Then, after a long fireside
rest and a glance at my note-book, I cut a few leafy branches for a bed,
and fell into the clear, death-like sleep of the tired mountaineer.
Early next morning I set out to trace the grand old glacier that had
done so much for the beauty of the Yosemite region back to its farthest
fountains, enjoying the charm that every explorer feels in Nature's
untrodden wildernesses. The voices of the mountains were still asleep.
The wind scarce stirred the pine-needles. The sun was up, but it was yet
too cold for the birds and the few burrowing animals that dwell here.
Only the stream, cascading from pool to pool, seemed to be wholly awake.
Yet the spirit of the opening day called to action. The sunbeams came
streaming gloriously through the jagged openings of the _col_,
glancing on the burnished pavements and lighting the silvery lakes,
while every sun-touched rock burned white on its edges like melting iron
in a furnace. Passing round the north shore of my camp lake I followed
the central stream past many cascades from lakelet to lakelet. The
scenery became more rigidly arctic, the Dwarf Pines and Hemlocks
disappeared, and the stream was bordered with icicles.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47