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August 22. Clouds none, cool
west wind, slight hoarfrost on the meadows. Carlo is missing; have been
seeking him all day. In the thick woods between camp and the river, among
tall grass and fallen pines, I discovered a baby fawn. At first it seemed
inclined to come to me; but when I tried to catch it, and got within a rod
or two, it turned and walked softly away, choosing its steps like a
cautious, stealthy, hunting cat. Then, as if suddenly called or alarmed, it
began to buck and run like a grown deer, jumping high above the fallen
trunks, and was soon out of sight. Possibly its mother may have called it,
but I did not hear her. I don't think fawns ever leave the home thicket or
follow their mothers until they are called or frightened. I am distressed
about Carlo. There are several other camps and dogs not many miles from
here, and I still hope to find him. He never left me before. Panthers are
very rare here, and I don't think any of these cats would dare touch him. He
knows bears too well to be caught by them, and as for Indians, they don't
want him.
August 23. Cool, bright day,
hinting Indian summer. Mr. Delaney has gone to the Smith Ranch, on the
Tuolumne below Hetch-Hetchy Valley, thirty-five or forty miles from here, so
I'll be alone for a week or more, — not really alone, for Carlo has come
back. He was at a camp a few miles to the northwestward. He looked sheepish
and ashamed when I asked him where he had been and why he had gone away
without leave. He is now trying to get me to caress him and show signs of
forgiveness. A wondrous wise dog. A great load is off my mind. I could not
have left the mountains without him. He seems very glad to get back to me.
Rose and crimson sunset, and
soon after the stars appeared the moon rose in most impressive majesty over
the top of Mount Dana. I sauntered up the meadow in the white light. The
jet-black tree-shadows were so wonderfully distinct and substantial looking,
I often stepped high in crossing them, taking them for black charred logs.
August 24. Another charming
day, warm and calm soon after sunrise, clouds only about .01, — faint, silky
cirrus wisps, scarcely visible. Slight frost, Indian summerish, the
mountains growing softer in outline and dreamy looking, their rough angles
melted off, apparently. Sky at evening with fine, dark, subdued purple,
almost like the evening purple of the San Joaquin plains in settled weather.
The moon is now gazing over the summit of Dana. Glorious exhilarating air. I
wonder if in all the world there is another mountain range of equal height
blessed with weather so fine, and so openly kind and hospitable and
approachable.
August 25. Cool as usual in
the morning, quickly changing to the ordinary serene generous warmth and
brightness. Toward evening the west wind was cool and sent us to the
campfire. Of all Nature's flowery carpeted mountain halls none can be finer
than this glacier meadow. Bees and butterflies seem as abundant as ever. The
birds are still here, showing no sign of leaving for winter quarters though
the frost must bring them to mind. For my part I should like to stay here
all winter or all my life or even all eternity.
August 26. Frost this
morning; all the meadow grass and some of the pine needles sparkling with
irised crystals, — flowers of light. Large picturesque clouds, craggy like
rocks, are piled on Mount Dana, reddish in color like the mountain itself;
the sky for a few degrees around the horizon is pale purple, into which the
pines dip their spires with fine effect. Spent the day as usual looking
about me, watching the changing lights, the ripening autumn colors of the
grass, seeds, late-blooming gentians, asters, goldenrods; parting the meadow
grass here and there and looking down into the underworld of mosses and
liverworts; watching the busy ants and beetles and other small people at
work and play like squirrels and bears in a forest; studying the formation
of lakes and meadows, moraines, mountain sculpture; making small beginnings
in these directions, charmed by the serene beauty of everything.
