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OF all the mountain ranges I
have climbed, I like the Sierra Nevada the best. Though extremely rugged,
with its main features on the grandest scale in height and depth, it is
nevertheless easy of access and hospitable; and its marvelous beauty,
displayed in striking and alluring forms, wooes the admiring wanderer on and
on, higher and higher, charmed and enchanted. Benevolent, solemn, fateful,
pervaded with divine light, every landscape glows like a countenance
hallowed in eternal repose; and every one of its living creatures, clad in
flesh and leaves, and every crystal of its rocks, whether on the surface
shining in the sun or buried miles deep in what we call darkness, is
throbbing and pulsing with the heartbeats of God. All the world lies warm in
one heart, yet the Sierra seems to get more light than other mountains. The
weather is mostly sunshine embellished with magnificent storms, and nearly
everything shines from base to summit, - the rocks, streams, lakes,
glaciers, irised falls, and the forests of silver fir and silver pine. And
how bright is the shining after summer showers and dewy nights, and after
frosty nights in spring and autumn, when the morning sunbeams are pouring
through the crystals on the bushes and grass, and in winter through the
snow-laden trees!
The average cloudiness for
the whole year is perhaps less than ten hundredths. Scarcely a day of all
the summer is dark, though there is no lack of magnificent thundering
cumuli. They rise in the warm midday hours, mostly over the middle region,
in June and July, like new mountain ranges, higher Sierras, mightily
augmenting the grandeur of the scenery while giving rain to the forests and
gardens and bringing forth their fragrance. The wonderful weather and beauty
inspire everybody to be up and doing. Every summer day is a workday to be
confidently counted on, the short dashes of rain forming, not interruptions,
but rests. The big blessed storm days of winter, when the whole range stands
white, are not a whit less inspiring and kind. Well may the Sierra be called
the Range of Light, not the Snowy Range; for only in winter is it white,
while all the year it is bright.
Of this glorious range the
Yosemite National Park is a central section, thirty-six miles in length and
forty-eight miles in breadth. The famous Yosemite Valley lies in the heart
of it, and it includes the head waters of the Tuolumne and Merced rivers,
two of the most songful streams in the world; innumerable lakes and
waterfalls and smooth silky lawns; the noblest forests, the loftiest granite
domes, the deepest ice-sculptured canons, the brightest crystalline
pavements, and snowy mountains soaring into the sky twelve and thirteen
thousand feet, arrayed in open ranks and spiry pinnacled groups partially
separated by tremendous canons and amphitheaters; gardens on their sunny
brows, avalanches thundering down their long white slopes, cataracts roaring
gray and foaming in the crooked rugged gorges, and glaciers in their shadowy
recesses working in silence, slowly completing their sculpture; newborn
lakes at their feet, blue and green, free or encumbered with drifting
icebergs like miniature Arctic Oceans, shining, sparkling, calm as stars.
Nowhere will you see the
majestic operations of nature more clearly revealed beside the frailest,
most gentle and peaceful things. Nearly all the park is a profound solitude.
Yet it is full of charming company, full of God's thoughts, a place of peace
and safety amid the most exalted grandeur and eager enthusiastic action, a
new song, a place of beginnings abounding in first lessons on life,
mountain-building, eternal, invincible, unbreakable order; with sermons in
stones, storms, trees, flowers, and animals brimful of humanity. During the
last glacial period, just past, the former features of the range were rubbed
off as a chalk sketch from a blackboard, and a new beginning was made. Hence
the wonderful clearness and freshness of the rocky pages.
But to get all this into
words is a hopeless task. The leanest sketch of each feature would need a
whole chapter. Nor would any amount of space, however industriously
scribbled, be of much avail. To defrauded town toilers, parks in magazine
articles are like pictures of bread to the hungry. I can write only hints to
incite good wanderers to come to the feast.
While this glorious park
embraces big, generous samples of the very best of the Sierra treasures, it
is, fortunately, at the same time, the most accessible portion. It lies
opposite San Francisco, at a distance of about one hundred and forty miles.
