Toward the end of summer, after a light, open winter, one may reach the
summit of Mount Shasta without passing over much snow, by keeping on
the crest of a long narrow ridge, mostly bare, that extends from near
the camp-ground at the timberline. But on my first excursion to the
summit the whole mountain, down to its low swelling base, was smoothly
laden with loose fresh snow, presenting a most glorious mass of winter
mountain scenery, in the midst of which I scrambled and reveled or lay
snugly snowbound, enjoying the fertile clouds and the snow-bloom in all
their growing, drifting grandeur.
I had walked from Redding, sauntering leisurely from station to station
along the old Oregon stage road, the better to see the rocks and
plants, birds and people, by the way, tracing the rushing Sacramento to
its fountains around icy Shasta. The first rains had fallen on the
lowlands, and the first snows on the mountains, and everything was
fresh and bracing, while an abundance of balmy sunshine filled all the
noonday hours. It was the calm afterglow that usually succeeds the
first storm of the winter. I met many of the birds that had reared
their young and spent their summer in the Shasta woods and chaparral.
They were then on their way south to their winter homes, leading their
young full-fledged and about as large and strong as the parents.
Squirrels, dry and elastic after the storms, were busy about their
stores of pine nuts, and the latest goldenrods were still in bloom,
though it was now past the middle of October. The grand color glow—the
autumnal jubilee of ripe leaves—was past prime, but, freshened by the
rain, was still making a fine show along the banks of the river and in
the ravines and the dells of the smaller streams.
At the salmon-hatching establishment on the McCloud River I halted a
week to examine the limestone belt, grandly developed there, to learn
what I could of the inhabitants of the river and its banks, and to give
time for the fresh snow that I knew had fallen on the mountain to
settle somewhat, with a view to making the ascent. A pedestrian on
these mountain roads, especially so late in the year, is sure to excite
curiosity, and many were the interrogations concerning my ramble. When
I said that I was simply taking a walk, and that icy Shasta was my
mark, I was invariably admonished that I had come on a dangerous quest.
The time was far too late, the snow was too loose and deep to climb,
and I should be lost in drifts and slides. When I hinted that new snow
was beautiful and storms not so bad as they were called, my advisers
shook their heads in token of superior knowledge and declared the
ascent of “Shasta Butte” through loose snow impossible. Nevertheless,
before noon of the second of November I was in the frosty azure of the
utmost summit.
When I arrived at Sisson’s everything was quiet. The last of the summer
visitors had flitted long before, and the deer and bears also were
beginning to seek their winter homes. My barometer and the sighing
winds and filmy half-transparent clouds that dimmed the sunshine gave
notice of the approach of another storm, and I was in haste to be off
and get myself established somewhere in the midst of it, whether the
summit was to be attained or not. Sisson, who is a mountaineer,
speedily fitted me out for storm or calm as only a mountaineer could,
with warm blankets and a week’s provisions so generous in quantity and
kind that they easily might have been made to last a month in case of
my being closely snowbound. Well I knew the weariness of snow-climbing,
and the frosts, and the dangers of mountaineering so late in the year;
therefore I could not ask a guide to go with me, even had one been
willing. All I wanted was to have blankets and provisions deposited as
far up in the timber as the snow would permit a pack animal to go.
There I could build a storm nest and lie warm, and make raids up and
around the mountain in accordance with the weather.
Setting out on the afternoon of November first, with Jerome Fay,
mountaineer and guide, in charge of the animals, I was soon plodding
wearily upward through the muffled winter woods, the snow of course
growing steadily deeper and looser, so that we had to break a trail.
The animals began to get discouraged, and after night and darkness came
on they became entangled in a bed of rough lava, where, breaking
through four or five feet of mealy snow, their feet were caught between
angular boulders. Here they were in danger of being lost, but after we
had removed packs and saddles and assisted their efforts with ropes,
they all escaped to the side of a ridge about a thousand feet below the
timberline.
To go farther was out of the question, so we were compelled to camp as
best we could. A pitch pine fire speedily changed the temperature and
shed a blaze of light on the wild lava-slope and the straggling
storm-bent pines around us. Melted snow answered for coffee, and we had
plenty of venison to roast. Toward midnight I rolled myself in my
blankets, slept an hour and a half, arose and ate more venison, tied
two days’ provisions to my belt, and set out for the summit, hoping to
reach it ere the coming storm should fall. Jerome accompanied me a
little distance above camp and indicated the way as well as he could in
the darkness. He seemed loath to leave me, but, being reassured that I
was at home and required no care, he bade me good-bye and returned to
camp, ready to lead his animals down the mountain at daybreak.
