Across the Sierra Nevada on Skis 



295 



brimming bowl of fragrant tea. What a delight it was to bask in 

 the warm sunshine on my island of rock in this world of spotless 

 snow, and all in the middle of winter ! Now and then a young fir 

 or pine, bent down and buried under the load of snow and looking 

 like a mound or boulder, would free itself of its load and spring up- 

 right without a moment's warning. The first few times this occurred 

 it startled me, like the sudden springing into view of game. 



After a pleasant hour's nooning I buckled on my skis again and 

 shouldered the pack for the climb to the top. The snow had grown 

 rapidly softer and more heavy. Every step was now sheer work for 

 every foot gained. There was none of the extra slide at the end of 

 the stride which under favorable conditions makes the ski such a 

 splendid device in the snow. The skis sank deep, and the snow 

 packed and clung heavily at every stroke. 



Strawberry Resort looked picturesque enough, with the thick 

 rounding thatch of snow on the roofs. Here and there it had slid 

 off in avalanches and lay piled up about the houses. The river from 

 the bridge was especially attractive. In places it was almost com- 

 pletely bridged over with snow. Where it was open each boulder 

 supported a tower of snow two or three feet high, contrasting with 

 the black of the steam-bed. The sole living occupant of the resort — 

 a Douglas squirrel — went dashing wildly from tree to tree as I 

 crawled slowly by. Altogether, I found Strawberry in winter much 

 more beautiful than in summer — with no dust, no automobiles, no 

 smell of gasoline. The soft hand of nature had wiped away all the 

 ugly symbols of our civilization, and all was in perfect harmony 

 again, as it might have been a thousand years ago. 



But the long climb was ahead of me and I pushed on. The great 

 cliff of Lover's Leap rose grandly to the right, but the higher ridges 

 across the valley to the left were lost in cloud, so that I had no 

 glimpse of Pyramid or his neighbors as I toiled up the steep 

 grade to the top of the moraine. Under the conditions, two miles an 

 hour was more than the best I could do. However, with the prospect 

 of a cabin ahead for shelter, I was not at all disturbed either by my 

 slow pace through the heavy snow or by the gathering gloom of the 

 clouds, which were growing rapidly more ominous. From the top of 

 the moraine on up to Phillips' the grade was delightfully easy and 

 the landscapes increasingly beautiful. The yellow pines had given 

 place largely to lodgepole pines and shapely firs, and no tree grows 



