2H Life in the Open 



There was something restful in the quiet of the deep 

 cafions ; the music of the rippling stream as it eddied 

 around the rocks, the rustle of the leaves, the high 

 green walls and sinuous, deep blue sky river above, 

 gleaming like a turquoise mosaic through the cafion 

 branches, all appealed to the finer senses. The air was 

 sweet, pure, vibrant, and cool, but never damp or humid, 

 and in the summer months rarely too warm for comfort. 

 In the winter, after the rains, each cafion became a garden 

 of ferns and brakes, and the great halls of the mount- 

 ains rang and reverberated with the resonant melody of 

 falling, rushing water. Moving up the can" on into the 

 higher areas of the range, its beauties increased, the 

 trees became larger and more plentiful, and the sinuous 

 trail wound and curved through pleasant arcades of 

 green and graceful leaves which moved gently, softly in 

 the wind. 



At every step some new and charming vista ap- 

 peared, now down into some little potrtro where the 

 sun sifted in, bathing the ferns with a golden light, or 

 up some dark green branching cafion. Now the trail 

 dipped down, and I looked far ahead into a green tunnel, 

 formed by the cafion trees, or again came upon the 

 sheer face of the fern-lined cliff, the abrupt wall of the 

 Sierras, the trail rising higher and higher until reaching 

 a little divide I could look out on to a great maze of 

 tumbling mountains rolling away in every direction, an 

 arabesque of cafion, valley, and chaparral. 



There is something in the smiling face of mountains 



