CHAPTER 38
Mono Lake Ⓐemendation lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousandⒶemendation feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousandⒶemendation feet higher, whose summitsⒶemendation are always clothed inⒶemendation clouds. This solemn, silent, sailless sea—this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth—is little graced with the picturesque. It is an unpretending expanse of grayishⒶemendation water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two islands in its centreⒺexplanatory note, mere up-heavals of rentⒶemendation and scorched and blistered lava, snowed over with grayⒶemendation banks and drifts of pumice stone and ashes, the winding sheet of the dead volcano, whose vast crater the lake has seized upon and occupied.
The lake is two hundredⒶemendation feet deep, and its sluggish waters are so strong with alkali that if you only dip the most hopelessly soiled garment into them once or twice, and wring it out, it will be found as clean as if it had been through the ablest of washerwomen’sⒶemendation hands. While we camped there our laundry work was easy. We tied the week’s washing astern of our boat, and sailed a quarter of a mile, and the job was complete, all to the wringing out. If we threw the water on our heads and gave them a rub or so, the white lather would pile up three inches highⒺexplanatory note. This water is not good for bruised places and abrasions of the skin. We had a valuable dog. He had raw places on him. He had more raw places on him than sound ones. He was the rawest dog I almost ever saw. He jumped overboard one day to get away from the flies. But it was bad judgment. In his condition, it would have been just as comfortable to jump into the fire. The alkali water nipped him in all the raw places simultaneously, and he struck out for the shore with considerable interest. He yelped and barked and howled as he went—and by the time he got to the shore there was no bark to him—for he had barked the bark all out of his inside, and the alkali water had cleaned the bark all [begin page 246] off his outside, and he probably wished he had never embarked in
A white man cannot drink the water of Mono Lake, for it is nearly pure lye. It is said that the Indians in the vicinity drink it sometimes, though. It is not improbable, for they are among the purest liars I ever saw. [There will be no additional charge for this joke, except to parties requiring an explanation of it. This joke has received high commendation from some of the ablest minds of the age.]Ⓐemendation
There are no fish in Mono Lake—no frogs, no snakes, no pollywogsⒶemendation—nothing, in fact, that goes to make life desirable. Millions of wild ducks and sea-gullsⒶemendation swim about the surface, but no living thing exists under the surface, except a white feathery sort of worm, one-half an inch long, which looks like a bit of white thread frayed out at the sides. If you dip up a gallon of water, you will get about fifteen thousand of these. They give to the water a sort of grayish-white appearance. Then there is a fly, which looks something like our house fly. These settle on the beach to eat the worms that wash ashore—and any time, you can see there a belt of flies an inch deep and six feet wide, and this belt extends clear around the lake—a belt of flies one hundred miles long. If you throw a stone among them, they swarm up so thick that they look dense, like a cloud. You can hold them under water as long as you please—they do notⒶemendation mind it—they are only proud of it. When you let them go, they pop up to the surface as dry as a patent office report, and walk off as unconcernedly as if they had been educated especially with a view to affording instructive entertainment to man in that particular way. Providence leaves nothing to go by chance. All things have their uses and their part and proper place in Nature’s economy: the ducksⒶemendation eat the flies—the flies eat the worms—the Indians eat all threeⒺexplanatory note Ⓐemendation—the wild-catsⒶemendation eat the Indians—the white folks eat the wild-catsⒶemendation—and thus all things are lovely.
