meaning of either of these Indian names is not certainly given.
Cunningham, one of the oldest and best guides of the valley, calls the
canyon and the fall at the head of it, the El-lil-o-wit. The tourist
who attempts this canyon must leave all hoofs behind, and, falling back
to first principles, depend entirely upon his own understanding.
Among the enormous masses of rock which obstruct it, several extensive
fissures and romantic caverns furnish additional stimulus to the
wonder-loving pedestrian. As General Coulter says: "rough is no name
for it." It is one of the wildest places imaginable. Few tourists
accomplish it, but those who do are amply repaid.
From the foot of the Il-lil-ou-ette Canyon make your way directly east,
clamber along half a mile, or let your horse do it for you, then bear
away to the right, slightly south of east, and you find yourself
entering the canyon of the main Merced itself. Now pick your way
carefully along, and, as soon as you feel sufficiently sure of your
foothold, look about you, and look ahead. Did you ever see finer
boulder-scenery in your life? Stop under the sheltering lee of this
huge, church-like boulder, and don the oiled or rubber suit which
awaits your hire. You can get on without it, but the spray will
quickly wet you into a
"Dem'd damp, moist and disagreeable body,"
if you try it.
Now take a stout stick, a deep breath, hold firmly on to both and
plunge sturdily along the ascending trail. The deepest, richest and
greenest of moss lines the narrow foot-path on either hand. Look
quickly; enjoy it while you may, for presently you find breath and
sight nearly taken away together by heavy spray-gusts, rushing,
wind-driven, down the canyon. Catching the intervals between, and
catching your breath at the same time, you lift your nearly blinded
eyes to the
Vernal Fall,
four hundred and fifty feet high, one hundred feet wide, and from
three to five feet deep where it breaks over the square-cut edge of
the solid granite beneath. The name Vernal was given it on account of
the greenness of its water as it plunges over the brink, as well as to
distinguish it from the very white fall a mile above. The Indian name
was Pi-wy-ack, which is differently translated to mean "a shower of
crystals," or "the cataract of diamonds."
This fall pours in one solid unbroken sheet of emerald green, flecked
and fringed with creamy foam, and filling the whole canyon below with a
thick, and fine and ceaseless spray, which keeps its moss, and grass
and foliage of a rich, deep green nowhere surpassed in nature. This
spray also combines with the sunshine to develop another and a
marvelous beauty. At almost any point along the trail for several rods
below the fall, the visitor who is climbing in the morning has only to
turn square about to find himself glorified by an exquisitely
beautiful circular rainbow surrounding his head like a halo. This
rainbow forms a complete circle of so small a diameter that the
tourist who views it for the first time involuntarily stretches out
his hands to grasp it.
The path is wet and slippery, and the ladder-stairs which carry one up
the right-hand face of the cliff, just at the south edge of the fall,
are steep and tiresome. But good oil or rubber suits keep out the wet,
a good restful pause now and then keeps in the breath, while careful
stepping and firm holding on rob the steepness and slipperiness of all
their real danger. Scores of ladies go up and come down every season
without accident or harmful fatigue.
Arrived at the top of the singularly square-cut granite cliff, we turn
to the left, walk to the very edge of the stream and the brink of the
fall, and gaze into the misty chasm in which the foot of the fall
disappears. One need not fear to do so, for nature, as if with special
forethought for the gratification of future guests, has provided a
remarkable parapet of solid granite running along the very edge of the
brink for several yards south of the fall, just breast high, and
looking as if made on purpose for timid tourists to lean over, and
gaze with fearless safety into the seething chasm in whose foaming
depths the foot of the cataract shrouds itself in impenetrable mist.
This ceaseless mistiness makes it almost impossible to estimate or
calculate the exact height of the fall with any satisfactory accuracy.
Another variable element which enters into all conjectures of its
height is the fact that the rock on which it strikes slopes sharply
down for upwards of a hundred and sixty feet. Hence in late spring or
early summer, when the volume and velocity of the river are greatest,
the water, shooting further out, falls at the very base of this slope,
and gives the fall a height of four hundred and seventy-five or even
five hundred feet in May or June. In October, on the other hand, when
the stream is at its lowest, the water, falling straight down, strikes
upon the top of this slope, a hundred and sixty or seventy-five feet
above its base, and thus diminishes the height of the fall by just
that amount.
