The
mountaineer with whom I then happened to be camping was one of those
remarkable men one so frequently meets in California, the hard angles
and bosses of whose characters have been brought into relief by the
grinding excitements of the gold period, until they resemble glacial
landscapes. But at this late day, my friend's activities had subsided,
and his craving for rest caused him to become a gentle shepherd and
literally to lie down with the lamb.
Recognizing the unsatisfiable longings of my Scotch Highland instincts,
he threw out some hints concerning Bloody Canon, and advised me to
explore it. "I have never seen it myself," he said, "for I never was so
unfortunate as to pass that way. But I have heard many a strange story
about it, and I warrant you will at least find it wild enough."
Then of course I made haste to see it. Early next morning I made up a
bundle of bread, tied my note-book to my belt, and strode away in the
bracing air, full of eager, indefinite hope. The plushy lawns that lay
in my path served to soothe my morning haste. The sod in many places was
starred with daisies and blue gentians, over which I lingered. I traced
the paths of the ancient glaciers over many a shining pavement, and
marked the gaps in the upper forests that told the power of the winter
avalanches.
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