Another Twain book down; he's accidentally become one of my more well-read authors over the years. I got this book while on my own little trip (five months) through the Sierra Nevada, and boy does it evoke the dust and dirt of that lifestyle. Twain is the most ironic writer I know, and sometimes it's hard to tell when he's being a goober and when he's serious. The tall tales and sardonicism toward mining culture and its microscopic attention span are all apparent, as is his genuine love toward the Hawaiian islands and love-hate relationship with Tahoe and Mono Lake.

But where he confuses me is his outright hatred of the Goshutes and occasional classism. It's hard to puzzle out, and I won't bother defending it, but it's also surprising when one remembers Huck Finn's famous moral choice "alright, I'll go to hell". It's still a fun romp through the west and all its paradoxical, oxymoronic idiosyncrasies - just with moments that strikingly remind me when and how it was written.