After I was above the dwarf pines, it was fine practice pushing up the
broad unbroken slopes of snow, alone in the solemn silence of the
night. Half the sky was clouded; in the other half the stars sparkled
icily in the keen, frosty air; while everywhere the glorious wealth of
snow fell away from the summit of the cone in flowing folds, more
extensive and continuous than any I had ever seen before. When day
dawned the clouds were crawling slowly and becoming more massive, but
gave no intimation of immediate danger, and I pushed on faithfully,
though holding myself well in hand, ready to return to the timber; for
it was easy to see that the storm was not far off. The mountain rises
ten thousand feet above the general level of the country, in blank
exposure to the deep upper currents of the sky, and no labyrinth of
peaks and cañons I had ever been in seemed to me so dangerous as these
immense slopes, bare against the sky.
The frost was intense, and drifting snow dust made breathing at times
rather difficult. The snow was as dry as meal, and the finer particles
drifted freely, rising high in the air, while the larger portions of
the crystals rolled like sand. I frequently sank to my armpits between
buried blocks of loose lava, but generally only to my knees. When tired
with walking I still wallowed slowly upward on all fours. The steepness
of the slope—thirty-five degrees in some places—made any kind of
progress fatiguing, while small avalanches were being constantly set in
motion in the steepest places. But the bracing air and the sublime
beauty of the snowy expanse thrilled every nerve and made absolute
exhaustion impossible. I seemed to be walking and wallowing in a cloud;
but, holding steadily onward, by half-past ten o’clock I had gained the
highest summit.
I held my commanding foothold in the sky for two hours, gazing on the
glorious landscapes spread maplike around the immense horizon, and
tracing the outlines of the ancient lava-streams extending far into the
surrounding plains, and the pathways of vanished glaciers of which
Shasta had been the center. But, as I had left my coat in camp for the
sake of having my limbs free in climbing, I soon was cold. The wind
increased in violence, raising the snow in magnificent drifts that were
drawn out in the form of wavering banners blowing in the sun. Toward
the end of my stay a succession of small clouds struck against the
summit rocks like drifting icebergs, darkening the air as they passed,
and producing a chill as definite and sudden as if ice-water had been
dashed in my face. This is the kind of cloud in which snow-flowers
grow, and I turned and fled.
Finding that I was not closely pursued, I ventured to take time on the
way down for a visit to the head of the Whitney Glacier and the “Crater
Butte.” After I had reached the end of the main summit ridge the
descent was but little more than one continuous soft, mealy, muffled
slide, most luxurious and rapid, though the hissing, swishing speed
attained was obscured in great part by flying snow dust—a marked
contrast to the boring seal-wallowing upward struggle. I reached camp
about an hour before dusk, hollowed a strip of loose ground in the lee
of a large block of red lava, where firewood was abundant, rolled
myself in my blankets, and went to sleep.
Next morning, having slept little the night before the ascent and being
weary with climbing after the excitement was over, I slept late. Then,
awaking suddenly, my eyes opened on one of the most beautiful and
sublime scenes I ever enjoyed. A boundless wilderness of storm clouds
of different degrees of ripeness were congregated over all the lower
landscape for thousands of square miles, colored gray, and purple, and
pearl, and deep-glowing white, amid which I seemed to be floating;
while the great white cone of the mountain above was all aglow in the
free, blazing sunshine. It seemed not so much an ocean as a land of
clouds—undulating hill and dale, smooth purple plains, and silvery
mountains of cumuli, range over range, diversified with peak and dome
and hollow fully brought out in light and shade.
I gazed enchanted, but cold gray masses, drifting like dust on a
wind-swept plain, began to shut out the light, forerunners of the
coming storm I had been so anxiously watching. I made haste to gather
as much wood as possible, snugging it as a shelter around my bed. The
storm side of my blankets was fastened down with stakes to reduce as
much as possible the sifting-in of drift and the danger of being blown
away. The precious bread sack was placed safely as a pillow, and when
at length the first flakes fell I was exultingly ready to welcome them.
Most of my firewood was more than half rosin and would blaze in the
face of the fiercest drifting; the winds could not demolish my bed, and
my bread could be made to last indefinitely; while in case of need I
had the means of making snowshoes and could retreat or hold my ground
as I pleased.
