CHAPTER XXI. EMERALD BAY AND CAMP

Situated near the southwest corner of Lake Tahoe is Emerald Bay, by many thousands regarded as the choicest portion of Lake Tahoe. Surrounded by so many wonderful scenes, as one is at Tahoe, it is difficult to decide which possesses surpassing power, but few there are who see Emerald Bay without at once succumbing to its allurement. Its geological history has already been given in Chapter VIII, in which it is clearly shown by Dr. Joseph Le Conte that it was once a glacial lake, and that the entrance to the main lake used to be the terminal moraine that separated the two bodies of water. As a natural consequence, therefore, visitors may expect to find evidences of glacial action on every hand. They are not disappointed. The walls of the Bay, on both north and south, are composed of glacial detritus, that of the south being a pure moraine, separating the once glacial lake of Emerald Bay from Cascade Lake.

Emerald Bay is about three miles in length, with a southwesterly trend, and half a mile wide. The entrance is perhaps a quarter of a mile wide and is formed by a triangular spit of sand, on which grows a lone pine, on the one side, and a green chaparral-clad slope, known as Eagle Point, on the other. The Bay opens and widens a little immediately the entrance is joined. The mountains at the head of the Bay form a majestic background. To the southwest (the left) is Mount Tallac, with a rugged, jagged and irregular ridge leading to the west, disappearing behind two tree-clad sister peaks, which dominate the southern side of the Bay's head. These are known as Maggie's Peaks (8540 and 8725 feet respectively, that to the south being the higher), though originally their name, like that of so many rounded, shapely, twin peaks in the western world gained by the white man from the Indian, signified the well-developed breasts of the healthy and vigorous maiden. Emerging from behind these the further ridge again appears with a nearer and smoother ridge, leading up to a broken and jagged crest that pierces the sky in rugged outline. A deep gorge is clearly suggested in front of this ridge, in which Eagle Lake nestles, and the granite mass which forms the eastern wall of this gorge towers up, apparently higher than the nearer of Maggie's peaks, and is known as Phipps' Peak (9000 feet). This is followed by still another peak, nearer and equally as high, leading the eye further to the north, where its pine-clad ridge merges into more ridges striking northward.

Between Maggie's and Phipps' Peaks the rocky masses are broken down into irregular, half rolling, half rugged foothills, where pines, firs, tamaracks and cedars send their pointed spires upwards from varying levels. In the morning hours, or in the afternoon up to sunset, when the shadows reveal the differing layers, rows, and levels of the trees, they stand out with remarkable distinctness, each tree possessing its own perfectly discernible individuality, yet each contributing to the richness of the clothing of the mountainside, as a whole.

Down across the lower portion of Maggie's Peaks, too to 200 feet above the level of the Bay, the new automobile road has ruled its sloping line down to the cut, where a sturdy rustic bridge takes it over the stream which conveys the surplus waters from Eagle Lake to the Bay. On the other side it is lost in the rolling foothills and the tree-lined lower slopes of Cathedral Peak from whence it winds and hugs the Lake shore, over Rubicon Point to Tahoe Tavern.

But Emerald Bay has other romantic attractions besides its scenery. In the early 'sixties Ben Holladay, one of the founders of the great Overland Stage system that reached from the Pacific Coast to the Missouri River, built a pretentious house at the head of the Bay. Naturally it was occupied by the family only part of the time, and in 1879, a tramp, finding it unoccupied, took up his lodgings therein, and, as a mark of his royal departure, the structure burned down the next morning. The site was then bought by the well-known capitalist, Lux, of the great cattle firm of Miller &Lux, and is now owned by Mrs. Armstrong.

As the steamer slowly and easily glides down the Bay, it circles around a rocky islet, on which a number of trees find shelter. This island was inhabited at one time by an eccentric Englishman, known as Captain Dick, who, after having completed a cottage to live in, carried out the serious idea of erecting a morgue, or a mausoleum, as a means of final earthly deposit upon dissolution. This queer-looking dog-house might have become a sarcophagus had it not been for one thing, viz., Captain Dick, one dark and stormy night, having visited one of the neighboring resorts where he had pressed his cordial intemperately, determined to return to his solitary home. In vain the danger was urged upon him. With characteristic obstinacy, enforced by the false courage and destruction of his ordinarily keen perception by the damnable liquor that had "stolen away his brains," he refused to listen, pushed his sail-boat from the wharf and was never seen again. His overturned boat was afterwards found, blown ashore.