In its volume, this fall resembles Niagara more than any other in the
valley. In width, of course, it falls far below, but its height is
more than three times as great. It also resembles Niagara in its
greatening on the gaze with each successive visit. In its approaches,
in its surroundings, and in itself, the Vernal fall surpasses
expectation and fully satisfies desire.
Half a mile above the Vernal is a small but beautiful gem of a little
fall, called the
Kachoomah,
or Wild Cat Fall. The reason of the name is obvious to one standing a
hundred feet below, and noting how the impetuous stream, breaking over
the sharp edge of a huge transverse boulder, dashes against the
sloping side of another; lying angularly across; and is thrown, or
seems to spring, diagonally across towards the northern bank, readily,
though roughly, suggesting the sudden side-spring of the animal for
whom the observing red man named it.
Another half mile, and the rocky walls close together, shut us in and
bar our further progress. The canyon narrows to a point, over whose
right hand wall, close to the very angle of meeting, the same river,
the main Merced, plunges its whole volume in the famous
Nevada Fall,
seven hundred feet high, seventy-five feet wide at the brink, and one
hundred and thirty below. This fall is, in all respects, one of the
grandest in the world. In height, in width, in purity and volume of
water during the early summer, in graceful peculiarities and in
grandeur of surrounding scenery, it is simply stupendous. Other falls,
though few, surpass it in the single element of height, but in
surrounding grandeur, in the harmony of beauty and magnificence, none
equal this. None brings the visitor oftener to its foot, detains him
with greater delight, or sends him away with more profound
satisfaction.
The exact statement of the height of this fall is hindered by causes
similar to those at the Vernal, viz: the constant and blinding spray
around the bottom, and the consequent uncertainty as to the exact spot
where the water strikes.
The rock beneath this fall is not vertical, but rather steeply
inclined, having a slope of about eighty-five degrees through its
upper half and not far from seventy-five degrees through its lower.
Hence in summer, when tourists usually see it, the diminished force of
the current causes the water rather to slide down the slope, than to
shoot out over and fall clear of it, as in the spring. Thus, from June
to November the Nevada is more properly a chute or slide than a fall.
During this season the friction of the rock breaks the stream into a
white froth; hence the name, Nevada, or Snowy Fall.
When the water is very low, the fittest thing to which one could
liken it would be to myriads of white lace or gauze veils hung over
the face of the cliff, waving and fluttering in the wind. A party of
ladies originated this figure, and it occurred also to Mr. Bowles in
his fine descriptions of Yosemite wonders.
As one stands in the canyon below gazing at the Nevada, the Snowy Fall,
away upon his left, about a third of a mile back from the brink of the
northeast wall of the canyon, rises
Mt. Broderick,
or the Cap of Liberty, whose general outline suggests its name. Its
rounded summit lifts its smooth, weather-polished granite two thousand
feet above the fall and nearly five thousand above the main valley. It
bears upon its crown a single juniper of enormous diameter.
Away to the right of the canyon, just peeping above the edge of the
cliff, and nearly two miles south-southeast of the Nevada Fall, rises
the steep, conical summit of the South Dome, or
Mt. Starr King,
reaching an estimated height of one mile above the valley. Next to the
wonderful half-dome, this is the steepest and smoothest cone in the
region. Indian name, See-wah-lam, meaning not known. Its exact
height, like that of its great namesake, has never been satisfactorily
settled.
Clambering back down this canyon, depositing our oiled or rubber suits,
and experiencing an immediate sense of relief and lightness, we
retrace the trail up which we came, bear away to the right, that is,
going nearly northwest, proceed nearly or quite a mile round the base
of a lofty buttress, and open the
Tenaya Canyon,
stretching away northeast nearly in a continuous line with the main
valley itself.
About one mile up this canyon towers Yosemite's sheerest and loftiest
isolated cliff, the
Half-Dome
itself. It is a bare crest of naked granite, four thousand seven
hundred and forty feet high, cleft straight down in one vast vertical
front on the Tenaya, or northwest side, while on the back, that is,
toward the southeast, it swells off and rounds away with a dome-like
sweep that utterly dwarfs the grandeur of a thousand St. Peters in
one.