Presently the storm broke forth into full snowy bloom, and the
thronging crystals darkened the air. The wind swept past in hissing
floods, grinding the snow into meal and sweeping down into the hollows
in enormous drifts all the heavier particles, while the finer dust was
sifted through the sky, increasing the icy gloom. But my fire glowed
bravely as if in glad defiance of the drift to quench it, and,
notwithstanding but little trace of my nest could be seen after the
snow had leveled and buried it, I was snug and warm, and the passionate
uproar produced a glad excitement.
Day after day the storm continued, piling snow on snow in weariless
abundance. There were short periods of quiet, when the sun would seem
to look eagerly down through rents in the clouds, as if to know how the
work was advancing. During these calm intervals I replenished my
fire—sometimes without leaving the nest, for fire and woodpile were so
near this could easily be done—or busied myself with my notebook,
watching the gestures of the trees in taking the snow, examining
separate crystals under a lens, and learning the methods of their
deposition as an enduring fountain for the streams. Several times, when
the storm ceased for a few minutes, a Douglas squirrel came frisking
from the foot of a clump of dwarf pines, moving in sudden interrupted
spurts over the bossy snow; then, without any apparent guidance, he
would dig rapidly into the drift where were buried some grains of
barley that the horses had left. The Douglas squirrel does not strictly
belong to these upper woods, and I was surprised to see him out in such
weather. The mountain sheep also, quite a large flock of them, came to
my camp and took shelter beside a clump of matted dwarf pines a little
above my nest.
The storm lasted about a week, but before it was ended Sisson became
alarmed and sent up the guide with animals to see what had become of me
and recover the camp outfit. The news spread that “there was a man on
the mountain,” and he must surely have perished, and Sisson was blamed
for allowing any one to attempt climbing in such weather; while I was
as safe as anybody in the lowlands, lying like a squirrel in a warm,
fluffy nest, busied about my own affairs and wishing only to be let
alone. Later, however, a trail could not have been broken for a horse,
and some of the camp furniture would have had to be abandoned. On the
fifth day I returned to Sisson’s, and from that comfortable base made
excursions, as the weather permitted, to the Black Butte, to the foot
of the Whitney Glacier, around the base of the mountain, to Rhett and
Klamath Lakes, to the Modoc region and elsewhere, developing many
interesting scenes and experiences.
But the next spring, on the other side of this eventful winter, I saw
and felt still more of the Shasta snow. For then it was my fortune to
get into the very heart of a storm, and to be held in it for a long
time.
On the 28th of April 1875 I led a party up the mountain for the purpose
of making a survey of the summit with reference to the location of the
Geodetic monument. On the 30th, accompanied by Jerome Fay, I made
another ascent to make some barometrical observations, the day
intervening between the two ascents being devoted to establishing a
camp on the extreme edge of the timberline. Here, on our red trachyte
bed, we obtained two hours of shallow sleep broken for occasional
glimpses of the keen, starry night. At two o’clock we rose, breakfasted
on a warmed tin-cupful of coffee and a piece of frozen venison broiled
on the coals, and started for the summit. Up to this time there was
nothing in sight that betokened the approach of a storm; but on gaining
the summit, we saw toward Lassen’s Butte hundreds of square miles of
white cumuli boiling dreamily in the sunshine far beneath us, and
causing no alarm.
The slight weariness of the ascent was soon rested away, and our
glorious morning in the sky promised nothing but enjoyment. At 9 a.m.
the dry thermometer stood at 34 degrees in the shade and rose steadily
until at 1 p.m. it stood at 50 degrees, probably influenced somewhat by
radiation from the sun-warmed cliffs. A common bumblebee, not at all
benumbed, zigzagged vigorously about our heads for a few moments, as if
unconscious of the fact that the nearest honey flower was a mile
beneath him.
