fight against you as
the road twisted around the edge of profound and echoing chasms.
