THE SAN GABRIEL MOUNTAINS 



furry mosses, and the white fall shines against 

 the green like a silver instrument hi a velvet 

 case. Here come the Gabriel lads and lassies 

 from the commonplace orange groves, to make 

 love and gather ferns and dabble away their 

 hot holidays in the cool pool. They are fortu- 

 nate in finding so fresh a retreat so near their 

 homes. It is the Yosemite of San Gabriel. The 

 walls, though not of the true Yosemite type 

 either hi form or sculpture, rise to a height of 

 nearly two thousand feet. Ferns are abundant 

 on all the rocks within reach of the spray, and 

 picturesque maples and sycamores spread a 

 grateful shade over a rich profusion of wild 

 flowers that grow among the boulders, from 

 the edge of the pool a mile or more down the 

 dell-like bottom of the valley, the whole form- 

 ing a charming little poem of wildness the 

 vestibule of these shaggy mountain temples. 



The foot of the fall is about a thousand feet 

 above the level of the sea, and here climbing 

 begins. I made my way out of the valley on 

 the west side, followed the ridge that forms the 

 western rim of the Eaton Basin to the summit 

 of one of the principal peaks, thence crossed 

 the middle of the basin, forcing a way over its 

 many subordinate ridges, and out over the 

 eastern rim, and from first to last during three 

 days spent in this excursion, I had to con- 



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