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TOWARD the end of summer,
after a light, open winter, one may reach the summit of Mount Shasta without
passing over much snow, by keeping on the crest of a long narrow ridge,
mostly bare, that extends from near the camp-ground at the timber-line. But
on my first excursion to the summit the whole mountain, down to its low
swelling base, was smoothly laden with loose fresh snow, presenting a most
glorious mass of winter mountain scenery, in the midst of which I scrambled
and reveled or lay snugly snowbound, enjoying the fertile clouds and the
snow-bloom in all their growing, drifting grandeur.
I had walked from Redding, sauntering leisurely from station to station
along the old Oregon stage-road, the better to see the rocks and plants,
birds and people, by the way, tracing the rushing Sacramento to its
fountains around icy Shasta. The first rains had fallen on the lowlands, and
the first snows on the mountains, and everything was fresh and bracing,
while an abundance of balmy sunshine filled all the noonday hours. It was
the calm afterglow that usually succeeds the first storm of the winter. I
met many of the birds that had reared their young and spent their summer in
the Shasta woods and chaparral. They were then on their way south to their
winter homes, leading their young full-fledged and about as large and strong
as the parents. Squirrels, dry and elastic after the storms, were busy about
their stores of pine nuts, and the latest goldenrods were still in bloom,
though it was now past the middle of October. The grand color glow - the
autumnal jubilee of ripe leaves - was past prime, but, freshened by the
rain, was still making a fine show along the banks of the river and in the
ravines and the dells of the smaller streams.
At the salmon-hatching
establishment on the McCloud River I halted a week to examine the limestone
belt, grandly developed there, to learn what I could of the inhabitants of
the river and its banks, and to give time for the fresh snow that I knew had
fallen on the mountain to settle somewhat, with a view to making the ascent.
A pedestrian on these mountain roads, especially so late in the year, is
sure to excite curiosity, and many were the interrogations concerning my
ramble. When I said that I was simply taking a walk, and that icy Shasta was
my mark. I was invariably admonished that I had come on a dangerous quest.
The time was far too late, the snow was too loose and deep to climb, and I
should be lost in drifts and slides. When I hinted that new snow was
beautiful and storms not so bad as they were called, my advisers shook their
heads in token of superior knowledge and declared the ascent of "Shasta
Butte" through loose snow impossible. Nevertheless, before noon of the
second of November I was in the frosty azure of the utmost summit.
When I arrived at Sisson's
everything was quiet. The last of the summer visitors had flitted long
before, and the deer and bears also were beginning to seek their winter
homes. My barometer and the sighing winds and filmy, half-transparent clouds
that dimmed the sunshine gave notice of the approach of another storm, and I
was in haste to be off and get myself established somewhere in the midst of
it, whether the summit was to be attained or not. Sisson, who is a
mountaineer, speedily fitted me out for storm or calm as only a mountaineer
could, with warm blankets and a week's provisions so generous in quantity
and kind that they easily might have been made to last a month in case of my
being closely snowbound. Well I knew the weariness of snow- climbing, and
the frosts, and the dangers of mountaineering so late in the year; therefore
I could not ask a guide to go with me, even had one been willing. All I
wanted was to have blankets and provisions deposited as far up in the timber
as the snow would permit a pack- animal to go. There I could build a storm
nest and lie warm, and make raids up and around the mountain in accordance
with the weather.
Setting out on the afternoon
of November first, with Jerome Fay, mountaineer and guide, in charge of the
animals, I was soon plodding wearily upward through the muffled winter
woods, the snow of course growing steadily deeper and looser, so that we had
to break a trail. The animals began to get discouraged, and after night and
darkness came on they became entangled in a bed of rough lava, where,
breaking through four or five feet of mealy snow, their feet were caught
between angular boulders. Here they were in danger of being lost, but after
we had removed packs and saddles and assisted their efforts with ropes, they
all escaped to the side of a ridge about a thousand feet below the
timber-line.
To go farther was out of the
question, so we were compelled to camp as best we could. A pitch-pine fire
speedily changed the temperature and shed a blaze of light on the wild
lavaslope and the straggling storm-bent pines around us. Melted snow
answered for coffee, and we had plenty of venison to roast. Toward midnight
I rolled myself in my blankets, slept an hour and a half, arose and ate more
venison, tied two days' provisions to my belt, and set out for the summit,
hoping to reach it ere the coming storm should fall. Jerome accompanied me a
little distance above camp and indicated the way as well as he could in the
darkness. He seemed loath to leave me, but, being reassured that I was at
home and required no care, he bade me good-bye and returned to camp, ready
to lead his animals down the mountain at daybreak.