Following still on up the Tenaya Canyon, nearly two miles beyond the
dome, and a thousand feet higher, rises the
Clouds' Rest,
a granite ridge, long, bare and steep, having its axis parallel with
that of the valley, and falling away along its southeastern slope
into the rocky mountain wilderness of the High Sierras. This is one of
the few points about the valley which the Geological Survey has not
yet measured. They estimated its height one thousand feet above that
of the Half Dome, which would make its summit ten thousand feet, or
nearly two miles above the sea level.
Beyond this, little of note invites the traveler's delay, so we make
our way northwesterly straight across this canyon from the base of its
southeasterly wall toward that of the opposite cliff. On the way,
however,
Mirror Lake
arrests and enchants us. Surely water reflections were never more
perfect. The Indian name Ke-ko-too-yem, Sleeping Water, was never more
happily bestowed. Imagine a perfect water mirror nearly eight acres in
extent, and of a temperament so calm and deep and philosophic that it
devotes its whole life to the profoundest reflection. A mile of solid
cliff above, a mile of seeming solid cliff beneath; for though the
mind knows the lower to be only an image, the eye cannot, by simple
sight alone, determine which is the solid original and which the
shadowy reflection.
Twin mountains, base to base, here meet the astonished eye;
One towers toward heaven in substance vast,
One looms below in shadow cast,
As grand, as perfect as its peer on high.
In early morning, when no breeze ripples the lake, its reflections
are, indeed, marvelously life-like. So exactly is every line and point
repeated that the photographic view has puzzled hundreds to tell which
mountain is in the air and which is in the water. The spectator who
takes the photogram in his hand for the first time often hesitates for
several minutes before he can determine which side up the picture
should be held. The depth of the lake is from eight to twenty feet.
One sufficiently vigorous and persevering may push on up the Tenaya
creek till he finds the
Tenaya Lake,
over a mile long, snugly nestled in among the mountains. This lies
beyond the usual limit of tourists' excursions, but well repays a
visit.
Nearly a mile northwest of the lake, and about a third of a mile back
from the edge of the cliff, the
North Dome
lifts its rounded granite bulk three thousand five hundred and seventy
feet above the valley. It looks as if built of huge, concentric,
overlapping, hemispherical domes, piled one upon another, and having
their overlapping edges irregularly broken away. On the valley side,
that is, toward the south and southeast, it is so steep that no human
foot has ever climbed it. In the rear, however, that is, toward the
north and west, it falls away in a vast ridge or spine, along which
one can easily gain the very summit of the dome itself. The Indian
name was To-coy-ah, meaning the shade of an Indian baby basket.
Passing three quarters of a mile still down, we reach the angle or
turn between the Tenaya canyon and the valley proper. In this turn, in
fact forming the angle, stands the
Washington Column,
a rounded, columnar rock tower, partially standing forth from the
abutting cliff behind. This reaches the height of two thousand five
hundred feet.
Immediately beyond this, large masses of the huge concentric,
overlapping plates, have cracked off, slipped away and fallen, leaving
rough bas-relief arches several hundred yards long, and projecting
some scores of feet, like rudely-drawn gigantic eyebrows. These are
commonly called the
Royal Arches,
or the Arched Rocks, but the Indian name, Hun-to, "The Watching Eye,"
will better satisfy the poetical visitor, unless, indeed, his Masonic
proclivities quite overpower his poetic appreciation, in which case he
will undoubtedly prefer the former title.
For the next mile and a half northwest nothing of special wonder for
Yosemite detains us.
The relief is fitting and needful, not only that we may recover in
some degree from the continued effect of the marvels already past,
but, more especially, that we may rally in preparation for the most
stupendous wonder of them all, the great
Yosemite Fall
itself. Here language ceases and art quite fails. No words nor
paintings, not even the photogram itself, can reproduce one tithe of
the grandeur here enthroned. A cataract from heaven to earth, plunging
from the clouds of the sky to bury itself among the trees of the
forest. The loftiest waterfall yet known upon the face of the globe.
