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4 Last Tuesday--the day before I left Pasadena--we had a memorable day in the mountains: Johnnie B., Dr. Clara, my daughter
Susie, and myself. We took the ignominious street-car as far as it went--to Alpine Tavern; then went around Mt. Lowe and north
four miles or so to San Gabriel Peak, just above the headwaters of the West Fork of San Gabriel River. We found snow, and
for a couple of miles wallowed in it--wet and heavy, and sometimes a foot deep. Finally the drifts were too heavy to go further;
so we melted snow and made coffee and had our lunch--which all enjoyed, although there was no mush. The scene was glorious--the
West Fork valley before us; sparkling white mountains to the east, and a noble snow-clad range (I think Mt. Whitney may have
been one of them) far off to the north while to the south seen directly over Mt. Lowe, spread west the sunlit Pacific. And
while we all were silent in adoration, I said, Nevermore, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessing
of one mountain day. Whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever. And then we spoke of you;
and our love of you Glen--with our love of the mountains, and of Nature in her loftiest and holiest aspects. Always yours,
Francis F. Browne 1 Santa Barbara, March 19, 1911. My dear Mr. Muir: I had so hurried a flittin' from Pasadena last
week, that I couldn't get over to your stormy Babylon to see you, and our dear Colonel Sellers gave little hope of getting
you over to Pasadena. So I 04979