In the mean time clouds were growing down in Shasta Valley—massive
swelling cumuli, displaying delicious tones of purple and gray in the
hollows of their sun-beaten bosses. Extending gradually southward
around on both sides of Shasta, these at length united with the older
field towards Lassen’s Butte, thus encircling Mount Shasta in one
continuous cloud zone. Rhett and Klamath Lakes were eclipsed beneath
clouds scarcely less brilliant than their own silvery disks. The Modoc
Lava Beds, many a snow-laden peak far north in Oregon, the Scott and
Trinity and Siskiyou Mountains, the peaks of the Sierra, the blue Coast
Range, Shasta Valley, the dark forests filling the valley of the
Sacramento, all in turn were obscured or buried, leaving the lofty cone
on which we stood solitary in the sunshine between two skies—a sky of
spotless blue above, a sky of glittering cloud beneath. The creative
sun shone glorious on the vast expanse of cloudland; hill and dale,
mountain and valley springing into existence responsive to his rays and
steadily developing in beauty and individuality. One huge mountain-cone
of cloud, corresponding to Mount Shasta in these newborn cloud ranges,
rose close alongside with a visible motion, its firm, polished bosses
seeming so near and substantial that we almost fancied that we might
leap down upon them from where we stood and make our way to the
lowlands. No hint was given, by anything in their appearance, of the
fleeting character of these most sublime and beautiful cloud mountains.
On the contrary they impressed one as being lasting additions to the
landscape.
The weather of the springtime and summer, throughout the Sierra in
general, is usually varied by slight local rains and dustings of snow,
most of which are obviously far too joyous and life-giving to be
regarded as storms—single clouds growing in the sunny sky, ripening in
an hour, showering the heated landscape, and passing away like a
thought, leaving no visible bodily remains to stain the sky. Snowstorms
of the same gentle kind abound among the high peaks, but in spring they
not unfrequently attain larger proportions, assuming a violence and
energy of expression scarcely surpassed by those bred in the depths of
winter. Such was the storm now gathering about us.
It began to declare itself shortly after noon, suggesting to us the
idea of at once seeking our safe camp in the timber and abandoning the
purpose of making an observation of the barometer at 3 p.m.,—two having
already been made, at 9 a.m., and 12 m., while simultaneous
observations were made at Strawberry Valley. Jerome peered at short
intervals over the ridge, contemplating the rising clouds with anxious
gestures in the rough wind, and at length declared that if we did not
make a speedy escape we should be compelled to pass the rest of the day
and night on the summit. But anxiety to complete my observations
stifled my own instinctive promptings to retreat, and held me to my
work. No inexperienced person was depending on me, and I told Jerome
that we two mountaineers should be able to make our way down through
any storm likely to fall.
Presently thin, fibrous films of cloud began to blow directly over the
summit from north to south, drawn out in long fairy webs like carded
wool, forming and dissolving as if by magic. The wind twisted them into
ringlets and whirled them in a succession of graceful convolutions like
the outside sprays of Yosemite Falls in flood time; then, sailing out
into the thin azure over the precipitous brink of the ridge they were
drifted together like wreaths of foam on a river. These higher and
finer cloud fabrics were evidently produced by the chilling of the air
from its own expansion caused by the upward deflection of the wind
against the slopes of the mountain. They steadily increased on the
north rim of the cone, forming at length a thick, opaque, ill-defined
embankment from the icy meshes of which snow-flowers began to fall,
alternating with hail. The sky speedily darkened, and just as I had
completed my last observation and boxed my instruments ready for the
descent, the storm began in serious earnest. At first the cliffs were
beaten with hail, every stone of which, as far as I could see, was
regular in form, six-sided pyramids with rounded base, rich and
sumptuous-looking, and fashioned with loving care, yet seemingly thrown
away on those desolate crags down which they went rolling, falling,
sliding in a network of curious streams.
After we had forced our way down the ridge and past the group of
hissing fumaroles, the storm became inconceivably violent. The
thermometer fell 22 degrees in a few minutes, and soon dropped below
zero. The hail gave place to snow, and darkness came on like night. The
wind, rising to the highest pitch of violence, boomed and surged amid
the desolate crags; lightning flashes in quick succession cut the
gloomy darkness; and the thunders, the most tremendously loud and
appalling I ever heard, made an almost continuous roar, stroke
following stroke in quick, passionate succession, as though the
mountain were being rent to its foundations and the fires of the old
volcano were breaking forth again.