Don't mention figures yet, please. When a man is overwhelmed with the
sublime, don't plunge him into statistics. By and by, when we have
cooled down to a safe pitch, we may condescend to hear the calm
calculator project his inexorable mathematics into the very face of
nature's sublimity and triumphantly tell us just _how_ great this
surpassing wonder is. But after all his exactest calculations, his
absolute measurements and his positive assurances, one _feels_ how
small the fraction of real greatness which figures can express or the
intellect apprehend. A cataract half a mile high, setting its forehead
against the stars and planting its feet at the base of the eternal
hills. Gracefully swaying from side to side in rhythmical vibration,
swelling into grandeur in earlier spring, and shrinking into beauty
under the ardency of summer heat; towering far above all other
cataracts, it calmly abides, the undisputed monarch of them all.
A half mile is no exaggeration, for the official measurement of the
State Survey makes the height two thousand six hundred and forty-one
(2,641) feet--a _full_ half mile, and _one foot more_.
The fall is not in one unbroken, perpendicular sheet, but in three
successive leaps. In the upper fall, the stream slides over a huge
rounded lip or edge of polished granite, and falls one thousand five
hundred and eighty-seven feet in one tremendous plunge. Here its whole
volume thunders upon a broad shelf or recess, whence it rushes in a
series of roughly-broken cascades down a broken slope of over seven
hundred feet in linear measurement, but whose base is six hundred and
twenty-six feet perpendicularly below its top. From the bottom of this
broken slope it makes a final plunge of four hundred and twenty-eight
feet in one clear fall, and then slides off contentedly into the
restful shadows of the welcoming forests below.
Its width, like that of all snow-fed streams, varies greatly with the
season. In March or April, when the tributary snows are melting most
rapidly, and myriads of streamlets swell its volume, the stream is
from seventy-five to a hundred feet wide, where it suddenly slips over
the smoothly-rounded granite at its upper brink. During the same
season it scatters or spreads to a width of from three to four hundred
feet, when it breaks upon the rocky masses below.
In later spring, or earlier summer, it dwindles to less than a third
of its greatest bulk; and its most intimate friend, the veteran
Yosemite pioneer, Hutchings, tells us that he has seen it when it
hardly seemed more than a silver thread winding down the face of the
cliff. Under a full moon, the element of weirdness mingles with its
graceful grandeur, shrouds it with mystery, and transports one into a
soft and dreamy wonder-land, from which he cares not to return.
A mile further on our way back toward the western end, brings us
under, or in front of, the triple rocky group, or three-peaked
stone-mountain, whose name, the
Three Brothers,
readily suggests itself to one standing in the proper place below.
They are three huge, bluntly conical, rocky peaks, fronting nearly
south, slightly inclined toward the valley and descending in height as
they approach it. To the rude Indian fancy they might well suggest the
name _Porn-porn-pa-sue_--"Mountains playing leap-frog,"--with which
they christened them.
The highest, which is the northernmost, the one furthest back from the
valley, is three thousand eight hundred and thirty feet high. The
summit of this rock is readily reached by a trail from the rear, and
affords a superb view of the valley and its surroundings. Nearly all
who have enjoyed it consider it the very best to be had.
Another mile-and-a-half and the rocky wonders of Yosemite fitly
culminate and terminate in
Tu-toch-ah-nu-lah,
"The Great Chief of the Valley" more commonly, though very weakly,
called "El Capitan," an ordinary Spanish word, meaning simply, "the
Captain;" good enough for a ferry-boat or river steamer, but entirely
beneath the dignity of this most magnificent rock on the face of the
earth.
Tu-toch-ah-nulah is an immense granite cliff, projecting angularly
into the valley, toward the southwest. It has two fronts, one facing
nearly west, the other southeasterly, meeting in a sub-acute angle.
These two fronts are over a mile long, and three thousand three
hundred feet high, smooth, bare and vertical, and bounded above by a
sharp edge, standing pressed against the sky, which its Atlas-like
shoulder seems made to uphold.
