Half a mile up we reached Barker Creek, now a bowlder-strewn arroyo which aroused my covetousness to high degree.  How I would love to build, with my own hands, a cottage, bungalow or house of some kind with these great bowlders, of varied sizes and colors, shapes and material.

Just above the junction of Barker Creek and the Rubicon is “Little Hell Hole,” a camping-place almost as famous as its larger namesake, and noted for the fact that half a mile away is a small canyon full of mineral springs—­sulphur, iron, soda, magnesia, etc.  Naturally it is a “deer-lick,” which makes it a Mecca during the open season to hunters.  The springs bubble up out of the bed of the stream, the water of which is stained with the coloring matter.  When the stream runs low so that one can get to the springs he finds some of them as pleasant to the taste as those of Rubicon and Glen Alpine.

As we got higher we left the spruces behind, and the junipers, covered with berries, began to appear.  Then we came to open spaces where the wind began to sing in the tops of the pines.

About a mile up Barker Creek, Watson showed me the course of one of his trails back to the Tavern.  It ascends a formidable ridge and leads quickly to Idlewyld, but we were bound for Rubicon Springs.  The old trail was inaccessible, but Mr. Colwell of the Springs had lately marked out a new trail, so we took our chances on finding our way somehow.  Over windfalls, up and down and around rocky promontories, we came to West Meadow Creek Wash, its rude bowlder-strewn course striking directly across our path.  Here we struck beds of brakes nestling in the shade of giant trees.  On the left side of the creek where we were, we ran into dense clumps of wild-cherry which prevented further progress.  Scouting found us an outlet on the other side of Barker Creek.  The divide on the left towered up with rugged majesty, reddish in color, and split into gigantic irregular terraces, the taluses of which were all crowded with dense chaparral growths.

On this side the slopes were all more open, nothing but rugged bowlders clinging on the bare surfaces.

How enjoyable was this forcing our way along through these solitary wilderness places, so that I was really sorry when we finally dropped over a forested slope into the Rubicon Springs and McKinney’s Road.  A mile away we found the hotel, with Mr. and Mrs. Colwell.  The buildings are old but all nature is gloriously grand and beautiful.

Though cordially invited to stay overnight, we pushed on over the Rubicon River, up the hill on part of the Georgetown road for a mile and a half,—­from which we had a fine view of Buck Island Lake,—­struck the trail for another mile and in the early afternoon made camp at Rock Bound Lake.  Here we rowed and swam, studied the country from the nearby hills, and then slept the sleep of the healthfully weary under the blue vault of heaven.

Though Rubicon Springs was not far away there was such an air of quietude in this spot that we felt as if we were in one of Nature’s choicest retreats.