After I was above the dwarf
pines, it was fine practice pushing up the broad unbroken slopes of snow,
alone in the solemn silence of the night. Half the sky was clouded; in the
other half the stars sparkled icily in the keen, frosty air; while
everywhere the glorious wealth of snow fell away from the summit of the cone
in flowing folds, more extensive and continuous than any I had ever seen
before. When day dawned the clouds were crawling slowly and becoming more
massive, but gave no intimation of immediate danger, and I pushed on
faithfully, though holding myself well in hand, ready to return to the
timber; for it was easy to see that the storm was not far off. The mountain
rises ten thousand feet above the general level of the country, in blank
exposure to the deep upper currents of the sky, and no labyrinth of peaks
and canons I had ever been in seemed to me so dangerous as these immense
slopes, bare against the sky.
The frost was intense, and
drifting snow-dust made breathing at times rather difficult. The snow was as
dry as meal, and the finer particles drifted freely, rising high in the air,
while the larger portions of the crystals rolled like sand. I frequently
sank to my armpits between buried blocks of loose lava, but generally only
to my knees. When tired with walking I still wallowed slowly upward on all
fours. The steepness of the slope - thirty-five degrees in some places -
made any kind of progress fatiguing, while small avalanches were being
constantly set in motion in the steepest places. But the bracing air and the
sublime beauty of the snowy expanse thrilled every nerve and made absolute
exhaustion impossible. I seemed to be walking and wallowing in a cloud; but,
holding steadily onward, by half-past ten o'clock I had gained the highest
summit.
I held my commanding foothold
in the sky for two hours, gazing on the glorious landscapes spread maplike
around the immense horizon, and tracing the outlines of the ancient lava-
streams extending far into the surrounding plains, and the pathways of
vanished glaciers of which Shasta had been the center. But, as I had left my
coat in camp for the sake of having my limbs free in climbing, I soon was
cold. The wind increased in violence, raising the snow in magnificent drifts
that were drawn out in the form of wavering banners glowing in the sun.
Toward the end of my stay a succession of small clouds struck against the
summit rocks like drifting icebergs, darkening the air as they passed, and
producing a chill as definite and sudden as if ice-water had been dashed in
my face. This is the kind of cloud in which snow- flowers grow, and I turned
and fled.
Finding that I was not
closely pursued, I ventured to take time on the way down for a visit to the
head of the Whitney Glacier and the "Crater Butte." After I reached the end
of the main summit ridge the descent was but little more than one continuous
soft, mealy, muffled slide, most luxurious and rapid, though the hissing,
swishing speed attained was obscured in great part by flying snow-dust - a
marked contrast to the boring seal-wallowing upward struggle. I reached camp
about an hour before dusk, hollowed a strip of loose ground in the lee of a
large block of red lava, where firewood was abundant, rolled myself in my
blankets, and went to sleep.
Next morning, having slept
little the night before the ascent and being weary with climbing after the
excitement was over, I slept late. Then, awaking suddenly, my eyes opened on
one of the most beautiful and sublime scenes I ever enjoyed. A boundless
wilderness of storm-clouds of different degrees of ripeness were congregated
over all the lower landscape for thousands of square miles, colored gray,
and purple, and pearl, and deep-glowing white, amid which I seemed to be
floating; while the great white cone of the mountain above was all aglow in
the free, blazing sunshine. It seemed not so much an ocean as a land of
clouds - undulating hill and dale, smooth purple plains, and silvery
mountains of cumuli, range over range, diversified with peak and dome and
hollow fully brought out in light and shade.
I gazed enchanted, but cold
gray masses, drifting like dust on a wind-swept plain, began to shut out the
light, forerunners of the coming storm I had been so anxiously. watching. I
made haste to gather as much wood as possible, snugging it as a shelter
around my bed. The storm side of my blankets was fastened down with stakes
to reduce as much as possible the sifting-in of drift and the danger of
being blown away. The precious bread-sack was placed safely as a pillow, and
when at length the first flakes fell I was exultingly ready to welcome them.
