Any one who has never tried it can imagine how hard it is
to walk with tender feet over broken rock. It was very slow getting
along at the best, and the oxen stumbled dreadfully in trying to protect
their sore feet. At the foot of the mountain we had several miles of
soft and sandy road. The sun shone very hot, and with no water we
suffered fearfully. A short way out in the sandy valley we pass again
the grave of Mr. Isham, where he had been buried by his friends. He was
from Rochester, N.Y. He was a cheerful, pleasant man, and during the
forepart of the journey used his fiddle at the evening camps to increase
the merriment of his jolly companions. In those days we got no rain, see
no living animals of any kind except those of our train, see not a bird
nor insect, see nothing green except a very stunted sage, and some dwarf
bushes. We now know that the winter of 1849-50 was one of the wettest
ever seen in California, but for some reason or other none of the wet
clouds ever came to this portion of the State to deposit the most
scattering drops of moisture.
Quite a long way from the expected camp the oxen snuffed the moisture,
and began to hurry towards it with increased speed. A little while
before it did not seem as if they had ambition enough left to make a
quick move, but as we approached the water those which had no packs
fairly trotted in their haste to get a drink. This stream was a very
small one, seeping out from a great pile of rocks, and maintaining
itself till it reached the sands, where it disappeared completely.
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