Railroads connected with all the continent reach into the foothills, and
three good carriage roads, from Big Oak Flat, Cou1tervill and Raymond, run
into Yosemite Valley. Another, called the Tioga road, runs from Crocker's
Station on the Yosemite Big Oak Flat road near the Tuolumne Big Tree Grove,
right across the park to the summit of the range by way of Lake Tenaya, the
Big Tuolumne Meadows, and Mount Dana. These roads, with many trails that
radiate from Yosemite Valley, bring most of the park within reach of
everybody, well or half well.
The three main natural
divisions of the park, the lower, middle, and alpine regions, are fairly
well defined in altitude, topographical features, and vegetation. The lower,
with an average elevation of about five thousand feet, is the region of the
great forests, made up of sugar pine, the largest and most beautiful of all
the pines in the world; the silvery yellow pine, the next in rank; Douglas
spruce, libocedrus, the white and red silver firs, and the Sequoia gigantea,
or "big tree," the king of conifers, the noblest of a noble race. On warm
slopes next the foothills there are a few Sabine nut pines; oaks make
beautiful groves in the caņon valleys; and poplar, alder, maple, laurel, and
Nuttall's flowering dogwood shade the banks of the streams. Many of the
pines are more than two hundred feet high, but they are not crowded
together. The sunbeams streaming through their feathery arches brighten the
ground, and you walk beneath the radiant ceiling in devout subdued mood, as
if you were in a grand cathedral with mellow light sifting through colored
windows, while the flowery pillared aisles open enchanting vistas in every
direction. Scarcely a peak or ridge in the whole region rises bare above the
forests, though they are thinly planted in some places where the soil is
shallow. From the cool breezy heights you look abroad over a boundless
waving sea of evergreens, covering hill and ridge and smooth-flowing slope
as far as the eye can reach, and filling every hollow and down-plunging
ravine in glorious triumphant exuberance.
Perhaps the best general view
of the pine forests of the park, and one of the best in the range, is
obtained from the top of the Merced and Tuolumne divide near Hazel Green. On
the long, smooth, finely folded slopes of the main ridge, at a height of
five to six thousand feet above the sea, they reach most perfect development
and are marshaled to view in magnificent towering ranks, their colossal
spires and domes and broad palmlike crowns, deep in the kind sky, rising
above one another, - a multitude of giants in perfect health and beauty, -
sun-fed mountaineers rejoicing in their strength, chanting with the winds,
in accord with the falling waters. The ground is mostly open and inviting to
walkers. The fragrant chamebatia is outspread in rich carpets miles in
extent; the manzanita, in orchard-like groves, covered with pink bell-shaped
flowers in the spring, grows in openings facing the sun, hazel and buckthorn
in the dells; warm brows are purple with mint, yellow with sunflowers and
violets; and tall lilies ring their bells around the borders of meadows and
along the ferny, mossy banks of the streams. Never was mountain forest more
lavishly furnished.
Hazel Green is a good place
quietly to camp and study, to get acquainted with the trees and birds, to
drink the reviving water and weather, and to watch the changing lights of
the big charmed days. The rose light of the dawn, creeping higher among the
stars, changes to daffodil yellow; then come the level enthusiastic sunbeams
pouring across the feathery ridges, touching pine after pine, spruce and
fir, libocedrus and lordly sequoia, searching every recess, until all are
awakened and warmed. In the white noon they shine in silvery splendor, every
needle and cell in bole and branch thrilling and tingling with ardent life;
and the whole landscape glows with consciousness, like the face of a god.
The hours go by uncounted. The evening flames with purple and gold. The
breeze that has been blowing from the lowlands dies away, and far and near
the mighty host of trees baptized in the purple flood stand hushed and
thoughtful, awaiting the sun's blessing and farewell, - as impressive a
ceremony as if it were never to rise again. When the daylight fades, the
night breeze from the snowy summits begins to blow, and the trees, waving
and rustling beneath the stars, breathe free again.
It is hard to leave such
camps and woods; nevertheless, to the large majority of travelers the middle
region of the park is still more interesting, for it has the most striking
features of all the Sierra scenery, -the deepest sections of the famous
caflons, of which the Yosemite Valley, Hetch-Hetchy Valley, and many smaller
ones are wider portions, with level parklike floors and walls of immense
height and grandeur of sculpture. This middle region holds also the greater
number of the beautiful glacier lakes and glacier meadows, the great granite
domes, and the most brilliant and most extensive of the glacier pavements.
