Starting on again our course was now ascending slightly, and we came across more and more of the trees, and larger ones than at first.  We saw some that seemed to have broken down with their own weight.  The bayonet shaped leaves seemed to fall off when old and the stalk looked so much like an old overgrown cabbage stump that we name them “Cabbage trees,” but afterward learned they were a species of Yucca.  We were much worried at loosing our trail and felt that it would be quite unsafe to try to cross the mountain without finding it again, so we separated, Rogers going northwest, and I southwest, agreeing to swing round so as to meet again about noon, but when we met, neither of us had found a trail, and we were still about 10 miles from the foothills.  Rogers said he had heard some of the people say that the trail leading from Salt Lake to Los Angeles crossed such a mountain in a low pass, with very high mountains on each side, and he supposed that the high mountain to the south must be the one where the trail crossed, but as this would take us fully fifty miles south of our course as we supposed it was we hesitated about going there, and concluded we would try the lowest place in the mountain first, and if we failed we could then go and try Roger’s route, more to the south.

So we pushed on, still keeping a distance apart to look out for the trail, and before night, in the rolling hills, we saw here and there faint traces of it, which grew plainer as we went along, and about sundown we reached some water holes and from some old skulls of oxen lying around the ground showing that it had at some previous time been a camping ground.  We found some good large sage brush which made a pretty good fire, and if we could have had a little fresh meat to roast we thought we were in a good position for supper.  But that poor meat was pretty dry food.  However it kept us alive, and we curled up together and slept, for the night was cool, and we had to make the little blanket do its best.  We thought we ought to find a little game, but we had not seen any to shoot since we started.

In the morning the trail led us toward the snow, and as we went along, a brave old crow surprised us by lighting on a bush near the trail, and we surprised him by killing him with a charge of shot.  “Here’s your fresh meat,” said Rogers as he put it into his knapsack to cook for supper, and marched on.  As we approached the summit we could see, on the high mountains south of us, some trees, and when we came near the highest part of our road there were some juniper trees near it, which was very encouraging.  We crossed over several miles of hard snow, but it moistened up our moccassins and made them soft and uncomfortable.  After we had turned down the western slope we killed a small hawk.  “Here’s your meat” said I, as the poor thin fellow was stowed away for future grub, to cook with the crow.