Passing the divide and following along the west of a higher ridge for awhile, we then turn to the right and commence its ascent. The mountainside is densely timbered with hemlock, and the snow lies all around, its softened surface giving way to our horses’ tread. We zigzag and wind the mountainside for two miles, always going steadily upward. Occasionally swift currents come down the gorges, fed by the melting snows. When the sun is about two hours high, we see a break in the monotony, the foreground is more open, and, reaching a summit that seems to look down on all the world, and upward to a few solitary peaks which foot of man cares not to climb, we cross the open stretch, to find ourselves upon the ridge that forms a segment of the wide-circling rim of Crater Lake. I can not call it shore, for the walled-in waters look up to cliffs and are looked down upon by pinnacles, and are bowed over and wept upon by midsummer snowdrifts, but they know no beach and wash no friendly shore.