The day has been extra
cloudy, though bright on the whole, for the clouds were brighter than
common. Clouds about .15, which in Switzerland would be considered extra
clear. Probably more free sunshine falls on this majestic range than on any
other in the world I've ever seen or heard of. It has the brightest weather,
brightest glacier-polished rocks, the greatest abundance of irised spray
from its glorious waterfalls, the brightest forests of silver firs and
silver pines, more star-shine, moonshine, and perhaps more crystal-shine
than any other mountain chain, and its countless mirror lakes, having more
light poured into them, glow and spangle most. And how glorious the shining
after the short summer showers and after frosty nights when the morning
sunbeams are pouring through the crystals on the grass and pine needles, and
how ineffably spiritually fine is the morning-glow on the mountain-tops and
the alpenglow of evening. Well may the Sierra be named, not the Snowy Range,
but the Range of Light.
August 27. Clouds only .05, —
mostly white and pink cumuli over the Hoffman spur towards evening, — frosty
morning. Crystals grow in marvelous beauty and perfection of form these
still nights, every one built as carefully as the grandest holiest temple,
as if planned to endure forever.
Contemplating the lace-like
fabric of streams outspread over the mountains, we are reminded that
everything is flowing — going somewhere, animals and so-called lifeless
rocks as well as water. Thus the snow flows fast or slow in grand
beauty-making glaciers and avalanches; the air in majestic floods carrying
minerals, plant leaves, seeds, spores, with streams of music and fragrance;
water streams carrying rocks both in solution, and in the form of mud
particles, sand, pebbles, and boulders. Rocks flow from volcanoes like water
from springs, and animals flock together and flow in currents modified by
stepping, leaping, gliding, flying, swimming, etc. While the stars go
streaming through space pulsed on and on forever like blood globules in
Nature's warm heart.
August 28. The dawn a
glorious song of color. Sky absolutely cloudless. A fine crop of hoarfrost.
Warm after ten o'clock. The gentians don't mind the first frost though their
petals seem so delicate; they close every night as if going to sleep, and
awake fresh as ever in the morning sun-glory. The grass is a shade browner
since last week, but there are no nipped wilted plants of any sort as far as
I have seen. Butterflies and the grand host of smaller flies are benumbed
every night, but they hover and dance in the sunbeams over the meadows
before noon with no apparent lack of playful, joyful life. Soon they must
all fall like petals in an orchard, dry and wrinkled, not a wing of all the
mighty host left to tingle the air. Nevertheless new myriads will arise in
the spring, rejoicing, exulting, as if laughing cold death to scorn.
August 29. Clouds about .05,
slight frost. Bland serene Indian summer weather. Have been gazing all day
at the mountains, watching the changing lights. More and more plainly are
they clothed with light as a garment, white tinged with pale purple, palest
during the midday hours, richest in the morning and evening. Everything
seems consciously peaceful, thoughtful, faithfully waiting God's will.
August 30. This day just like
yesterday. A few clouds motionless and apparently with no work to do beyond
looking beautiful. Frost enough for crystal building, -- glorious fields of
ice-diamonds destined to last but a night. How lavish is Nature building,
pulling down, creating, destroying, chasing every material particle from
form to form, ever changing, ever beautiful.
Mr. Delaney arrived this
morning. Felt not a trace of loneliness while he was gone. On the contrary,
I never enjoyed grander company. The whole wilderness seems to be alive and
familiar, full of humanity. The very stones seem talkative, sympathetic,
brotherly. No wonder when we consider that we all have the same Father and
Mother.
August 31. Clouds .05. Silky
cirrus wisps and fringes so fine they almost escape notice. Frost enough for
another crop of crystals on the meadows but none on the forests. The
gentians, goldenrods, asters, etc., don't seem to feel it; neither petals
nor leaves are touched though they seem so tender. Every day opens and
closes like a flower, noiseless, effortless. Divine peace glows on all the
majestic landscape like the silent enthusiastic joy that sometimes
transfigures a noble human face.
