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CHAPTER IV, Part 3 To the High Mountains
July 12. The Don has returned, and again we go on pilgrimage. "Looking
over the Yosemite Creek country," he said, "from the tops of the hills you see
nothing but rocks and patches of trees; but when you go down into the rocky
desert you find, no end of small grassy banks and meadows, and so the country is
not half so lean as it looks. There we'll go and stay until the snow is melted
from the upper country."
I was glad to hear that the high snow made a stay in the Yosemite region
necessary, for I am anxious to see as much of it as possible. What fine times I
shall have sketching, studying plants and rocks, and scrambling about the brink
of the great valley alone, out of sight and sound of camp!
We saw another party of Yosemite tourists to-day. Somehow most of these
travelers seem to care but little for the glorious objects about them, though
enough to spend time and money and endure long rides to see the famous valley.
And when they are fairly within the mighty walls of the temple and hear the
psalms of the falls, they will forget themselves, and become devout. Blessed,
indeed, should be every pilgrim in these holy mountains!
We moved slowly eastward along the Mono Trail, and early in the afternoon
unpacked and camped on the bank of Cascade Creek. The Mono Trail crosses the
range by the Bloody Caņon Pass to gold mines near the north end of Mono Lake.
These mines were reported to be rich when first discovered, and a grand rush
took place, making a trail necessary. A few small bridges were built over
streams where fording was not practicable on account of the softness of the
bottom, sections of fallen trees cut out, and lanes made through thickets wide
enough to allow the passage of bulky packs; but over the greater part of the way
scarce a stone or shovelful of earth has been moved.
The woods we passed through are composed almost wholly of Abies
magnifica, the companion species, concolor, being mostly left behind
on account of altitude, while the increasing elevation seems grateful to the
charming magnifica. No words can do anything like justice to this noble
tree. At one place many had fallen during some heavy wind-storm, owing to the
loose sandy character of the soil, which offered no secure anchorage. The soil
is mostly decomposed and disintegrated moraine material.
The sheep are lying down on a bare rocky spot such as they like, chewing the cud
in grassy peace. Cooking is going on, appetites growing keener every day. No
lowlander can appreciate the mountain appetite, and the facility with which
heavy food called "grub" is disposed of. Eating, walking, resting, seem alike
delightful, and one feels inclined to shout lustily on rising in the morning
like a crowing cock. Sleep and digestion as clear as the air. Fine spicy plush
boughs for bedding we shall have to-night, and a glorious lullaby from this
cascading creek. Never was stream more fittingly named, for as far as I have
traced it above and below our camp it is one continuous bouncing, dancing, white
bloom of cascades. And at the very last unwearied it finishes its wild course
in a grand leap of three hundred feet or more to the bottom of the main Yosemite
caņon near the fall of Tamarack Creek, a few miles below the foot of the valley.
These falls almost rival some of the far-famed Yosemite falls. Never shall I
forget these glad cascade songs, the low booming, the roaring, the keen, silvery
clashing of the cool water rushing exulting from form to form beneath irised
spray; or in the deep still night seen white in the darkness, and its multitude
of voices sounding still more impressively sublime. Here I find the little
water ouzel as much at home as any linnet in a leafy grove, seeming to take the
greater delight the more boisterous the stream. The dizzy precipices, the swift
dashing energy displayed, and the thunder tones of the sheer falls are
awe-inspiring, but there is nothing awful about this little bird. Its song is
sweet and low, and all its gestures, as it flits about amid the loud uproar,
bespeak strength and peace and joy. Contemplating these darlings of Nature
coming forth from spray-sprinkled nests on the brink of savage streams, Samson's
riddle comes to mind, "Out of the strong cometh forth sweetness." A yet finer
bloom is this little bird than the foam-bells in eddying pools. Gentle bird, a
precious message you bring me. We may miss the meaning of the torrent, but thy
sweet voice, only love is in it.
