After we had eaten, which was the very first thing we did, we walked to the edge of the main crest and looked over.That edge went straight down.I do not know how far, except that even in contemplation we entirely lost our breaths, before we had fallen half way to the bottom.Then intervened a ledge, and in the ledge was a round glacier lake of the very deepest and richest ultramarine you can find among your paint-tubes, and on the lake floated cakes of dazzling white ice.That was enough for the moment.
Next we leaped at one bound direct down to some brown hazy liquid shot with the tenderest filaments of white.After analysis we discovered the hazy brown liquid to be the earth of the plains, and the filaments of white to be roads.Thus instructed we made out specks which were towns.That was all.
The rest was too insignificant to classify without the aid of a microscope.
And afterwards, across those plains, oh, many, many leagues, were the Inyo and Panamit mountains, and beyond them Nevada and Arizona, and blue mountains, and bluer, and still bluer rising, rising, rising higher and higher until at the level of the eye they blended with the heavens and were lost somewhere away out beyond the edge of the world.
We said nothing, but looked for a long time.
Then we turned inland to the wonderful great titans of mountains clear-cut in the crystalline air.Never was such air.Crystalline is the only word which will describe it, for almost it seemed that it would ring clearly when struck, so sparkling and delicate and fragile was it.The crags and fissures across the way--two miles across the way--were revealed through it as through some medium whose transparence was absolute.They challenged the eye, stereoscopic in their relief.Were it not for the belittling effects of the distance, we felt that we might count the frost seams or the glacial scorings on every granite apron.Far below we saw the irregular outline of our lake.It looked like a pond a few hundred feet down.Then we made out a pin-point of white moving leisurely near its border.After a while we realized that the pin-point of white was one of our pack-horses, and immediately the flat little scene shot backwards as though moved from behind and acknowledged its due number of miles.The miniature crags at its back became gigantic; the peaks beyond grew thousands of feet in the establishment of a proportion which the lack of "atmosphere" had denied.We never succeeded in getting adequate photographs.As well take pictures of any eroded little arroyo or granite canon.Relative sizes do not exist, unless pointed out.
"See that speck there?" we explain."That's a big pine-tree.So by that you can see how tremendous those cliffs really are."And our guest looks incredulously at the speck.
There was snow, of course, lying cold in the hot sun.This phenomenon always impresses a man when first he sees it.Often I have ridden with my sleeves rolled up and the front of my shirt open, over drifts whose edges, even, dripped no water.The direct rays seem to have absolutely no effect.A scientific explanation I have never heard expressed; but Isuppose the cold nights freeze the drifts and pack them so hard that the short noon heat cannot penetrate their density.I may be quite wrong as to my reason, but I am entirely correct as to my fact.
Another curious thing is that we met our mosquitoes only rarely below the snow-line.The camping in the Sierras is ideal for lack of these pests.They never bite hard nor stay long even when found.But just as sure as we approached snow, then we renewed acquaintance with our old friends of the north woods.
It is analogous to the fact that the farther north you go into the fur countries, the more abundant they become.
By and by it was time to descend.The camp lay directly below us.We decided to go to it straight, and so stepped off on an impossibly steep slope covered, not with the great boulders and granite blocks, but with a fine loose shale.At every stride we stepped ten feet and slid five.It was gloriously near to flying.Leaning far back, our arms spread wide to keep our balance, spying alertly far ahead as to where we were going to land, utterly unable to check until we encountered a half-buried ledge of some sort, and shouting wildly at every plunge, we fairly shot downhill.The floor of our valley rose to us as the earth to a descending balloon.In three quarters of an hour we had reached the first flat.
There we halted to puzzle over the trail of a mountain lion clearly printed on the soft ground.What had the great cat been doing away up there above the hunting country, above cover, above everything that would appeal to a well-regulated cat of any size whatsoever? We theorized at length, but gave it up finally, and went on.Then a familiar perfume rose to our nostrils.We plucked curiously at a bed of catnip and wondered whether the animal had journeyed so far to enjoy what is always such a treat to her domestic sisters.
It was nearly dark when we reached camp.We found Wes contentedly scraping away at the bearskins.
"Hello," said he, looking up with a grin."Hello, you dam fools! I'VE been having a good time.I've been fishing."THE GIANT FOREST