The State Survey, with all its scientific coolness, could not help
saying, "_El Capitan_ imposes upon us by its stupendous bulk, which
seems as if hewed from the mountains on purpose to stand as the type
of eternal massiveness. It is doubtful, if anywhere in the world,
there is presented so squarely cut, so lofty and so imposing a face of
rock." Starr King declared, "A more majestic object than this rock, I
never expect to see on this planet." Horace Greeley, who enjoyed the
rare experience of entering the valley by night, and in moonlight too,
thus pays tribute to the Great Chief:
"That first, full, deliberate gaze, up the opposite height! Can I ever
forget it? The valley here, is scarcely half a mile wide, while its
northern wall of mainly naked, perpendicular granite, is at least four
thousand feet high, probably more. But the modicum of moonlight that
fell into this awful gorge, gave to that precipice a vagueness of
outline, an indefinite vastness, a ghostly and weird spirituality. Had
the mountain spoken to me in an audible voice, or begun to lean over
with the purpose of burying me, I should hardly have been surprised."
After Tutochahnulah, nothing on earth can seem very grand or
overpowering, and with this the wonders of the valley fitly close.
We have, by no means, seen all the falls, nor even mentioned all the
peaks, but the others are of little note in Yosemite, though,
elsewhere, tourists might go a thousand miles to see the least of
them. This valley is, beyond comparison, the most wonderful and
beautiful of all earthly sights. No matter how incredulous one may be
before entering, the Great Chief and his tremendous allies, soon crush
him into the most humble and complete subjection. Do not expect,
however, that your first view will stagger your skepticism. On the
contrary, it may even confirm it. Upon our first view of
Tutochahnulah, as we were walking into the valley, one bright July
forenoon, we stopped a mile and a half from its foot, collected
ourselves for a calm, cool, mathematical judgment and said with all
confidence, "That rock isn't over fifteen hundred feet high. It
_can't_ be. Why, just look at that tree near its base. That tree,
certainly, can't be more than a hundred and twenty-five feet high, and
certainly, the cliff doesn't rise more than ten times its height above
it." But, unfortunately, we had forgotten that never before had we
seen the works of nature on as grand a scale. One's judgment has to
change its base. He has to reconstruct it; to adopt a new unit.
Comparison serves him little, for he has no adequate standard by which
to measure, or with which to compare the rock-mountains before him.
They are like nothing else. They are a law unto themselves, and one
must learn the law, the _new_ law, before he can begin to enter the
secret of their greatness. Look at that tree. Elsewhere you would call
it lofty. It measures a hundred and fifty feet, and yet, that wall of
solid rock behind rises straight up to twenty times its height above
it. Look again; now, turn away; shut eyes and think. Forget all
former standards and adopt the new. Slowly you begin to "even"
yourself to the stupendous scale of the gigantic shapes around.
Even Niagara requires two or three days before one begins to fully
realize or truly appreciate its greatness. How much more, then,
Yosemite, compared with which Niagara is but a very little thing!
Then, on the other hand, one must remember that after he has adjusted
himself to the new and grander scale of Yosemite, upon coming out into
the midst of ordinary hills and mountains, for several days they seem
low and flat and small.
A single visit to Yosemite dwarfs all other natural wonders and spoils
one for all places else. He who has seen it listens quietly to the
most enthusiastic rhapsodies of the most widely traveled tourists, and
simply answers, with a calm, superior smile, "Ah, that's all very
well, but you should see _Yosemite_."
The Traveler's University--should such an institution ever exist--can
never righteously graduate the most widely traveled tourist, until he
can truthfully add to his name, "Y. S. T."--Yosemite Tourist.
THE BIG TREES.
The California Big Trees are a kind of Redwood; or, if the strictest
and most scientific judgment does not rank them in the same family, it
must, at least, allow a very close relationship.
Nine groves are already certainly known, and, every year or two, as
the exploration of the State becomes more exact, or approaches
completion, other smaller groves, straggling groups or solitary
clumps, are added to the number. Of all those thus far discovered the
Calaveras Grove and the Mariposa Grove are the most celebrated, both
from the extent of the groves and the size and height of the trees
composing them.
The Calaveras Grove
receives its name from that of the county in which it stands. It is
near the source of the south fork of the Calaveras river, while the
upper tributaries of the Mokelumne and the Stanislaus rivers flow near
it: the former on the north, the latter on the southeast. It is about
sixteen miles from Murphy's Camp, and on or near the road crossing the
Sierras by the Silver Mountain Pass. This grove has received more
visitors and attained greater celebrity than any other, for four
reasons: