The cluster of
peaks called the "Crown of the Sierra," at the head of the Merced and
Tuolumne rivers,--Mounts Dana, Gibbs, Conness, Lyell, Maclure, Ritter,
with their nameless compeers,--each had its own refulgent banner, waving
with a clearly visible motion in the sunglow, and there was not a single
cloud in the sky to mar their simple grandeur. Fancy yourself standing
on this Yosemite ridge looking eastward. You notice a strange garish
glitter in the air. The gale drives wildly overhead with a fierce,
tempestuous roar, but its violence is not felt, for you are looking
through a sheltered opening in the woods as through a window. There, in
the immediate foreground of your picture, rises a majestic forest of
Silver Fir blooming in eternal freshness, the foliage yellow-green, and
the snow beneath the trees strewn with their beautiful plumes, plucked
off by the wind. Beyond, and extending over all the middle ground, are
somber swaths of pine, interrupted by huge swelling ridges and domes;
and just beyond the dark forest you see the monarchs of the High Sierra
waving their magnificent banners. They are twenty miles away, but you
would not wish them nearer, for every feature is distinct, and the whole
glorious show is seen in its right proportions.
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