152 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



heather, and the purple matted beard-tongue could 

 not reach the crest of the Spur. The beard-tongue 

 outclimbed the others. It was the last living thing 

 that we saw until we reached the summit, except 

 some flies that were sunning themselves at Tie- 

 up Rock, nearly a thousand feet above the Spur. 

 The rapid dwarfing of the beard-tongue as we 

 ascended was eloquent of the reach and grip of 

 life. When the little clusters or colonies could 

 no longer hold on in the open, they took to hiding 

 behind the pieces of rock, the last of them seeking 

 the shelter of the north sides, where, huddled back 

 from the blight of the noonday sun and the sweep 

 of the blasting winds, they found a slightly moister 

 soil and a temperature a few degrees more equa- 

 ble, the meager means of a last desperate effort 

 for a highest-up. Then the small shadows failed, 

 and we climbed on alone. 



It is an impressive thing to leave all life be- 

 neath you, to pass from zone to zone witnessing 

 the changes in the forms and the modes of living 

 things as you ascend, but still with life about you, 

 until you find yourself in the presence of an all- 

 pervading death. The very sun has changed. You 

 have come within the veil, up through the screen 