And though in large part it is severely rocky and bare, it is still rich in
trees. The magnificent silver fir (Abies magnifica), which ranks with the
giants, forms a continuous belt across the park above the pines at an
elevation of from seven to nine thousand feet, and north and south of the
park boundaries to the extremities of the range, only slightly interrupted
by the main caflons. The two-leaved or tamarack pine makes another less
regular belt along the upper margin of the region, while between these two
belts, and mingling with them, in groves or scattered, are the mountain
hemlock, the most graceful of evergreens; the noble mountain pine; the
Jeffrey form of the yellow pine, with big cones and long needles; and the
brown, burly, sturdy Western juniper. All these, except the juniper, which
grows on bald rocks, have plenty of flowery brush about them, and gardens in
open spaces.
Here, too, lies the broad,
shining, heavily sculptured region of primeval granite, which best tells the
story of the glacial period on the Pacific side of the continent. No other
mountain chain on the globe, as far as I know, is so rich as the Sierra in
bold, striking, well-preserved glacial monuments, easily understood by
anybody capable of patient observation. Every feature is more or less
glacial, and this park portion of the range is the brightest and clearest of
all. Not a peak, ridge, dome, caņon, lake basin, garden, forest, or stream
but in some way explains the past existence and modes of action of flowing,
grinding, sculpturing, soil-making, scenery-making ice. For, notwithstanding
the post-glacial agents - air, rain, frost, rivers, earthquakes, avalanches
- have been at work upon the greater part of the range for tens of thousands
of stormy years, engraving their own characters over those of the ice, the
latter are so heavily emphasized and enduring they still rise in sublime
relief, clear and legible through every after inscription. The streams have
traced only shallow wrinkles as yet, and avalanche, wind, rain, and melting
snow have made blurs and scars, but the change effected on the face of the
landscape is not greater than is made on the face of a mountaineer by a
single year of weathering.
Of all the glacial phenomena
presented here, the most striking and attractive to travelers are the
polished pavements, because they are so beautiful, and their beauty is of so
rare a kind, - unlike any part of the loose earthy lowlands where people
dwell and earn their bread. They are simply flat or gently undulating areas
of solid resisting granite, the unchanged surface over which the ancient
glaciers flowed. They are found in the most perfect condition at an
elevation of from eight to nine thousand feet above sea level. Some are
miles in extent, only slightly blurred or scarred by spots that have at last
yielded to the weather; while the best preserved portions are brilliantly
polished, and reflect the sunbeams as calm water or glass, shining as if
rubbed and burnished every day, notwithstanding they have been exposed to
plashing, corroding rains, dew, frost, and melting sloppy snows for
thousands of years.
The attention of hunters and
prospectors, who see so much in their wild journeys, is seldom attracted by
moraines, however regular and artificial-looking; or rocks, however boldly
sculptured; or cafions, however deep and sheer- walled. But when they come
to these pavements, they go down on their knees and rub their hands
admiringly on the glistening surface, and try hard to account for its
mysterious smoothness and brightness. They may have seen the winter
avalanches come down the mountains, through the woods, sweeping away the
trees and scouring the ground; but they conclude that this cannot be the
work of avalanches, because the striae show that the agent, whatever it was,
flowed along and around and over the top of high ridges and domes, and also
filled the deep canons. Neither can they see how water could be the agent,
for the strange polish is found thousands of feet above the reach of any
conceivable flood. Only the winds seem capable of moving over the face of
the country in the directions indicated by the lines and grooves.
The pavements are
particularly fine around Lake Tenaya, and have suggested the Indian name
Py-we-ack, the Lake of the Shining Rocks. Indians seldom trouble themselves
with geological questions, but a Mono Indian once came to me and asked if I
could tell him what made the rocks so smooth at Tenaya. Even dogs and
horses, on their first journeys into this region, study geology to the
extent of gazing wonderingly at the strange brightness of the ground, and
pawing it and smelling it, as if afraid of falling or sinking.