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EMERALD BAY CAMP

Emerald Bay is made accessible to regular summer guests by Emerald Bay Camp, one of the choice and highly commendable resorts of the Tahoe region. The Camp is located snugly among the pines of the north side of the Bay, and consists of the usual hotel, with nearby cottages and tents.

Less than five minutes' walk connects it with the picturesque Automobile Boulevard, which is now connected with the Camp by an automobile road. The distance is four-fifths of a mile and hundreds of people now enjoy the hospitality of Emerald Bay Camp who come directly to it in their own machines.

Its location suggests many advantages for the angler, the famous Indian fishing grounds being located at the mouth of the bay. Cascade, Eagle, and the unfished Velma Lakes are easily accessible to trampers, the outlets from these furnishing sporty brook trout fishing. These streams and lakes are all stocked with Eastern brook, Loch Levin and cutthroat. The protected waters of the bay make boating safe and bathing a comfortable delight.

But not all the beauty of nature and the advantages of excellent location can make a popular camp. There is much in the individuality of those who own or "run" it. Emerald Bay Camp is owned by Mr. Nelson L. Salter, for many years so favorably known in the Yosemite Valley. Such is its growing popularity that Mr. Salter has recently (1921) purchased another ten acres of adjoining land, thus enlarging his frontage on the Bay to about 1000 feet, and giving him many more cottages for the entertainment of his guests.

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EAGLE LAKE

From Emerald Bay Camp there are quite a number of interesting trail and climbing trips, one of the commonest of which is that to Eagle Lake.

Taking the trail west, one zigzags to the north until the Automobile Boulevard is reached. A half mile's walk brings one to the bridge over Eagle Creek. Here a few steps lead to the head of the upper portion of Eagle Falls, which dash down a hundred feet or so to the rocky ledge, from whence they fall to their basin, ere they flow out to join the waters of Emerald Bay.

A few yards beyond the bridge the trail starts. It is a genuine mountain trail, now over rough jagged blocks of granite, then through groves of pines, firs, tamaracks and spruces, where flowers, ferns, mosses and liverworts delight the eyes as they gaze down, and the spiculae and cones and blue sky thrill one with delight as they look above, and where the sunlight glitters through the trees as they look ahead. To the right Eagle Creek comes noisily down, over falls and cascades, making its own music to the accompaniment of the singing voices of the trees. Now and again the creek comes to a quiet, pastoral stretch, where it becomes absolutely "still water". Not that it is motionless, but noiseless, covered over with trees and vines, that reflect upon its calm surface and half hide the trout that float so easily and lazily through its clear, pure, cold stream.

There is enough of climbing to call into exercise long unused muscles, the granite blocks are rough, angular and irregular enough to exercise eyes, hands and feet to keep one from falling, and the lungs are filled with balsam-ladened mountain-air, fresh from God's own perfect laboratories, healing, vivifying, rejuvenating, strengthening, while the heart is helped on and encouraged to pump more and more of its blood, drawn from long almost quiescent cells into the air-chambers of the lungs, there to receive the purifying and life-giving oxygen and other chemical elements that multiply the leucocytes vastly and set them at work driving out the disease germs that accumulate and linger in every city-living man's and woman's system.

Suddenly from a little rise the lake is revealed. Eagle Lake, or Pine Lake, or Spruce Lake, or Hidden Lake, or Granite Lake, or Sheltered Lake - any of these names would be appropriate. Almost circular in form - that is if you are not expected to be too rigidly exact in geometric terms - it is literally a jewel of lapis lazuli in a setting of granite cliffs.

Here one may sit and rest, enjoying the placid waters of the lake, the rugged grandeur of the immediate cliffs, or the slopes of the towering mountains that encircle the horizon.

Eagle Lake is but one of the hundred of glacially made Sierran lakes of the Tahoe region, but a study of its idiosyncrasies would reveal distinctive and charming characteristics.

