Letters to a Friend 



Sissons Station, 



November ist, 1874. 



Here is icy Shasta fifteen miles away yet at 

 the very door. It is all close wrapt in clean 

 young snow down to the very base, one mass of 

 white from the dense black forest girdle at an 

 elevation of five or six thousand feet to the very 

 summit. The extent of its individuality is per 

 fectly wonderful. 



When I first caught sight of it over the 

 braided folds of the Sacramento valley, I was 

 fifty miles away and afoot, alone, and weary, 

 yet all my blood turned to wine and I have not 

 been weary since. Stone was to have accom 

 panied me, but has failed of course. The last 

 storm was severe, and all the mountains shake 

 their heads and say impossible, etc., but you 

 know I will meet all its icy snows lovingly. 



I set out in a few minutes for the edge of the 

 timber-line. Then upwards, if unstormy, in the 

 early morning. If the snow proves to be mealy 

 and loose, it is barely possible that I may be 

 unable to urge my way through so many up- 

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