In the production of this
admirable hard finish, the glaciers in many places exerted a pressure of
more than a hundred tons to the square foot, planing down granite, slate,
and quartz alike, showing their structure, and making beautiful mosaics
where large feldspar crystals form the greater part of the rock. On such
pavements the sunshine is at times dazzling, as if the surface were of
burnished silver.
Here, also, are the brightest
of the Sierra landscapes in general. The regions lying at the same elevation
to the north and south were perhaps subjected to as long and intense a
glaciation; but because the rocks are less resisting, their polished
surfaces have mostly given way to the weather, leaving here and there only
small imperfect patches on the most enduring portions of caņon walls
protected from the action of rain and snow, and on hard bosses kept
comparatively dry by boulders. The short, steeply inclined canons of the
east flank of the range are in some places brightly polished, but they are
far less magnificent than those of the broad west flank.
One of the best general views
of the middle region of the park is to be had from the top of a majestic
dome which long ago I named the Glacier Monument. It is situated a few miles
to the north of Cathedral Peak, and rises to a height of about fifteen
hundred feet above its base and ten thousand above the sea. At first sight
it seems sternly inaccessible, but a good climber will find that it may be
scaled on the south side. Approaching it from this side you pass through a
dense bryanthus-fringed grove of mountain hemlock, catching glimpses now and
then of the colossal dome towering to an immense height above the dark
evergreens; and when at last you have made your way across woods, wading
through azalea and ledum thickets, you step abruptly out of the tree shadows
and mossy leafy softness upon a bare porphyry pavement, and behold the dome
unveiled in all its grandeur. Fancy a nicely proportioned monument, eight or
ten feet high, hewn from one stone, standing in a pleasure ground; magnify
it to a height of fifteen hundred feet, retaining its simplicity of form and
fineness, and cover its surface with crystals; then you may gain an idea of
the sublimity and beauty of this ice-burnished dome, one of many adorning
this wonderful park.
In making the ascent, one
finds that the curve of the base rapidly steepens, until one is in danger of
slipping; but feldspar crystals, two or three inches long, that have been
weathered into relief, afford slight footholds. The summit is in part
burnished, like the sides and base, the stria and scratches indicating that
the mighty Tuolumne Glacier, two or three thousand feet deep, overwhelmed it
while it stood firm like a boulder at the bottom of a river. The pressure it
withstood must have been enormous. Had it been less solidly built, it would
have been ground and crushed into moraine fragments, like the general mass
of the mountain flank in which at first it lay imbedded; for it is only a
hard residual knob or knot with a concentric structure of superior strength,
brought into relief by the removal of the less resisting rock about it, - an
illustration in stone of the survival of the strongest and most favorably
situated.
Hardly less wonderful, when
we contemplate the storms it has encountered since first it saw the light,
is its present unwasted condition. The whole quantity of postglacial wear
and tear it has suffered has not diminished its stature a single inch, as
may be readily shown by measuring from the level of the unchanged polished
portions of the surface. Indeed, the average postglacial denudation of the
entire region, measured in the same way, is found to be less than two
inches, - a mighty contrast to that of the ice; for the glacial denudation
here has been not less than a mile; that is, in developing the present
landscapes, an amount of rock a mile in average thickness has been silently
carried away by flowing ice during the last glacial period.
A few erratic boulders nicely
poised on the rounded summit of the monument tell an interesting story. They
came from a mountain on the crest of the range, about twelve miles to the
eastward, floating like chips on the frozen sea, and were stranded here when
the top of the monument emerged to the light of day, while the companions of
these boulders, whose positions chanced to be over the slopes where they
could not find rest, were carried farther on by the shallowing current.
The general view from the
summit consists of a sublime assemblage of iceborn mountains and rocks and
long wavering ridges, lakes and streams and meadows, moraines in wide
sweeping belts, and beds covered and dotted with forests and groves, -
hundreds of square miles of them composed in wild harmony. The snowy
mountains on the axis of the range, mostly sharp-peaked and crested, rise in
noble array along the sky to the eastward and northward; the gray-pillared
Hoffman spur and the Yosemite domes and a countless number of others to the
westward; Cathedral Peak with its many spires and companion peaks and domes
to the southward; and a smooth billowy multitude of rocks, from fifty feet
or less to a thousand feet high, which from their peculiar form seem to be
rolling on westward, fill most of the middle ground. Immediately beneath you
are the Big Tuolumne Meadows, with an ample swath of dark pine woods on
either side, enlivened by the young river, that is seen sparkling and
shimmering as it sways from side to side, tracing as best it can its broad
glacial channel.