Most of my firewood was more than half rosin and would blaze in the face of
the fiercest drifting; the winds could not demolish my bed, and my bread
could be made to last indefinitely; while in case of need I had the means of
making snowshoes and could retreat or hold my ground as I pleased.
Presently the storm broke
forth into full snowy bloom, and the thronging crystals darkened the air.
The wind swept past in hissing floods, grinding the snow into meal and
sweeping down into the hollows in enormous drifts all the heavier particles,
while the finer dust was sifted through the sky, increasing the icy gloom.
But my fire glowed bravely as if in glad defiance of the drift to quench it,
and, notwithstanding but little trace of my nest could be seen after the
snow had leveled and buried it, I was snug and warm, and the passionate
uproar produced a glad excitement.
Day after. day the storm
continued, piling snow on snow in weariless abundance. There were short
periods of quiet, when the sun would seem to look eagerly down through rents
in the clouds, as if to know how the work was advancing. During these calm
intervals I replenished my fire - sometimes without leaving the nest, for
fire and woodpile were so near this could easily be done - or busied myself
with my notebook, watching the gestures of the trees in taking the snow,
examining separate crystals under a lens, and learning the methods of their
deposition as an enduring fountain for the streams. Several times, when the
storm ceased for a few minutes, a Douglas squirrel came frisking from the
foot of a clump of dwarf pines, moving in sudden interrupted spurts over the
bossy snow; then, without any apparent guidance, he would dig rapidly into
the drift where were buried some grains of barley that the horses had left.
The Douglas squirrel does not strictly belong to these upper woods, and I
was surprised to see him out in such weather. The mountain sheep also, quite
a large flock of them, came to my camp and took shelter beside a clump of
matted dwarf pines a little above my nest.
The storm lasted about a
week, but before it was ended Sisson became alarmed and sent up the guide
with animals to see what had become of me and recover the camp outfit. The
news spread that "there was a man on the mountain," and he must surely have
perished, and Sisson was blamed for allowing any one to attempt climbing in
such weather; while I was as safe as anybody in the lowlands, lying like a
squirrel in a warm, fluffy nest, busied about my own affairs and wishing
only to be let alone. Later, however, a trail could not have been broken for
a horse, and some of the camp furniture would have had to be abandoned. On
the fifth day I returned to Sisson's, and from that comfortable base made
excursions, as the weather permitted, to the Black Butte, to the foot of the
Whitney Glacier, around the base of the mountain, to Rhett and Klamath
Lakes, to the Modoc region and elsewhere, developing many interesting scenes
and experiences.
But the next spring, on the
other side of this eventful winter, I saw and felt still more of the Shasta
snow. For then it was my fortune to get into the very heart of a storm, and
to be held in it for a long time.
On the 28th of April [1875] I
led a party up the mountain for the purpose of making a survey of the summit
with reference to the location of the Geodetic monument. On the 30th,
accompanied by Jerome Fay, I made another ascent to make some barometrical
observations, the day intervening between the two ascents being devoted to
establishing a camp on the extreme edge of the timber-line. here, on our red
trachyte bed, we obtained two hours of shallow sleep broken for occasional
glimpses of the keen, starry night. At two o'clock we rose, breakfasted on a
warmed tin-cupful of coffee and a piece of frozen venison broiled on the
coals, and started for the summit. Up to this time there was nothing in
sight that betokened the approach of a storm; but on gaining the summit, we
saw toward Lassen's Butte hundreds of square miles of white cumuli boiling
dreamily in the sunshine far beneath us, and causing no alarm.
The slight weariness of the
ascent was soon rested away, and our glorious morning in the sky promised
nothing but enjoyment. At 9 A.M. the dry thermometer stood at 34° in the
shade and rose steadily until at 1 P.M. it stood at 500, probably influenced
somewhat by radiation from the sun-warmed cliffs. A common bumble-bee, not
at all benumbed, zigzagged vigorously about our heads for a few moments, as
if unconscious of the fact that the nearest honey flower was a mile beneath
him.
