A few miles farther westward the granite heights slope back more gently and the river suddenly pauses in its tumultuous course to meander through the pines and oaks and cedars of a meadowed flat. Pate Valley has been known for years from the reports of venturesome knapsackers, but now it is made accessible by one of the best trails in the park.

An unnatural smoky blackening of the overhanging cornices of the 200-foot walls almost surrounding the glade leads one to approach them, and there, near the ground, are hundreds of Indian pictographs. These are mysterious, fantastic, and unreadable, but the deep-red stain is as clearly defined as on the day that the red man set down tales of his great hunt, or of famine, or of war, or perhaps of his gods. Here, too, obsidian chips tell the story of preparation for war and the chase, and sharp eyes are rewarded by the sight of many a perfect spear point or arrowhead.

Atop a huge shaded talus block are many bowl-shaped holes, a primitive gristmill where once the squaws ground acorns for their pounded bread, which was the staff of life for so many California tribes. Blackened cooking rocks may be found, and numerous stone pestles lying about in this and two or three similar places seem to point to a hurried departure, but the “when” and “why” of this exodus still remain a mystery.