54 THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFOENIA 



on no account to become frightened and attempt 

 to seek their way back to Yosemite alone through 

 the drifts. 



My general plan was simply this: to scale the 

 canon wall, cross over to the eastern flank of the 

 range, and then make my way southward to the 

 northern spurs of Mount Eitter in compliance with 

 the intervening topography ; for to push on directly 

 southward from camp through the innumerable 

 peaks and pinnacles that adorn this portion of the 

 axis of the range, however interesting, would take 

 too much time, besides being extremely difficult and 

 dangerous at this time of year. 



All my first day was pure pleasure; simply 

 mountaineering indulgence, crossing the dry path 

 ways of the ancient glaciers, tracing happy streams, 

 and learning the habits of the birds and marmots 

 in the groves and rocks. Before I had gone a mile 

 from camp, I came to the foot of a white cascade 

 that beats its way down a rugged gorge in the 

 canon wall, from a height of about nine hundred 

 feet, and pours its throbbing waters into the Tuol- 

 umne. I was acquainted with its fountains, which, 

 fortunately, lay in my course. What a fine travel 

 ing companion it proved to be, what songs it sang, 

 and how passionately it told the mountain's own 

 joy! Gladly I climbed along its dashing border, 

 absorbing its divine music, and bathing from time 

 to time in waftings of irised spray. Climbing 

 higher, higher, new beauty came streaming on the 

 sight: painted meadows, late-blooming gardens, 

 peaks of rare architecture, lakes here and there, 

 shining like silver, and glimpses of the forested 



