October 19, 1863: Henley
We found much of geological interest and were busy enough during our short stay. One day we rode up the valley, crossed the line into Oregon, and climbed the Siskiyou Mountains. The state line was about eight miles from our camp. The view we had was fine, extending south to Mount Shasta and north far into Oregon. Mount Pitt1 is a grand object, a perfect cone, about nine thousand feet high, rising far above all the surrounding mountains.
The hills have all taken on the colors of autumnal foliage, not so brilliant as we have it in the East, but more so than we have it farther south in this state. Fall weather is coming on. The Sunday we spent there storms played around the peaks of the Siskiyou chain north of us and whitened them with snow.
Here was our last camp. I resolved to send John back to San Francisco Bay with our pack animals and take King and strike across to the ocean. The season is getting too far advanced to live much longer in camp, the clear nights are intensely cold, and without shelter it is impossible to sleep warm. The six nights we were there the temperature sank as follows: 25°, 23°, 15°, 19°, 22°, and the last night 10°—entirely too cold to lie out on the ground under the open sky.
You have no idea what appetites such cold air and such a life promote. In Genesee Valley during six days we three ate thirty-six pounds of beefsteak, besides other food—and on the Shasta trail we three ate forty-four pounds of venison in seven days, besides the other food.