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CATHEDRAL PEAK

There are two Cathedral Peaks at Tahoe, one above Cathedral Park on Fallen Leaf Lake, the other at the rear of Emerald Bay Camp. Early in the season, 1914, three girls decided to climb this peak from the camp although there was no trail. One of them wrote the following account of the trip:

    The most interesting peak of the Rubicon ridge is Cathedral. The mountain rises directly back of Emerald Bay, some three thousand feet above the Lake. About six hundred feet above the camp there is a meadow where larkspur grows four and five feet high. But from Eagle Creek the aspect is quite different. There are no soft contours. Huge rocks pile up - one great perpendicular surface adding five hundred feet to the height - into spires and domes for all the world like some vast cathedral which taunts the soul with its aloofness. If, on some sunshiny afternoon you look up from the camp and see a ghost-moon hanging, no more than a foot above the highest spire, you must surely be "citified" if you do not pause to drink in its weird sublimity and wild beauty.

    Many winters of storm and snow have loosed the rocks and carried them down the mountain. Those thrown down years ago are moss-covered and have collected enough soil in their crevices to nourish underbrush and large trees. But there are bare rocks along Eagle Creek to-day large enough for a man to hew a cabin from. Standing in awe of their size one surely must look curiously up the mountain to find the spaces they once occupied. Then, taking in the size of the peak it is equally natural that one should be filled with a desire to climb it and look down the other side and across the vista to the neighboring ranges. While we were getting used to the altitude we stood below admiring. Every evening we went out on the wharf, gazed up at its grandeur and discussed the best way to go, for though we knew we should have to break our own trail, we had decided to attempt the climb. We set a day and the hour for rising; the night before laid out our tramping clothes and religiously went to bed at eight. I doubt if any of us slept, for we were used to later hours and excitement kept us awake.

    As it was the first trip of the season, we lost some time at the start, admiring each others' costumes. Two of us adhered to the regulation short skirt and bloomers, but the third girl wore trousers, poked into the top of her high boots. This proved, by far, the most satisfactory dress before the day's tramping was done. We got started at four-thirty. The first awakened birds were twittering. The shadows of the moraine lay reflected in the unruffled surface of the Bay. Gradually rosy flushes showed in the east. By the time we reached the meadow the sun rose suddenly above the Nevada mountains and some of the chill went out of the atmosphere.

    The meadow was flooded with snow-water. Beyond, the mountain rose by sheer steps of rock with slides of decomposed granite between. We avoided the under-brush as far as possible, preferring to take back and forth across the loose granite. The wind came up as we left the meadow, grew in force as we climbed. Some one suggested breakfast, and then there began a search for a sheltered place. A spot sided by three bowlders away from under-brush was decided upon. By the time the fire was built the wind was a gale sending the flames leaping in every direction - up the rocks and up our arms as we broiled the bacon. Breakfast was a failure, as far as comfort was concerned. It was a relief when we finally tramped out the embers and resumed our journey.

    The top of a long snow-drift was a previously chosen land-mark. It was seven when we reached the top of it. Some one came out on the Bay in a row-boat - we were too high for recognition - thought better of it and went back. Towards the top we left the decomposed granite and underbrush behind, climbing the rocks in preference to the snow, where the choice was allowed us. The wind howled and shrieked, and blew with a force great enough to destroy balance, while its icy touch brought the blood tingling to our cheeks.

    At last we reached the summit. And oh! the joy of achievement.

    All Rubicon ridge and its neighbors, as far as the eye could see, were white with snow; the lakes in the valley below were still frozen - only one showing any blue. Clouds came up rapidly from the west, rushed by to the Nevada side where they piled up in great cumulous heaps. The apex of Pyramid was cloud-capped all day. Shifting gusts drove the waters of Tahoe scurrying first this way, then that. Where in the early morning every tree had viewed her image among the reflected tints of sunrise, at ten-thirty white-caps flashed and disappeared to flash in a different place among the everchanging eddies. Cascade and Fallen Leaf Lakes presented a continuous procession of white-caps to the east, while Eagle lay black and sinister in the shadow of Maggie's Peaks.

    After lunch, the wind blowing too cold for comfort, we started home, straight down - over snow, granite and underbrush - till we hit the State Highway. Here we found a sheltered place by a creek and talked over the day's happenings.

    Along the roadside we drew up a resolution on the satisfaction of the trip. The girl who had been cold all day didn't ever want to see snow again, but already the others were discussing a possible ascent from the Eagle Creek side - so great is the lure of the high places.