As I approached the summit I turned from the main road and followed a trail to the right which led to the top of a bare rock overlooking the valley beyond and furnishing an unobstructed view.

Thus my first view of that beautiful sheet of water was from a projecting cliff 1000 feet above its surface, and it embraced not only the entire outline of the Lake with its charming bays and rocky headlands but also the magnificent forests of giant pines and firs in which it was embosomed, and the dozen or more lofty mountain peaks thrusting their white summits into the sky at altitudes varying from 8000 to 11,000 feet above sea level.

The view was, indeed, the most wonderful combination of towering mountains, widespreading valley, gleaming lakes, umbrageous forests, rugged buttresses of granite, flashing streams, tumbling waterfalls, and overarching sky of deepest cerulean hue—­all blended into one perfect mosaic of the beautiful, the picturesque, and the majestic, that mortal eye ever rested upon.

No imagination can conceive the beauty, sublimity and inspiration of that scene, especially to one who had for weary months been traversing dusty, treeless and barren plains.  The contrast was overwhelming.  Tears filled my eyes as I gazed upon the fairy scene.  I recall the entrancing picture to-day, in all its splendid detail, so vividly was it photographed upon my brain.

Since that hour I have crossed the continent ten times, over various railway routes, visited most of the States of the Union, and seven foreign countries, heard the testimony of others whose travels have been world-wide, and I doubt if another scene of equal enchantment exists on the face of the globe.

In 1861, two years after my visit to Tahoe, I gathered the data for compiling the first general map of the Pacific States, which embraced the region from British Columbia to Mexico, and from the Rocky Mountains to the coast.  It was ready for the engraver in February, 1862.  I had instructed the draughtsman, V. Wackenreuder, afterward connected with the State Geological Survey, to omit the name of Lake Bigler, which was on contemporary maps.

I invited John S. Hittell, editor of the Alta California, a leading San Francisco daily, and Dr. Henry DeGroot, writer on the Evening Bulletin and correspondent of the able Sacramento Union, to come round to Bancroft’s publishing house and inspect the map.

Dr. DeGroot had just returned from a visit to the Comstock silver mines in the Washoe district of Western Nevada.  He suddenly turned to me and said:  “Why, Knight, you have left off the name of Lake Bigler.”  I remarked that many people had expressed dissatisfaction with that name, bestowed in honor of a Governor of California who had not distinguished himself by any signal achievement, and I thought that now