September 1. Clouds .05 —
motionless, of no particular color — ornaments with no hint of rain or snow
in them. Day all calm — another grand throb of Nature's heart, ripening late
flowers and seeds for next summer, full of life and the thoughts and plans
of life to come, and full of ripe and ready death beautiful as life, telling
divine wisdom and goodness and immortality. Have been up Mount Dana, making
haste to see as much as I can now that the time of departure is drawing
nigh. The views from the summit reach far and wide, eastward over the Mono
Lake and Desert; mountains beyond mountains looking strangely barren and
gray and bare like heaps of ashes dumped from the sky. The lake, eight or
ten miles in diameter, shines like a burnished disk of silver, no trees
about its gray, ashy, cindery shores. Looking westward, the glorious forests
are seen sweeping over countless ridges and hills, girdling domes and
subordinate mountains, fringing in long curving lines the dividing ridges,
and filling every hollow where the glaciers have spread soil-beds however
rocky or smooth. Looking northward and southward along the axis of the
range, you see the glorious array of high mountains, crags and peaks and
snow, the fountain-heads of rivers that are flowing west to the sea through
the famous Golden Gate, and east to hot salt lakes and deserts to evaporate
and hurry back into the sky. Innumerable lakes are shining like eyes beneath
heavy rock brows, bare or tree fringed, or imbedded in black forests. Meadow
openings in the woods seem as numerous as the lakes or perhaps more so. Far
up the moraine-covered slopes and among crumbling rocks I found many
delicate hardy plants, some of them still in flower. The best gains of this
trip were the lessons of unity and interrelation of all the features of the
landscape revealed in general views. The lakes and meadows are located just
where the ancient glaciers bore heaviest at the foot of the steepest parts
of their channels, and of course their longest diameters are approximately
parallel with each other and with the belts of forests growing in long
curving lines on the lateral and medial moraines, and in broad outspreading
fields on the terminal beds deposited toward the end of the ice period when
the glaciers were receding. The domes, ridges, and spurs also show the
influence of glacial action in their forms, which approximately seem to be
the forms of greatest strength with reference to the stress of oversweeping,
past-sweeping, down-grinding ice-streams; survivals of the most resisting
masses, or those most favorably situated. How interesting everything is!
Every rock, mountain, stream, plant, lake, lawn, forest, garden, bird,
beast, insect seems to call and invite us to come and learn something of its
history and relationship. But shall the poor ignorant scholar be allowed to
try the lessons they offer? It seems too great and good to be true. Soon
I'll be going to the lowlands. The bread camp must soon be removed. If I had
a few sacks of flour, an axe, and some matches, I would build a cabin of
pine logs, pile up plenty of firewood about it and stay all winter to see
the grand fertile snow-storms, watch the birds and animals that winter thus
high, how they live, how the forests look snow-laden or buried, and how the
avalanches look and sound on their way down the mountains. But now I'll have
to go, for there is nothing to spare in the way of provisions. I'll surely
be back, however, surely I'll be back. No other place has ever so
overwhelmingly attracted me as this hospitable, Godful wilderness.
September 2. A grand, red,
rosy, crimson day, — a perfect glory of a day. What it means I don't know.
It is the first marked change from tranquil sunshine with purple mornings
and evenings and still, white noons. There is nothing like a storm, however.
The average cloudiness only about .08, and there is no sighing in the woods
to betoken a big weather change. The sky was red in the morning and evening,
the color not diffused like the ordinary purple glow, but loaded upon
separate well-defined clouds that remained motionless, as if anchored around
the jagged mountain-fenced horizon. A deep-red cap, bluffy around its sides,
lingered a long time on Mount Dana and Mount Gibbs, drooping so low as to
hide most of their bases, but leaving Dana's round summit free, which seemed
to float separate and alone over the big crimson cloud. Mammoth Mountain, to
the south of Gibbs and Bloody Canon, striped and spotted with snow-banks and
clumps of dwarf pine, was also favored with a glorious crimson cap, in the
making of which there was no trace of economy — a huge bossy pile colored
with a perfect passion of crimson that seemed important enough to be sent
off to burn among the stars in majestic independence. One is constantly
reminded of the infinite lavishness and fertility of Nature — inexhaustible
abundance amid what seems enormous waste. And yet when we look into any of
her operations that lie within reach of our minds, we learn that no particle
of her material is wasted or worn out. It is eternally flowing from use to
use, beauty to yet higher beauty; and we soon cease to lament waste and
death, and rather rejoice and exult in the imperishable, unspendable wealth
of the universe, and faithfully watch and wait the reappearance of
everything that melts and fades and dies about us, feeling sure that its
next appearance will be better and more beautiful than the last.