In the mean time clouds were
growing down in Shasta Valley - massive swelling cumuli, displaying
delicious tones of purple and gray in the hollows of their sun-beaten
bosses. Extending gradually southward around on both sides of Shasta, these
at length united with the older field towards Lassen's Butte, thus
encircling Mount Shasta in one continuous cloud-zone. Rhett and Kalmath
Lakes were eclipsed beneath clouds scarcely less brilliant than their own
silvery disks. The Modoc Lava Beds, many a snow-laden peak far north in
Oregon, the Scott and Trinity and Siskiyou Mountains, the peaks of the
Sierra, the blue Coast Range, Shasta Valley, the dark forests filling the
valley of the Sacramento, all in turn were obscured or buried, leaving the
lofty cone on which we stood solitary in the sunshine between two skies -a
sky of spotless blue above, a sky of glittering cloud beneath. The creative
sun shone glorious on the vast expanse of cloudland; hill and dale, mountain
and valley springing into existence responsive to his rays and steadily
developing in beauty and individuality. One huge mountain-cone of cloud,
corresponding to Mount Shasta in these newborn cloud-ranges, rose close
alongside with a visible motion, its firm, polished bosses seeming so near
and substantial that we almost fancied we might leap down upon them from
where we stood and make our way to the lowlands. No hint was given, by
anything in their appearance, of the fleeting character of these most
sublime and beautiful cloud mountains. On the contrary they impressed one as
being lasting additions to the landscape.
The weather of the springtime
and summer, throughout the Sierra in general, is usually varied by slight
local rains and dustings of snow, most of which are obviously far too joyous
and life-giving to be regarded as storms - single clouds growing in the
sunny sky, ripening in an hour, showering the heated landscape, and passing
away like a thought, leaving no visible bodily remains to stain the sky.
Snowstorms of the same gentle kind abound among the high peaks, but in
spring they not unfrequently attain larger proportions, assuming a violence
and energy of expression scarcely surpassed by those bred in the depths of
winter. Such was the storm now gathering about us.
It began to declare itself
'shortly after noon, suggesting to us the idea of at once seeking our safe
camp in the timber and abandoning the purpose of making an observation of
the barometer at 3 - two having already been made, at 9 A.M., and 12 A,M.,
while simultaneous observations were made at Strawberry Valley. Jerome
peered at short intervals over the ridge, contemplating the rising clouds
with anxious gestures in the rough wind, and at length declared that if we
did not make a speedy escape we should be compelled to pass the rest of the
day and night on the summit. But anxiety to complete my observations stifled
my own instinctive promptings to retreat, and held me to my work. No
inexperienced person was depending on me, and I told Jerome that we two
mountaineers should be able to make our way down through any storm likely to
fall.
Presently thin, fibrous films
of cloud began to blow directly over the summit from north to south, drawn
out in long fairy webs like carded wool, forming and dissolving as if by
magic. The wind twisted them into ringlets and whirled them in a succession
of graceful convolutions like the outside sprays of Yosemite Falls in
flood-time; then, sailing out into the thin azure over the precipitous brink
of the ridge they were drifted together like wreaths of foam on a river.
These higher and finer cloud fabrics were evidently produced by the chilling
of the air from its own expansion caused by the upward deflection of the
wind against the slopes of the mountain. They steadily increased on the
north rim of the cone, forming at length a thick, opaque, ill-defined
embankment from the icy meshes of which snow- flowers began to fall,
alternating with hail. The sky speedily darkened, and just as I had
completed my last observation and boxed my instruments ready for the
descent, the storm began in serious earnest. At first the cliffs were beaten
with hail, every stone of which, as far as I could see, was regular in form,
six- sided pyramids with rounded base, rich and sumptuous-looking, and
fashioned with loving care, yet seemingly thrown away on those desolate
crags down which they went rolling, falling, sliding in a network of curious
streams.
After we had forced our way
down the ridge and past the group of hissing fumaroles, the storm became
inconceivably violent. The thermometer fell 22° in a few minutes, and soon
dropped below zero. The hail gave place to snow, and darkness came on like
night. The wind, rising to the highest pitch of violence, boomed and surged
amid the desolate crags; lightning-flashes in quick succession cut the
gloomy darkness; and the thunders, the most tremendously loud and appalling
I ever heard, made an almost continuous roar, stroke following stroke in
quick, passionate succession, as though the mountain were being rent to its
foundations and the fires of the old volcano were breaking forth again.
