SARDINE LAKE, YOSEMITE PARK 

 This lake is on the Bioody Canyon Trail to the east of the crest about two miles from the eastern border of the park. There are several 

 glaciers in the neighborhood whose waters mingle with the little s:ream from Sardine Lake in the salt waters of Lake Mono. The fact 

 that an automobile can be driven to within a few miles of this spot seems incredible. 



grassy banks and meadows are visible here and there. 

 The shadows of cliffs half a mile high are thrown like 

 patrician gules across the golden green of the meadows 

 and the tawny road. At the head of the Valley, for- 

 ever dominating the entire gorge with its dignified and 

 imposing sculpture, the great Half Dome rises to a 

 height four thousand feet above the floor of the Valley. 

 On the south side opposite the hotel, the Sentinel Rock 

 seems to have been set on a cross-axis as an opposing 

 feature to the half-mile-high Yosemite Falls on the 

 north. In the early part of the season, say in June, 

 the roar of the river as it drops in three leaps through 

 exactly one-half mile of vertical distance, will set the 

 windows of the old frame hotel a half-mile across the 

 Valley rattling like castanets. 



The contrast between the conditions in this Park, 

 where waterfalls and cascades abound, and the dessicat- 

 ing dryness of the Cliff Dwellings in Mesa Verde Na- 

 tional Park is an excellent example of the extremes that 

 are encountered in our scenic reservations. With the 

 unlimited amount of water, it naturally follows that all 



verdure is growing in superabundance. As a result, it is 

 my opinion that the most striking characteristic of the 

 Yosemite is the profusion and lavishness with which 

 nature has planted and built. Some people contend that 

 Yosemite means Big Bear and others have their own 

 preferred interpretation, but whatever it may mean when 

 literally translated, the many months I have spent there 

 have inalienably associated it in my mind with Abun- 

 dance. The Valley in the early summer, wtih its roar- 

 ing waterfalls, the beautiful Merced River nearly over- 

 flowing its banks, the fields of azaleas, the wildflowers, 

 the blossoming dogwood and the golden green meadows 

 brings nothing to my mind so strongly as the thought 

 that here is nature's cornucopia. 



Mr. Muir tells us that while the whites have named 

 the Valley "Yosemite," it is still, as ever, in the mind 

 of the Indian "Ahwahnee." It is a jpity that we did not 

 cling to the Indian name and it is to be regretted that 

 one by one the musical Indian names are being supplanted 

 by the harsher English ones. I wonder how long it will 

 be before Pohono will be a forgotten word and a new 



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