I watched the growth of these
red-lands of the sky as eagerly as if new mountain ranges were being built.
Soon the group of snowy peaks in whose recesses lie the highest fountains of
the Tuolumne, Merced, and North Fork of the San Joaquin were decorated with
majestic colored clouds like those already described, but more complicated,
to correspond with the grand fountain-heads of the rivers they overshadowed.
The Sierra Cathedral, to the south of camp, was overshadowed like Sinai.
Never before noticed so fine a union of rock and cloud in form and color and
substance, drawing earth and sky together as one; and so human is it, every
feature and tint of color goes to one's heart, and we shout, exulting in
wild enthusiasm as if all the divine show were our own. More and more, in a
place like this, we feel ourselves part of wild Nature, kin to everything.
Spent most of the day high up on the north rim of the valley, commanding
views of the clouds in all their red glory spreading their wonderful light
over all the basin, while the rocks and trees and small Alpine plants at my
feet seemed hushed and thoughtful, as if they also were conscious spectators
of the glorious new cloud-world.
Here and there, as I plodded
farther and higher, I came to small garden-patches and ferneries just where
one would naturally decide that no plant-creature could possibly live. But,
as in the region about the head of Mono Pass and the top of Dana, it was in
the wildest, highest places that the most beautiful and tender and
enthusiastic plant-people were found. Again and again, as I lingered over
these charming plants, I said, How came you here? How do you live through
the winter? Our roots, they explained, reach far down the joints of the
summer-warmed rocks, and beneath our fine snow mantle killing frosts cannot
reach us, while we sleep away the dark half of the year dreaming of spring.
Ever since I was allowed
entrance into these mountains I have been looking for cassiope, said to be
the most beautiful and best loved of the heathworts, but, strange to say, I
have not yet found it. On my high mountain walks I keep muttering, "Cassiope,
cassiope." This name, as Calvinists say, is driven in upon me,
notwithstanding the glorious host of plants that come about me uncalled as
soon as I show myself. Cassiope seems the highest name of all the small
mountain-heath people, and as if conscious of her worth, keeps out of my
way. I must find her soon, if at all this year.
September 4. All the vast sky
dome is clear, filled only with mellow Indian summer light. The pine and
hemlock and fir cones are nearly ripe and are falling fast from morning to
night, cut off and gathered by the busy squirrels. Almost all the plants
have matured their seeds, their summer work done; and the summer crop of
birds and deer will soon be able to follow their parents to the foothills
and plains at the approach of winter, when the snow begins to fly.
September 5. No clouds.
Weather cool, calm, bright as if no great thing was yet ready to be done.
Have been sketching the North Tuolumne Church. The sunset gloriously colored.
September 6. Still another
perfectly cloudless day, purple evening and morning, all the middle hours
one mass of pure serene sunshine. Soon after sunrise the air grew warm, and
there was no wind. One naturally halted to see what Nature intended to do.
There is a suggestion of real Indian summer in the hushed brooding, faintly
hazy weather. The yellow atmosphere, though thin, is still plainly of the
same general character as that of eastern Indian summer. The peculiar
mellowness is perhaps in part caused by myriads of ripe spores adrift in the
sky.
