The Peak of Mount Russell 



By Mark Daniels 



WE camped one night at Crab Tree Meadow. 

 The air was crisp, and toward morning was cold 

 enough to send little stinging needles through 

 any part of the anatomy which might be protruding from 

 beneath covers. 

 There was no indi- 

 cation of the like- 

 lihood of a moun- 

 tain shower or 

 thunder-storm on 

 the sparkling morn- 

 ing which followed. 

 As a result we all 

 started early on a 

 trip to scale Mt. 

 Whitney, the high- 

 est peak in the 

 United States. 



About a half 

 hour after we 

 reached the sum- 

 mit, the storm 

 clouds began to 

 gather, and those 

 of us who knew 

 that the signs were 

 portentous, imme- 

 diately started a 

 hasty descent. We 

 were not quick 

 enough, however, 

 and were caught in 

 a hail storm that 

 bid fair to crush us 

 to the ground. 



Upon our 

 departure from 

 Crab Tree Meadow 

 the little brook 

 which traverses the 

 open glade was but 

 eight or ten feet in 

 width. Upon our 

 return it had swol- 

 len to fifty or sixty 

 feet in width and to 



an unknown depth. The latter, however, we fathomed 

 when we crossed it to reach our camp. With the sheer 

 perversity of dumb things, the storm passed immediately 

 we had reached our camp-fire and the sun, just setting, 

 broke clear and bright through the clouds. 



We were nearly frozen and as drenched as water- 



Photograph by Mark Daniels, 



THE PEAK OF MOUNT RUSSELL 



The Peak is seen in the far background. In the foreground is Crab Tree Meadow and the scene is one 

 of the many beauty-spots in the Southern Sierra. 



dogs. It can be imagined, therefore, with what avidity 

 we partook of a hot toddy and with what little care for 

 the magnificent scene about us we went about drying our 

 clothes as best we could. Some of us were partly clad, 



standing before a. 

 roaring fire and 

 drying out what 

 clothes we had, and 

 our attention was 

 entirely centered 

 upon the work in 

 hand. 



Just before the 

 sun was setting, 

 however, one of the 

 party glanced up 

 and saw the peak 

 of Mt. Russell illu- 

 minated with the 

 golden rays of the 

 setting sun. His 

 exclamation 

 diverted the atten- 

 tion of everyone 

 and the scene which 

 confronted us was 

 one the glory of 

 which drove all 

 thoughts of dis- 

 comfort from our 

 minds. 



The ridges in 

 the foreground 

 were in shadow 

 and of a dark pur- 

 ple hue. The peak 

 of Mt. Russell, seen 

 in the distance, 

 seemed to be of 

 beaten gold, bathed 

 as it was in the gold 

 of the setting sun, 

 whose rays struck 

 it through another 

 gorge behind the 

 purple crags in the 

 foreground. It was like a monster nugget of pure gold 

 framed in a setting of huge amethysts. We stood there 

 spellbound until the last rays of the dying light disappeared 

 with a suddenness that was like the snapping off of a 

 dream of fairy-land, and returned to find that our roaring 

 bonfire had paled to the dim glow of a firefly by comparison. 



679 



