Submitted by scott on Fri, 09/30/2016 - 12:20
38° 0' 60" N , 119° 0' 34" W

Chapter 38 of Roughing It:
Mono Lake lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousand feet higher, whose summits are always clothed in clouds. This solemn, silent, sail-less sea—this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth—is little graced with the picturesque. It is an unpretending expanse of grayish water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two islands in its centre, mere upheavals of rent and scorched and blistered lava, snowed over with gray 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 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 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. 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 off his outside, and he probably wished he had never embarked in any such enterprise. He ran round and round in a circle, and pawed the earth and clawed the air, and threw double somersaults, sometimes backward and sometimes forward, in the most extraordinary manner. He was not a demonstrative dog, as a general thing, but rather of a grave and serious turn of mind, and I never saw him take so much interest in anything before. He finally struck out over the mountains, at a gait which we estimated at about two hundred and fifty miles an hour, and he is going yet. This was about nine years ago. We look for what is left of him along here every day.

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.]
There are no fish in Mono Lake—no frogs, no snakes, no polliwigs—nothing, in fact, that goes to make life desirable. Millions of wild ducks and sea-gulls 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 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 eat the flies—the flies eat the worms—the Indians eat all three—the wild cats eat the Indians—the white folks eat the wild cats—and thus all things are lovely.
Mono Lake is a hundred miles 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 lay their eggs and rear their young. One would as soon expect to find sea-gulls in Kansas. 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, and utterly innocent of vegetation or anything that would burn; and sea-gull’s eggs being entirely useless to anybody 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.
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 about the time tables, or the railroad routes—or—anything—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. It neither rises nor falls, apparently, and what it does with its surplus water is a dark and bloody mystery.
There are only two seasons in the region round about Mono Lake—and these are, the breaking up of one Winter and the beginning of the next. More than once (in Esmeralda) 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 degrees under shelter, before nine 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. So uncertain is the climate in Summer 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 bar keeper 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 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.


243.7–8 Mono, it is sometimes called, and sometimes the “Dead Sea of California.”] Mono Lake was named after the Monache Indians (members of the Shoshoni family), who inhabited the surrounding region. Their name meant “fly people” in the language of their Yokuts neighbors, who applied the term because “their chief food staple and trading article was the pupae of a fly . . . found in great quantities on the shores of the Great Basin lakes” (Gudde, 196; see also the note at 247.16–34). The comparison of Mono Lake to the Dead Sea seems to have originated with Henry DeGroot, an early visitor to the area, who stated: “It is literally a Dead Sea: not even a fish or frog can endure its acrid properties” (DeGroot 1860, 6–7). Browne popularized the name in his 1865 series for Harper’s magazine, “A Trip to Bodie Bluff and the Dead Sea of the West,” which Clemens had almost certainly read (J. Ross Browne 1865b, 416).  Chapter 37: note for 243.7–8," in Roughing It : an electronic text. 2016 

245.12–20 The lake is two hundred feet deep . . . so strong with alkali . . . the white lather would pile up three inches high] In the early 1860s the lake’s maximum depth was about one hundred and ninety feet, and its average depth about seventy-five feet (it is now less than fifty feet). “Because of Mono’s high carbonate concentrations, the lake is alkaline as well as salty. . . . Alkalinity imparts a slippery feel and bitter taste to the water, as well as those cleansing qualities praised by Twain” (Gaines, 17, 20–21). Browne remarked, in his 1865 article, “For washing purposes [the water] is admirable. I washed my head in it, and was astonished at the result” (J. Ross Browne 1865b, 417).  

Chapter 38: note for 245.12–20," in Roughing It : an electronic text. 2016

253.4–5 It was only a long swim that could be fatal] Browne also warned of the caustic qualities of the lake waters: “It shrinks up the flesh when[begin page 641]steeped in it for any great length of time, like a strong decoction of lye. . . . One might almost as well sink as float in a case of wreck; for in either event his chance of life would be slender” (J. Ross Browne 1865b, 417–18). Modern assessment of the lake differs considerably: “Swimming in Mono Lake is a delightfully buoyant experience, for you cannot sink in the dense water. Old-timers claim a soak cures almost anything. But keep the water out of eyes and cuts—it stings! After a float, rinse the salts off your skin with fresh water” (Gaines, 4).

"Chapter 39: note for 253.4–5," in Roughing It : an electronic text. 2016 

254.1–2 around its shores stand picturesque turret-looking masses] These mineral formations, or tufa towers, were created by underwater springs that bubbled up through the lake in past millennia; when the lake receded, they were exposed. Calcium in the spring water combined with carbonates in the lake water to form the precipitate calcite, which piled up on the lake bottom (Gaines, 21–22).  

"Chapter 39: note for 254.1–2," in Roughing It : an electronic text. 2016 

240.16–18 We were to leave town . . . and meet at dawn on the “divide” overlooking Mono Lake] The prospectors apparently followed a wagon road leading south out of Aurora which traversed a ridge and descended into the Mono Lake basin (see supplement B, map 3). It is not known whether Clemens actually embarked on such an expedition to the Owens River cement mine, or when he visited Mono Lake. In a letter of 9 September 1862 he referred to a recent two-week trip “slashing around in the White Mountain District, partly for pleasure and partly for other reasons.” Some have assumed that this late August–early September trip was the one described in chapters 37–39 of Roughing It (see L1, 239, 240 n. 2). But since the White Mountain district is considerably east of the Owens River and Mono Lake, this identification seems unlikely. Although Albert Bigelow Paine states that Clemens and Higbie made several long walking trips out of Aurora—including one to Yosemite, across the Sierra to the west of Mono Lake—none has been independently documented (MTB, 1:200).

"Chapter 37: note for 240.16–18," in Roughing It : an electronic text. 2016 <;style=work;brand=mtp;–18>