Mr. Delaney now keeps up a
solemn talk about the need of getting away from these high mountains,
telling sad stories of flocks that perished in storms that broke suddenly
into the midst of fine innocent weather like this we are now enjoying. "In
no case," said he, "will I venture to stay so high and far back in the
mountains as we now are later than the middle of this month, no matter how
warm and sunny it may be." He would move the flock slowly at first, a few
miles a day until the Yosemite Creek basin was reached and crossed, then
while lingering in the heavy pine woods should the weather threaten he could
hurry down to the foothills, where the snow never falls deep enough to
smother a sheep. Of course I am anxious to see as much of the wilderness as
possible in the few days left me, and I say again, — May the good time come
when I can stay as long as I like with plenty of bread, far and free from
trampling flocks, though I may well be thankful for this generous foodful
inspiring summer. Anyhow we never know where we must go nor what guides we
are to get, -- men, storms, guardian angels, or sheep. Perhaps almost
everybody in the least natural is guarded more than he is ever aware of. All
the wilderness seems to be full of tricks and plans to drive and draw us up
into God's Light.
Have been busy planning, and
baking bread for at least one more good wild excursion among the high peaks,
and surely none, however hopefully aiming at fortune or fame, ever felt so
gloriously happily excited by the outlook.
September 7. Left camp at
daybreak and made direct for Cathedral Peak, intending to strike eastward
and southward from that point among the peaks and ridges at the heads of the
Tuolumne, Merced, and San Joaquin Rivers. Down through the pine woods I made
my way, across the Tuolumne River and meadows, and up the heavily timbered
slope forming the south boundary of the upper Tuolumne basin, along the east
side of Cathedral Peak, and up to its topmost spire, which I reached at
noon, having loitered by the way to study the fine trees — two-leaved pine,
mountain pine, albicaulis pine, silver fir, and the most charming, most
graceful of all the evergreens, the mountain hemlock. High, cool,
late-flowering meadows also detained me, and lakelets and avalanche tracks
and huge quarries of moraine rocks above the forests.
All the way up from the Big
Meadows to the base of the Cathedral the ground is covered with moraine
material, the left lateral moraine of the great glacier that must have
completely filled this upper Tuolumne basin. Higher there are several small
terminal moraines of residual glaciers shoved forward at right angles
against the grand simple lateral of the main Tuolumne Glacier. A fine place
to study mountain sculpture and soil making. The view from the Cathedral
Spires is very fine and telling in every direction. Innumerable peaks,
ridges, domes, meadows, lakes, and woods; the forests extending in long
curving lines and broad fields wherever the glaciers have left soil for them
to grow on, while the sides of the highest mountains show a straggling dwarf
growth clinging to rifts in the rocks apparently independent of soil. The
dark heath-like growth on the Cathedral roof I found to be dwarf
snow-pressed albicaulis pine, about three or four feet high, but very old
looking. Many of them are bearing cones, and the noisy Clarke crow is eating
the seeds, using his long bill like a woodpecker in digging them out of the
cones. A good many flowers are still in bloom about the base of the peak,
and even on the roof among the little pines, especially a woody
yellow-flowered eriogonum and a handsome aster. The body of the Cathedral is
nearly square, and the roof slopes are wonderfully regular and symmetrical,
the ridge trending northeast and southwest. This direction has apparently
been determined by structure joints in the granite. The gable on the
northeast end is magnificent in size and simplicity, and at its base there
is a big snow-bank protected by the shadow of the building. The front is
adorned with many pinnacles and a tall spire of curious workmanship. Here
too the joints in the rock are seen to have played an important part in
determining their forms and size and general arrangement. The Cathedral is
said to be about eleven thousand feet above the sea, but the height of the
building itself above the level of the ridge it stands on is about fifteen
hundred feet. A mile or so to the westward there is a handsome lake, and the
glacier-polished granite about it is shining so brightly it is not easy in
some places to trace the line between the rock and water, both shining
alike. Of this lake with its silvery basin and bits of meadow and groves I
have a fine view from the spires; also of Lake Tenaya, Cloud's Rest and the
South Dome of Yosemite, Mount Starr King, Mount Hoffman, the Merced peaks,
and the vast multitude of snowy fountain peaks extending far north and south
along the axis of the range. No feature, however, of all the noble landscape
as seen from here seems more wonderful than the Cathedral itself, a temple
displaying Nature's best masonry and sermons in stones. How often I have
gazed at it from the tops of hills and ridges, and through openings in the
forests on my many short excursions, devoutly wondering, admiring, longing!