Could we at once have begun to descend the snow slopes leading to the
timber, we might have made good our escape, however dark and wild the
storm. As it was, we had first to make our way along a dangerous ridge
nearly a mile and a half long, flanked in many places by steep
ice-slopes at the head of the Whitney Glacier on one side and by
shattered precipices on the other. Apprehensive of this coming
darkness, I had taken the precaution, when the storm began, to make the
most dangerous points clear to my mind, and to mark their relations
with reference to the direction of the wind. When, therefore, the
darkness came on, and the bewildering drift, I felt confident that we
could force our way through it with no other guidance. After passing
the “Hot Springs” I halted in the lee of a lava-block to let Jerome,
who had fallen a little behind, come up. Here he opened a council in
which, under circumstances sufficiently exciting but without evincing
any bewilderment, he maintained, in opposition to my views, that it was
impossible to proceed. He firmly refused to make the venture to find
the camp, while I, aware of the dangers that would necessarily attend
our efforts, and conscious of being the cause of his present peril,
decided not to leave him.
Our discussions ended, Jerome made a dash from the shelter of the
lava-block and began forcing his way back against the wind to the “Hot
Springs,” wavering and struggling to resist being carried away, as if
he were fording a rapid stream. After waiting and watching in vain for
some flaw in the storm that might be urged as a new argument in favor
of attempting the descent, I was compelled to follow. “Here,” said
Jerome, as we shivered in the midst of the hissing, sputtering
fumaroles, “we shall be safe from frost.” “Yes,” said I, “we can lie in
this mud and steam and sludge, warm at least on one side; but how can
we protect our lungs from the acid gases, and how, after our clothing
is saturated, shall we be able to reach camp without freezing, even
after the storm is over? We shall have to wait for sunshine, and when
will it come?”
The tempered area to which we had committed ourselves extended over
about one fourth of an acre; but it was only about an eighth of an inch
in thickness, for the scalding gas jets were shorn off close to the
ground by the oversweeping flood of frosty wind. And how lavishly the
snow fell only mountaineers may know. The crisp crystal flowers seemed
to touch one another and fairly to thicken the tremendous blast that
carried them. This was the bloom-time, the summer of the cloud, and
never before have I seen even a mountain cloud flowering so profusely.
When the bloom of the Shasta chaparral is falling, the ground is
sometimes covered for hundreds of square miles to a depth of half an
inch. But the bloom of this fertile snow cloud grew and matured and
fell to a depth of two feet in a few hours. Some crystals landed with
their rays almost perfect, but most of them were worn and broken by
striking against one another, or by rolling on the ground. The touch of
these snow-flowers in calm weather is infinitely gentle—glinting,
swaying, settling silently in the dry mountain air, or massed in flakes
soft and downy. To lie out alone in the mountains of a still night and
be touched by the first of these small silent messengers from the sky
is a memorable experience, and the fineness of that touch none will
forget. But the storm-blast laden with crisp, sharp snow seems to crush
and bruise and stupefy with its multitude of stings, and compels the
bravest to turn and flee.
The snow fell without abatement until an hour or two after what seemed
to be the natural darkness of the night. Up to the time the storm first
broke on the summit its development was remarkably gentle. There was a
deliberate growth of clouds, a weaving of translucent tissue above,
then the roar of the wind and the thunder, and the darkening flight of
snow. Its subsidence was not less sudden. The clouds broke and
vanished, not a crystal was left in the sky, and the stars shone out
with pure and tranquil radiance.
During the storm we lay on our backs so as to present as little surface
as possible to the wind, and to let the drift pass over us. The mealy
snow sifted into the folds of our clothing and in many places reached
the skin. We were glad at first to see the snow packing about us,
hoping it would deaden the force of the wind, but it soon froze into a
stiff, crusty heap as the temperature fell, rather augmenting our novel
misery.
When the heat became unendurable, on some spot where steam was escaping
through the sludge, we tried to stop it with snow and mud, or shifted a
little at a time by shoving with our heels; for to stand in blank
exposure to the fearful wind in our frozen-and-broiled condition seemed
certain death. The acrid incrustations sublimed from the escaping gases
frequently gave way, opening new vents to scald us; and, fearing that
if at any time the wind should fall, carbonic acid, which often formed
a considerable portion of the gaseous exhalations of volcanoes, might
collect in sufficient quantities to cause sleep and death, I warned
Jerome against forgetting himself for a single moment, even should his
sufferings admit of such a thing.