The ancient Tuolumne Glacier,
lavishly flooded by many a noble affluent from the snow-laden flanks of
Mounts Dana, Gibbs, Lyell, Maclure, and others nameless as yet, poured its
majestic overflowing current, four or five miles wide, directly against the
high outstanding mass of Mount Hoffman, which divided and deflected it right
and left, just as a river is divided against an island that stands in the
middle of its channel. Two distinct glaciers were thus formed, one of which
flowed through the Big Tuolumne Caņon and Hetch Hetchy Valley, while the
other swept upward five hundred feet in a broad current across the divide
between the basins of the Tuolumne and Merced into the Tenaya basin, and
thence down through the Tenaya Caņon and Yosemite Valley.
The maplike distinctness and
freshness of this glacial landscape cannot fail to excite the attention of
every observer, no matter how little of its scientific significance he may
at first recognize. These bald, glossy, westward- leaning rocks in the open
middle ground, with their rounded backs and shoulders toward the glacier
fountains of the summit mountains and their split angular fronts looking in
the opposite direction, every one of them displaying the form of greatest
strength with reference to physical structure and glacial action, show the
tremendous force with which through unnumbered centuries the ice flood swept
over them, and also the direction of the flow; while the mountains, with
their sharp summits and abraded sides, indicate the height to which the
glacier rose; and the moraines, curving and swaying in beautiful lines, mark
the boundaries of the main trunk and its tributaries as they existed toward
the close of the glacial winter. None of the commercial highways of the sea
or land, marked with buoys and lamps, fences and guideboards, is so
unmistakably indicated as are these channels of the vanished Tuolumne
glaciers.
The action of flowing ice,
whether in the form of river-like glaciers or broad mantling folds, is but
little understood as compared with that of other sculpturing agents. Rivers
work openly where people dwell, and so do the rain, and the sea thundering
on all the shores of the world; and the universal ocean of air, though
unseen, speaks aloud in a thousand voices and explains its modes of working
and its power. But glaciers, back in their cold solitudes, work apart from
men, exerting their tremendous energies in silence and darkness. Coming in
vapor from the sea, flying invisible on the wind, descending in snow,
changing to ice, white, spiritlike, they brood outspread over the
predestined landscapes, working on unwearied through unmeasured ages, until
in the fullness of time the mountains and valleys are brought forth,
channels furrowed for the rivers, basins made for meadows and lakes, and
soil beds spread for the forests and fields that man and beast may be fed.
Then vanishing like clouds, they melt into streams and go singing back home
to the sea.
To an observer upon this
adamantine old monument in the midst of such scenery, getting glimpses of
the thoughts of God, the day seems endless, the sun stands still. Much
faithless fuss is made over the passage in the Bible telling of the standing
still of the sun for Joshua. Here you may learn that the miracle occurs for
every devout mountaineer, for everybody doing anything worth doing, seeing
anything worth seeing. One day is as a thousand years, a thousand years as
one day, and while yet in the flesh you enjoy immortality.
From the monument you will
find an easy way down through the woods and along the Big Tuolumne Meadows
to Mount Dana, the summit of which commands a grand telling view of the
alpine region. The scenery all the way is inspiring, and you saunter on
without knowing that you are climbing. The spacious sunny meadows, through
the midst of which the bright river glides, extend with but little
interruption ten miles to the eastward, dark woods rising on either side to
the limit of tree growth, and above the woods a picturesque line of gray
peaks and spires dotted with snow banks; while, on the axis of the Sierra,
Mount Dana and his noble compeers repose in massive sublimity, their vast
size and simple flowing contours contrasting in the most striking manner
with the clustering spire and thin pinnacled crests crisply outlined on the
horizon to the north and south of them.