Could we at once have begun
to descend the snow-slopes leading to the timber, we might have made good
our escape, however dark and wild the storm. As it was, we had first to make
our way along a dangerous ridge nearly a mile and a half long, flanked in
many places by steep ice-slopes at the head of the Whitney Glacier on one
side and by shattered precipices on the other. Apprehensive of this coming
darkness, I had taken the precaution, when the storm began, to make the most
dangerous points clear to my mind, and to mark their relations with
reference to the direction of the wind. When, therefore, the darkness came
on, and the bewildering drift, I felt confident that we could force our way
through it with no other guidance. After passing the "Hot Springs" I halted
in the lee of a lava-block to let Jerome, who had fallen a little behind,
come up. Here he opened a council in which, under circumstances sufficiently
exciting but without evincing any bewilderment, he maintained, in opposition
to my views, that it was impossible to proceed. He firmly refused to make
the venture to find the camp, while I, aware of the dangers that would
necessarily attend our efforts, and conscious of being the cause of his
present peril, decided not to leave him.
Our discussions ended, Jerome
made a dash from the shelter of the lava-block and began forcing his way
back against the wind to the "Hot Springs," wavering and struggling to
resist being carried away, as if he were fording a rapid stream. After
waiting and watching in vain for some flaw in the storm that might be urged
as a new argument in favor of attempting the descent, I was compelled to
follow. "Here," said Jerome, as we shivered in the midst of the hissing,
sputtering fumaroles, "we shall be safe from frost." "Yes," said I, it can
lie in this mud and steam and sludge, warm at least on one side; but how can
we protect our lungs from the acid gases, and how, after our clothing is
saturated, shall we be able to reach camp without freezing, even after the
storm is over? We shall have to wait for sunshine, and when will it come?"
The tempered area to which we
had committed ourselves extended over about one fourth of an acre; but it
was only about an eighth of an inch in thickness, for the scalding gas-jets
were shorn off close to the ground by the oversweeping flood of frosty wind.
And how lavishly the snow fell only mountaineers may know. The crisp crystal
flowers seemed to touch one another and fairly to thicken the tremendous
blast that carried them. This was the bloom-time, the summer of the cloud,
and never before have I seen even a mountain cloud flowering so profusely.
When the bloom of the Shasta
chaparral is falling, the ground is sometimes covered for hundreds of square
miles to a depth of half an inch. But the bloom of this fertile snow-cloud
grew and matured and fell to a depth of two feet in a few hours. Some
crystals landed with their rays almost perfect, but most of them were worn
and broken by striking against one another, or by rolling on the ground. The
touch of these snow-flowers in calm weather is infinitely gentle - glinting,
swaying, settling silently in the dry mountain air, or massed in flakes soft
and downy. To lie out alone in the mountains of a still night and be touched
by the first of these small silent messengers from the sky is a memorable
experience, and the fineness of that touch none will forget. But the
storm-blast laden with crisp, sharp snow seems to crush and bruise and
stupefy with its multitude of stings, and compels the bravest to turn and
flee.
The snow fell without
abatement until an hour or two after what seemed to be the natural darkness
of the night. Up to the time the storm first broke on the summit its
development was remarkably gentle. There was a deliberate growth of clouds,
a weaving of translucent tissue above, then the roar of the wind and the
thunder, and the darkening flight of snow. Its subsidence was not less
sudden. The clouds broke and vanished, not a crystal was left in the sky,
and the stars shone out with pure and tranquil radiance.
During the storm we lay on
our backs so as to present as little surface as possible to the wind, and to
let the drift pass over us. The mealy snow sifted into the folds of our
clothing and in many places reached the skin. We were glad at first to see
the snow packing about us, hoping it would deaden the force of the wind, but
it soon froze into a stiff, crusty heap as the temperature fell, rather
augmenting our novel misery.
When the heat became
unendurable, on some spot where steam was escaping through the sludge, we
tried to stop it with snow and mud, or shifted a little at a time by shoving
with our heels; for to stand in blank exposure to the fearful wind in our
frozen-and-broiled condition seemed certain death. The acrid incrustations
sublimed from the escaping gases frequently gave way, opening new vents to
scald us; and, fearing that if at any time the wind should fall, carbonic
acid, which often formed a considerable portion of the gaseous exhalations
of volcanoes, might collect in sufficient quantities to cause sleep and
death, I warned Jerome against forgetting himself for a single moment, even
should his sufferings admit of such a thing.