Accordingly, when during the long, dreary watches of the night we
roused from a state of half-consciousness, we called each other by name
in a frightened, startled way, each fearing the other might be benumbed
or dead. The ordinary sensations of cold give but a faint conception of
that which comes on after hard climbing with want of food and sleep in
such exposure as this. Life is then seen to be a fire, that now
smoulders, now brightens, and may be easily quenched. The weary hours
wore away like dim half-forgotten years, so long and eventful they
seemed, though we did nothing but suffer. Still the pain was not always
of that bitter, intense kind that precludes thought and takes away all
capacity for enjoyment. A sort of dreamy stupor came on at times in
which we fancied we saw dry, resinous logs suitable for campfires, just
as after going days without food men fancy they see bread.
Frozen, blistered, famished, benumbed, our bodies seemed lost to us at
times—all dead but the eyes. For the duller and fainter we became the
clearer was our vision, though only in momentary glimpses. Then, after
the sky cleared, we gazed at the stars, blessed immortals of light,
shining with marvelous brightness with long lance rays, near-looking
and new-looking, as if never seen before. Again they would look
familiar and remind us of stargazing at home. Oftentimes imagination
coming into play would present charming pictures of the warm zone
below, mingled with others near and far. Then the bitter wind and the
drift would break the blissful vision and dreary pains cover us like
clouds. “Are you suffering much?” Jerome would inquire with pitiful
faintness. “Yes,” I would say, striving to keep my voice brave, “frozen
and burned; but never mind, Jerome, the night will wear away at last,
and tomorrow we go a-Maying, and what campfires we will make, and what
sunbaths we will take!”
The frost grew more and more intense, and we became icy and covered
over with a crust of frozen snow, as if we had lain cast away in the
drift all winter. In about thirteen hours—every hour like a year—day
began to dawn, but it was long ere the summit’s rocks were touched by
the sun. No clouds were visible from where we lay, yet the morning was
dull and blue, and bitterly frosty; and hour after hour passed by while
we eagerly watched the pale light stealing down the ridge to the hollow
where we lay. But there was not a trace of that warm, flushing sunrise
splendor we so long had hoped for.
As the time drew near to make an effort to reach camp, we became
concerned to know what strength was left us, and whether or no we could
walk; for we had lain flat all this time without once rising to our
feet. Mountaineers, however, always find in themselves a reserve of
power after great exhaustion. It is a kind of second life, available
only in emergencies like this; and, having proved its existence, I had
no great fear that either of us would fail, though one of my arms was
already benumbed and hung powerless.
At length, after the temperature was somewhat mitigated on this
memorable first of May, we arose and began to struggle homeward. Our
frozen trousers could scarcely be made to bend at the knee, and we
waded the snow with difficulty. The summit ridge was fortunately
wind-swept and nearly bare, so we were not compelled to lift our feet
high, and on reaching the long home slopes laden with loose snow we
made rapid progress, sliding and shuffling and pitching headlong, our
feebleness accelerating rather than diminishing our speed. When we had
descended some three thousand feet the sunshine warmed our backs and we
began to revive. At 10 a.m. we reached the timber and were safe.
Half an hour later we heard Sisson shouting down among the firs, coming
with horses to take us to the hotel. After breaking a trail through the
snow as far as possible he had tied his animals and walked up. We had
been so long without food that we cared but little about eating, but we
eagerly drank the coffee he prepared for us. Our feet were frozen, and
thawing them was painful, and had to be done very slowly by keeping
them buried in soft snow for several hours, which avoided permanent
damage. Five thousand feet below the summit we found only three inches
of new snow, and at the base of the mountain only a slight shower of
rain had fallen, showing how local our storm had been, notwithstanding
its terrific fury. Our feet were wrapped in sacking, and we were soon
mounted and on our way down into the thick sunshine—“God’s Country,” as
Sisson calls the Chaparral Zone. In two hours’ ride the last snowbank
was left behind. Violets appeared along the edges of the trail, and the
chaparral was coming into bloom, with young lilies and larkspurs about
the open places in rich profusion. How beautiful seemed the golden
sunbeams streaming through the woods between the warm brown boles of
the cedars and pines! All my friends among the birds and plants seemed
like _old_ friends, and we felt like speaking to every one of them as
we passed, as if we had been a long time away in some far, strange
country.
In the afternoon we reached Strawberry Valley and fell asleep. Next
morning we seemed to have risen from the dead. My bedroom was flooded
with sunshine, and from the window I saw the great white Shasta cone
clad in forests and clouds and bearing them loftily in the sky.
Everything seemed full and radiant with the freshness and beauty and
enthusiasm of youth. Sisson’s children came in with flowers and covered
my bed, and the storm on the mountaintop banished like a dream.