Yet amid this alpine
suppression the Mountain Pine bravely tossed his storm-beaten branches
on the ledges and buttresses of Red Mountain, some specimens being over
100 feet high, and 24 feet in circumference, seemingly as fresh and
vigorous as the giants of the lower zones.
Evening came on just as I got fairly within the portal of the main
amphitheater. It is about a mile wide, and a little less than two miles
long. The crumbling spurs and battlements of Red Mountain bound it on
the north, the somber, rudely sculptured precipices of Black Mountain on
the south, and a hacked, splintery _col_, curving around from
mountain to mountain, shuts it in on the east.
I chose a camping-ground on the brink of one of the lakes where a
thicket of Hemlock Spruce sheltered me from the night wind. Then, after
making a tin-cupful of tea, I sat by my camp-fire reflecting on the
grandeur and significance of the glacial records I had seen. As the
night advanced the mighty rock walls of my mountain mansion seemed to
come nearer, while the starry sky in glorious brightness stretched
across like a ceiling from wall to wall, and fitted closely down into
all the spiky irregularities of the summits.
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