THE PASSES 91 



At the Big Tuolumne Meadows I remained more 

 than a month, sketching, botanizing, and climbing 

 among the surrounding mountains. The moun 

 taineer with whom I then happened to be camping 

 was one of those remarkable men one so frequently 

 meets in California, the hard angles and bosses of 

 whose characters have been brought into relief by 

 the grinding excitements of the gold period, until 

 they resemble glacial landscapes. But at this late 

 day, my friend's activities had subsided, and his 

 craving for rest caused him to become a gentle 

 shepherd and literally to lie down with the lamb. 



Eecognizing the unsatisfiable longings of my 

 Scotch Highland instincts, he threw out some hints 

 concerning Bloody Canon, and advised me to ex 

 plore it. "I have never seen it myself ," he said, 

 "for I never was so unfortunate as to pass that 

 way. But I have heard many a strange story about 

 it, and I warrant you will at least find it wild 

 enough." 



Then of course I made haste to see it. Early 

 next morning I made up a bundle of bread, tied my 

 note-book to my belt, and strode away in the brac 

 ing air, full of eager, indefinite hope. The plushy 

 lawns that lay in my path served to soothe my morn 

 ing haste. The sod in many places was starred with 

 daisies and blue gentians, over which I lingered. 

 I traced the paths of the ancient glaciers over many 

 a shining pavement, and marked the gaps in the 

 upper forests that told the power of the winter ava 

 lanches. Climbing higher, I saw for the first time 

 the gradual dwarfing of the pines in compliance 

 with climate, and on the summit discovered creep 

 ing mats of the arctic willow overgrown with silky 