Mono Lake is a hundred and fiftyⒶemendation milesⒶtextual note in a straight line from the ocean—and between it and the ocean are one or two ranges of mountains—yet thousands of sea-gulls go there every season to [begin page 248] lay their eggs and rear their young. One would as soon expect to find sea-gulls in KansasⒶemendation. And in this connection let us observe another instance of Nature’s wisdom. The islands in the lake being merely huge masses of lava, coated over with ashes and pumice stoneⒶemendation, and utterly innocent of vegetation or anything that would burn; and sea-gulls’ eggs being entirely useless to anybodyⒶemendation unless they be cooked, Nature has provided an unfailing spring of boiling water on the largest island, and you can put your eggs in there, and in four minutes you can boil them as hard as any statement I have made during the past fifteen years. Within ten feet of the boiling spring is a spring of pure cold water, sweet and wholesomeⒺexplanatory note. So, in that island you get your board and washing free of charge—and if nature had gone further and furnished a nice American hotel clerk who was crusty and disobliging, and didn’t know anythingⒶemendation about the time tables, or the railroad routes—or—anythingⒶemendation—and was proud of it—I would not wish for a more desirable boarding house.
Half a dozen little mountain brooks flow into Mono Lake, but not a stream of any kind flows out of it Ⓐemendation. It neither rises nor falls, apparently, and what it does with its surplus water is a dark and bloody mysteryⒺexplanatory note.Ⓐemendation
There are only two seasons in the region round about Mono Lake—and these are, the breaking up of one winterⒶemendation and the beginning of the next. More than once (in Esmeralda)Ⓐemendation I have seen a perfectly blistering morning open up with the thermometer at ninety degrees at eight o’clock, and seen the snow fall fourteen inches deep and that same identical thermometer go down to forty-four [begin page 249] degrees under shelter, before nineⒶemendation o’clock at night. Under favorable circumstances it snows at least once in every single month in the year, in the little town of MonoⒺexplanatory note. So uncertain is the climate in summerⒶemendation that a lady who goes out visiting cannot hope to be prepared for all emergencies unless she takes her fan under one arm and her snow shoes under the other. When they have a Fourth of July procession it generally snows on them, and they do say that as a general thing when a man calls for a brandy toddy there, the barkeeperⒶemendation chops it off with a hatchet and wraps it up in a paper, like maple sugar. And it is further reported that the old soakers haven’t any teeth—wore them out eating gin cocktails and brandy punches. I do notⒶemendation endorse that statement—I simply give it for what it is worth—and it is worth—well, I should say, millions, to any man who can believe it without straining himself. But I do endorse the snow on the Fourth of July—because I know that to be true.Ⓔexplanatory note Ⓐemendation
a white feathery sort of worm . . . a fly . . . the Indians eat all three] The lake waters contain vast numbers of brine shrimp (Mark [begin page 640] Twain’s “feathery sort of worm”) as well as immature (larval) brine flies, both of which feed on algae. Female brine flies lay their eggs by enveloping themselves in a “globule of air” to descend underwater, where they cling to the rocks; when they have finished laying, they simply “pop up to the surface.” After the larvae are sufficiently developed, they attach themselves to rocks on the lakeshore and pupate, emerging in several weeks as adult flies, which “darken the shore for mile after mile; four thousand have been tallied in a square foot” (Gaines, 42–48). Browne explained that the fly pupae were a “fruitful source of subsistence” for the Mono Indians: “By drying them in the sun and mixing them with acorns, berries, grass-seeds, and other articles of food gathered up in the mountains, they make a conglomerate called cuchaba, which they use as a kind of bread” (J. Ross Browne 1865b, 417). In 1863 a member of the California geological survey described this delicacy in his journal:
The Indians come far and near to gather them. The worms are dried in the sun, the shell rubbed off, when a yellowish kernel remains, like a small yellow grain of rice. This is oily, very nutritious, and not unpleasant to the taste, and under the name of koo-chah-bee forms a very important article of food. The Indians gave me some; it does not taste bad, and if one were ignorant of its origin, it would make fine soup. (Brewer, 417)
an unfailing spring of boiling water . . . a spring of pure cold water, sweet and wholesome] Browne also described these springs:
The larger island Paoha has a singular volcano in the interior, from which issues hot water and steam. Within a few yards of the boiling spring, the water of which is bitter, a spring of pure fresh water gushes out of the rocks. This is justly regarded as the greatest natural wonder of the lake. (J. Ross Browne 1865b, 418)