July 13. Our course all day has been eastward over the rim of Yosemite
Creek basin and down about halfway to the bottom, where we have encamped on a
sheet of glacier-polished granite, a firm foundation for beds. Saw the tracks
of a very large bear on the trail, and the Don talked of bears in general. I
said I should like to see the maker of these immense tracks as he marched along,
and follow him for days, without disturbing him, to learn something of the life
of this master beast of the wilderness. Lambs, the Don told me, born in the
lowland, that never saw or heard a bear, snort and run in terror when they catch
the scent, showing how fully they have inherited a knowledge of their enemy.
Hogs, mules, horses, and cattle are afraid of bears, and are seized with
ungovernable terror when they approach, particularly hogs and mules. Hogs are
frequently driven to pastures in the foothills of the Coast Range and Sierra
where acorns are abundant, and are herded in droves of hundreds like sheep.
When a bear comes to the range they promptly leave it, emigrating in a body,
usually in the night time, the keepers being powerless to prevent; they thus
show more sense than sheep, that simply scatter in the rocks and brush and await
their fate. Mules flee like the wind with or without riders when they see a
bear, and, if picketed, sometimes break their necks in trying to break their
ropes, though I have not heard of bears killing mules or horses. Of hogs they
are said to be particularly fond, bolting small ones, bones and all, without
choice of parts. In particular, Mr. Delaney assured me that all kinds of bears
in the Sierra are very shy, and that hunters found far greater difficulty in
getting within gunshot of them than of deer or indeed any other animal in the
Sierra, and if I was anxious to see much of them I should have to wait and watch
with endless Indian patience and pay no attention to anything else.
Night is coming on, the gray rock waves are growing dim in the twilight. How
raw and young this region appears! Had the ice sheet that swept over it
vanished but yesterday, its traces on the more resisting portions about our camp
could hardly be more distinct than they now are. The horses and sheep and all
of us, indeed, slipped on the smoothest places.
July 14. How deathlike is sleep in this mountain air, and quick the
awakening into newness of life! A calm dawn, yellow and purple, then floods of
sun-gold, making everything tingle and glow.
In an hour or two we came to Yosemite Creek, the stream that makes the greatest
of all the Yosemite falls. It is about forty feet wide at the Mono Trail
crossing, and now about four feet in average depth, flowing about three miles an
hour. The distance to the verge of the Yosemite wall, where it makes its
tremendous plunge, is only about two miles from here. Calm, beautiful, and
nearly silent, it glides with stately gestures, a dense growth of the slender
two-leaved pine along its banks, and a fringe of willow, purple spirea, sedges,
daisies, lilies, and columbines. Some of the sedges and willow boughs dip into
the current, and just outside of the close ranks of trees there is a sunny flat
of washed gravelly sand which seems to have been deposited by some ancient
flood. It is covered with millions of erethrea, eriogonum, and oxytheca, with
more flowers than leaves, forming an even growth, slightly dimpled and ruffled
here and there by rosettes of Spraguea umbellata. Back of this flowery
strip there is a wavy upsloping plain of solid granite, so smoothly ice-polished
in many places that it glistens in the sun like glass. In shallow hollows there
are patches of trees, mostly the rough form of the two-leaved pine, rather
scrawny looking where there is little or no soil. Also a few junipers
(Juniperus occidentalis), short and stout, with bright cinnamon-colored
bark and gray foliage, standing alone mostly, on the sun-beaten pavement, safe
from fire, clinging by slight joints, -- a sturdy storm-enduring mountaineer of
a tree, living on sunshine and snow, maintaining tough health on this diet for
perhaps more than a thousand years.
Up towards the head of the basin I see groups of domes rising above the wavelike
ridges, and some picturesque castellated masses, and dark strips and patches of
silver fir, indicating deposits of fertile soil. Would that I could command the
time to study them! What rich excursions one could make in this well-defined
basin! Its glacial inscriptions and sculptures, how marvelous they seem, how
noble the studies they offer! I tremble with excitement in the dawn of these
glorious mountain sublimities, but I can only gaze and wonder, and, like a
child, gather here and there a lily, half hoping I may be able to study and
learn in years to come.
