With the Sierra Club in 1914 



257 



we see the wide grassy meadow, the rich trees, the stars. 

 We say good-bye. In the morning we march out, up over 

 the ridge and on to Carlin's Ranch. The next day we are 

 on the last long trail of all — and it is long. The climax is 

 the steep sandy zigzag into El Portal, made cruel with 

 loose sharp stones, ghastly hot from the red blaze of the 

 noon sun and the dazzling reflection from the white dust. 

 It is hideously protected from any breath of air, hung with 

 arras of poison oak, and absolutely endless. That the 

 club did not die in droves on its infernal descent is due to 

 the power of the human will, sustained by superb physical 

 fitness. But few men in all human history would have been 

 glad to experience that zigzag. Shadrach, Meshach and 

 Abednego would have felt at home, and Dante would have 

 seized upon it, and by its aid given a new and deathless 

 horror to his Inferno. But presently we are bathing in real 

 tubs, with no need of keeping an eye on the landscape, are 

 dressed in curious-seeming clothes, are dining from break- 

 able dishes on white linen, conscious of much sunburn and 

 feet unnaturally small. We go into the Pullman cars, 

 and sit blinking under the glaring lights. The Sierra Club 

 trip of 1914 is over and we are tired and yet rested, in- 

 describably exuberant and yet somehow sad. There is 

 only one Sierra trip in all the world, we think. Surely no- 

 where can there be such fellowship, such trails "Among 

 the moody mountains where they stand, awed by the 

 thought of their own majesty," such starry radiances of 

 night. We go back to our work, in all respects save one 

 like him who 



"In stainless daylight saw the pure clouds roll 

 Saw mountains pillaring the perfect sky, 

 Then journeyed home to feel within his soul 

 The torment of the difference till he die." 



The difference does not torment us, for we know with all 

 surety that we shall behold these glories again and yet 

 again. Already, as we lean back with closed eyes in our 

 plush seats, we are planning for the 1915 trip, and plotting 

 a cunning device by which we shall reduce our dunnage 

 a pound and three-quarters. 



