220 



THE DESERT 



Yawning 

 canyons. 



The canyon 

 stream. 



Snow. 



Onward and upward through the oaks until 

 you are on the top of another ridge. Did you 

 think it was the top because it hid the peak ? 

 Ah no ; the granite crags are still far above 

 you. And there, yawning at your very feet, is 

 another canyon whose existence you never sus- 

 pected. How steep and broad and ragged the 

 walls look to you ! And down in the bottom 

 of the canyon almost a mile down it seems 

 are huge masses of rock, fallen towers and 

 ledges, great frost-heaved strata lying piled in 

 confusion among trees and vines and heavy 

 brush. Here and there down the canyon's 

 length appear disconnected flashes of silvery 

 light showing where a stream is dashing its 

 way under rocks and through tangled brush 

 down to the sandy sea. And far above you to 

 the right where the canyon heads is a streak of 

 dirty-looking snow. There is nothing for it 

 but to get around the head of the canyon above 

 the snow-streak, for crossing the canyon itself 

 is unprofitable, not to say impossible. 



How odd it seems after the sands to see the 

 snow. The long wedge lying in the barranca 

 under the shadowed lee of an enormous spur is 

 not very inviting looking. It has melted down 

 and accumulated dust and dirt until it looks al- 