Tracing the silky lawns,
gradually ascending, gazing at the sublime scenery more and more openly
unfolded, noting the avalanche gaps in the upper forests, lingering over
beds of blue gentians and purple-flowered bryanthus and cassiope, and dwarf
willows an inch high in close-felted gray carpets, brightened here and there
with kalmia and soft creeping mats of vaccinium sprinkled with pink bells
that seem to have been showered down from the sky like hail, -thus beguiled
and enchanted, you reach the base of the mountain wholly unconscious of the
miles you have walked. And so on to the summit. For all the way up the long
red slate slopes, that in the distance seemed barren, you find little garden
beds and tufts of dwarf phlox, ivesia, and blue arctic daisies that go
straight to your heart, blessed fellow mountaineers kept safe and warm by a
thousand miracles. You are now more than thirteen thousand feet above the
sea, and to the north and south you behold a sublime wilderness of mountains
in glorious array, their snowy summits towering together in crowded,
bewildering abundance, shoulder to shoulder, peak beyond peak. To the east
lies the Great Basin, barren-looking and silent, apparently a land of pure
desolation, rich only in beautiful light. Mono Lake, fourteen miles long, is
outspread below you at a depth of nearly seven thousand feet, its shores of
volcanic ashes and sand, treeless and sunburned; a group of volcanic cones,
with well-formed, unwasted craters rises to the south of the lake; while up
from its eastern shore innumerable mountains with soft flowing outlines
extend range beyond range, gray, and pale purple, and blue, - the farthest
gradually fading on the glowing horizon. Westward you look down and over the
countless moraines, glacier meadows, and grand sea of domes and rock waves
of the upper Tuolumne basin, the Cathedral and Hoffman mountains with their
wavering lines and zones of forest, the wonderful region to the north of the
Tuolumne Caņon, and across the dark belt of silver firs to the pale
mountains of the coast.
In the icy fountains of the
Mount Lyell and Ritter groups of peaks, to the south of Dana, three of the
most important of the Sierra rivers - the Tuolumne, Merced, and San Joaquin
- take their rise, their highest tributaries being within a few miles of one
another as they rush forth on their adventurous courses from beneath snow
banks and glaciers.
Of the small shrinking
glaciers of the Sierra, remnants of the majestic system that sculptured the
range, I have seen sixty-five. About twenty-five of them are in the park,
and eight are in sight from Mount Dana.
The glacier lakes are
sprinkled over all the alpine and subalpine regions, gleaming like eyes
beneath heavy rock brows, tree-fringed or bare, embosomed in the woods, or
lying in open basins with green and purple meadows around them; but the
greater number are in the cool shadowy hollows of the summit mountains not
far from the glaciers, the highest lying at an elevation of from eleven to
nearly twelve thousand feet above the sea. The whole number in the Sierra,
not counting the smallest, can hardly be less than fifteen hundred, of which
about two hundred and fifty are in the park. From one standpoint, on Red
Mountain, I counted forty-two, most of them within a radius of ten miles.
The glacier meadows, which are spread over the filled-up basins of vanished
lakes and form one of the most charming features of the scenery, are still
more numerous than the lakes.
An observer stationed here,
in the glacial period, would have overlooked a wrinkled mantle of ice as
continuous as that which now covers the continent of Greenland; and of all
the vast landscape now shining in the sun, be would have seen only the tops
of the summit peaks, rising darkly like storm-beaten islands, lifeless and
hopeless, above rock-encumbered ice waves. If among the agents that nature
has employed in making these mountains there be one that above all others
deserves the name of Destroyer, it is the glacier. But we quickly learn that
destruction is creation. During the dreary centuries through which the
Sierra lay in darkness, crushed beneath the ice folds of the glacial winter,
there was a steady invincible advance toward the warm life and beauty of
to-day; and it is just where the glaciers crushed most destructively that
the greatest amount of beauty is made manifest. But as these landscapes have
succeeded the preglacial landscapes, so they in turn are giving place to
others already planned and foreseen. The granite domes and pavements,
apparently imperishable, we take as symbols of permanence, while these
crumbling peaks, down whose frosty gullies avalanches are ever falling, are
symbols of change and decay. Yet all alike, fast or slow, are surely
vanishing away.
Nature is ever at work
building and puffing down, creating and destroying, keeping everything
whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing
everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another. |