Accordingly, when during the
long, dreary watches of the night we roused from a state of
half-consciousness, we called each other by name in a frightened, startled
way, each fearing the other might be benumbed or dead. The ordinary
sensations of cold give but a faint conception of that which comes on after
hard climbing with want of food and sleep in such exposure as this. Life is
then seen to be a fire, that now smoulders, now brightens, and may be easily
quenched. The weary hours wore away like dim half-forgotten years, so long
and eventful they seemed, though we did nothing but suffer. Still the pain
was not always of that bitter, intense kind that precludes thought and takes
away all capacity for enjoyment. A sort of dreamy stupor came on at times in
which we fancied we saw dry, resinous logs suitable for campfires, just as
after going days without food men fancy they see bread.
Frozen, blistered, famished,
benumbed, our bodies seemed lost to us at times - all dead but the eyes. For
the duller and fainter we became the clearer was our vision, though only in
momentary glimpses. Then, after the sky cleared, we gazed at the stars,
blessed immortals of light, shining with marvelous brightness with long
lance rays, near-looking and new-looking, as if never seen before. Again
they would look familiar and remind us of stargazing at home. Oftentimes
imagination coming into play would present charming pictures of the warm
zone below, mingled with others near and far. Then the bitter wind and the
drift would break the blissful vision and dreary pains cover us like clouds.
"Are you suffering much?" Jerome would inquire with pitiful faintness.
"Yes," I would say, striving to keep my voice brave, 'frozen and burned; but
never mind, Jerome, the night will wear away at last, and to-morrow we go a-Maying,
and what campfires we will make, and what sun- baths we will take!"
The frost grew more and more
intense, and we became icy and covered over with a crust of frozen snow, as
if we had lain cast away in the drift all winter. In about thirteen hours -
every hour like a year - day began to dawn, but it was long ere the summit's
rocks were touched by the sun. No clouds were visible from where we lay, yet
the morning was dull and blue, and bitterly frosty; and hour after hour
passed by while we eagerly watched the pale light stealing down the ridge to
the hollow where we lay. But there was not a trace of that warm, flushing
sunrise splendor we so long had hoped for.
As the time drew near to make
an effort to reach camp, we became concerned to know what strength was left
us, and whether or no we could walk; for we had lain flat all this time
without once rising to our feet. Mountaineers, however, always find in
themselves a reserve of power after great exhaustion. It is a kind of second
life, available only in emergencies like this; and, having proved its
existence, I had no great fear that either of us would fail, though one of
my arms was already benumbed and hung powerless.
At length, after the
temperature was somewhat mitigated on this memorable first of May, we arose
and began to struggle homeward. Our frozen trousers could scarcely be made
to bend at the knee, and we waded the snow with difficulty. The summit ridge
was fortunately wind-swept and nearly bare, so we were not compelled to lift
our feet high, and on reaching the long home slopes laden with loose snow we
made rapid progress, sliding and shuffling and pitching headlong, our
feebleness accelerating rather than diminishing our speed. When we had
descended some three thousand feet the sunshine warmed our backs and we
began to revive. At 10 A.M. we reached the timber and were safe.
Half an hour later we heard
Sisson shouting down among the firs, coming with horses to take us to the
hotel. After breaking a trail through the snow as far as possible he had
tied his animals and walked up. We had been so long without food that we
cared but little about eating, but we eagerly drank the coffee he prepared
for us. Our feet were frozen, and thawing them was painful, and had to be
done very slowly by keeping them buried in soft snow for several hours,
which avoided permanent damage. Five thousand feet below the summit we found
only three inches of new snow, and at the base of the mountain only a slight
shower of rain had fallen, showing how local our storm had been,
notwithstanding its terrific fury. Our feet were wrapped in sacking, and we
were soon mounted and on our way down into the thick sunshine - "God's
Country," as Sisson calls the Chaparral Zone. In two hours' ride the last
snow-bank was left behind. Violets appeared along the edges of the trail,
and the chaparral was coming into bloom, with young lilies and larkspurs
about the open places in rich profusion. How beautiful, seemed the golden
sunbeams streaming through the woods between the warm brown boles of the
cedars and pines! All my friends among the birds and plants seemed like old
friends, and we felt like speaking to every one of them as we passed, as if
we had been a long time away in some far, strange country.
In the afternoon we reached
Strawberry Valley and fell asleep. Next morning we seemed to have risen from
the dead. My bedroom was flooded with sunshine, and from the window I saw
the great white Shasta cone clad in forests and clouds and bearing them
loftily in the sky. Everything seemed full and radiant with the freshness
and beauty and enthusiasm of youth. Sisson's children came in with flowers
and covered my bed, and the storm on the mountaintop vanished like a dream. |