The drivers and dogs had a lively, laborious time getting the sheep across the
creek, the second large stream thus far that they have been compelled to cross
without a bridge; the first being the North Fork of the Merced near Bower Cave.
Men and dogs, shouting and barking, drove the timid, water-fearing creatures in
a close crowd against the bank, but not one of the flock would launch away.
While thus jammed, the Don and the shepherd rushed through the frightened crowd
to stampede those in front, but this would only cause a break backward, and away
they would scamper through the stream-bank trees and scatter over the rocky
pavement. Then with the aid of the dogs the runaways would again be gathered
and made to face the stream, and again the compacted mass would break away, amid
wild shouting and barking that might well have disturbed the stream itself and
marred the music of its falls, to which visitors no doubt from all quarters of
the globe were listening. "Hold them there! Now hold them there!" shouted the
Don; "the front ranks will soon tire of the pressure, and be glad to take to the
water, then all will jump in and cross in a hurry." But they did nothing of the
kind; they only avoided the pressure by breaking back in scores and hundreds,
leaving the beauty of the banks sadly trampled.
If only one could be got to cross over, all would make haste to follow; but that
one could not be found. A lamb was caught, carried across, and tied to a bush
on the opposite bank, where it cried piteously for its mother. But though
greatly concerned, the mother only called it back. That play on maternal
affection failed, and we began to fear that we should be forced to make a long
roundabout drive and cross the wide-spread tributaries of the creek in
succession. This would require several days, but it had its advantages, for I
was eager to see the sources of so famous a stream. Don Quixote, however,
determined that they must ford just here, and immediately began a sort of siege
by cutting down slender pines on the bank and building a corral barely large
enough to hold the flock when well pressed together. And as the stream would
form one side of the corral he believed that they could easily be forced into
the water.
In a few hours the enclosure was completed, and the silly animals were driven in
and rammed hard against the brink of the ford. Then the Don, forcing a way
through the compacted mass, pitched a few of the terrified unfortunates into the
stream by main strength; but instead of crossing over, they swam about close to
the bank, making desperate attempts to get back into the flock. Then a dozen or
more were shoved off, and the Don, tall like a crane and a good natural wader,
jumped in after them, seized a struggling wether, and dragged it to the opposite
shore. But no sooner did he let it go than it jumped into the stream and swam
back to its frightened companions in the corral, thus manifesting sheep-nature
as unchangeable as gravitation. Pan with his pipes would have had no better
luck, I fear. We were now pretty well baffled. The silly creatures would suffer
any sort of death rather than cross that stream. Calling a council, the
dripping Don declared that starvation was now the only likely scheme to try, and
that we might as well camp here in comfort and let the besieged flock grow
hungry and cool, and come to their senses, if they had any. In a few minutes
after being thus let alone, an adventurer in the foremost rank plunged in and
swam bravely to the farther shore. Then suddenly all rushed in pell-mell
together, trampling one another under water, while we vainly tried to hold them
back. The Don jumped into the thickest of the gasping, gurgling, drowning mass,
and shoved them right and left as if each sheep was a piece of floating timber.
The current also served to drift them apart; a long bent colunm was soon formed,
and in a few minutes all 'were over and began baaing and feeding as if nothing
out of the conunon had happened. That none were drowned seems wonderful. I
fully expected that hundreds would gain the romantic fate of being swept into
Yosemite over the highest waterfall in the world.
As the day was far spent, we camped a little way back from the ford, and let the
dripping flock scatter and feed until sundown. The wool is dry now, and calm,
cud-chewing peace has fallen on all the comfortable band, leaving no trace of
the watery battle. I have seen fish driven out of the water with less ado than
was made in driving these animals into it. Sheep brain must surely be poor
stuff. Compare today's exhibition with the performances of deer swimming
quietly across broad and rapid rivers, and from island to island in seas and
lakes; or with dogs, or even with the squirrels that, as the story goes, cross
the Mississippi River on selected chips, with tails for sails comfortably
trimmed to the breeze. A sheep can hardly be called an animal; an entire flock
is required to make one foolish individual.
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