94 THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFORNIA 



of the new day, rejoicing in the abundance of pure 

 wildness so close about ine. The stupendous rocks, 

 hacked and scarred with centuries of storms, stood 

 sharply out in the thin early light, while down in 

 the bottom of the canon grooved and polished 

 bosses heaved and glistened like swelling sea- waves, 

 telling a grand old story of the ancient glacier that 

 poured its crushing floods above them. 



Here for the first time I met the arctic daisies in 

 all their perfection of purity and spirituality, 

 gentle mountaineers face to face with the stormy 

 sky, kept safe and warm by a thousand miracles. I 

 leaped lightly from rock to rock, glorying in the 

 eternal freshness and sufficiency of Nature, and in 

 the ineffable tenderness with which she nurtures 

 her mountain darlings in the very fountains of 

 storms. Fresh beauty appeared at every step, deli 

 cate rock-ferns, and groups of the fairest flowers. 

 Now another lake came to view, now a waterfall. 

 Never fell light in brighter spangles, never fell 

 water in whiter foam. I seemed to float through 

 the canon enchanted, feeling nothing of its rough 

 ness, and was out in the Mono levels before I was 

 aware. 



Looking back from the shore of Moraine Lake, 

 my morning ramble seemed all a dream. There 

 curved Bloody Canon, a mere glacial furrow 2000 

 feet deep, with smooth rocks projecting from the 

 sides and braided together in the middle, like bulg 

 ing, swelling muscles. Here the lilies were higher 

 than my head, and the sunshine was warm enough 

 for palms. Yet the snow around the arctic willows 

 was plainly visible only four miles away, and be- 