This I may say is the first time I have been at church in California, led
here at last, every door graciously opened for the poor lonely worshiper. In
our best times everything turns into religion, all the world seems a church
and the mountains altars. And lo, here at last in front of the Cathedral is
blessed cassiope, ringing her thousands of sweet-toned bells, the sweetest
church music I ever enjoyed. Listening, admiring, until late in the
afternoon I compelled myself to hasten away eastward back of rough, sharp,
spiry, splintery peaks, all of them granite like the Cathedral, sparkling
with crystals — feldspar, quartz, hornblende, mica, tourmaline. Had a rather
difficult walk and creep across an immense snow and ice cliff which
gradually increased in steepness as I advanced until it was almost
impassable. Slipped on a dangerous place, but managed to stop by digging my
heels into the thawing surface just on the brink of a yawning ice gulf.
Camped beside a little pool and a group of crinkled dwarf pines; and as I
sit by the fire trying to write notes the shallow pool seems fathomless with
the infinite starry heavens in it, while the onlooking rocks and trees, tiny
shrubs and daisies and sedges, brought forward in the fire-glow, seem full
of thought as if about to speak aloud and tell all their wild stories. A
marvelously impressive meeting in which every one has something worth while
to tell. And beyond the fire-beams out in the solemn darkness, how
impressive is the music of a choir of rills singing their way down from the
snow to the river! And when we call to mind that thousands of these
rejoicing rills are assembled in each one of the main streams, we wonder the
less that our Sierra rivers are songful all the way to the sea.
About sundown saw a flock of
dun grayish sparrows going to roost in crevices of a crag above the big
snow-field. Charming little mountaineers! Found a species of sedge in flower
within eight or ten feet of a snow-bank. Judging by the looks of the ground,
it can hardly have been out in the sunshine much longer than a week, and it
is likely to be buried again in fresh snow in a month or so, thus making a
winter about ten months long, while spring, summer, and autumn are crowded
and hurried into two months. How delightful it is to be alone here! How wild
everything is - wild as the sky and as pure! Never shall I forget this big,
divine day — the Cathedral and its thousands of cassiope bells, and the
landscapes around them, and this camp in the gray crags above the woods,
with its stars and streams and snow.
September 8. Day of climbing,
scrambling, sliding on the peaks around the highest source of the Tuolumne
and Merced. Climbed three of the most commanding of the mountains, whose
names I don't know; crossed streams and huge beds of ice and snow more than
I could keep count of. Neither could I keep count of the lakes scattered on
tablelands and in the cirques of the peaks, and in chains in the canons,
linked together by the streams - a tremendously wild gray wilderness of
hacked, shattered crags, ridges, and peaks, a few clouds drifting over and
through the midst of them as if looking for work. In general views all the
immense round landscape seems raw and lifeless as a quarry, yet the most
charming flowers were found rejoicing in countless nooks and garden-like
patches everywhere. I must have done three or four days' climbing work in
this one. Limbs perfectly tireless until near sundown, when I descended into
the main upper Tuolumne valley at the foot of Mount Lyell, the camp still
eight or ten miles distant. Going up through the pine woods past the Soda
Springs Dome in the dark, where there is much fallen timber, and when all
the excitement of seeing things was wanting, I was tired. Arrived at the
main camp at nine o'clock, and soon was sleeping sound as death. |
