Steep Trails | Page 8

submissively to the
manipulations of culture. Jacob controlled the color of his flocks
merely by causing them to stare at objects of the desired hue; and
possibly Merinos may have caught their wrinkles from the perplexed
brows of their breeders. The California species (Ovis montana)[2] is a
noble animal, weighing when full-grown some three hundred and fifty
pounds, and is well worthy the attention of wool-growers as a point
from which to make a new departure, for pure wildness is the one great
want, both of men and of sheep.

II
A Geologist's Winter Walk[3]
After reaching Turlock, I sped afoot over the stubble fields and through
miles of brown hemizonia and purple erigeron, to Hopeton, conscious
of little more than that the town was behind and beneath me, and the
mountains above and before me; on through the oaks and chaparral of
the foothills to Coulterville; and then ascended the first great mountain
step upon which grows the sugar pine. Here I slackened pace, for I
drank the spicy, resiny wind, and beneath the arms of this noble tree I
felt that I was safely home. Never did pine trees seem so dear. How
sweet was their breath and their song, and how grandly they winnowed
the sky! I tingled my fingers among their tassels, and rustled my feet
among their brown needles and burrs, and was exhilarated and joyful
beyond all I can write.
When I reached Yosemite, all the rocks seemed talkative, and more
telling and lovable than ever. They are dear friends, and seemed to have
warm blood gushing through their granite flesh; and I love them with a
love intensified by long and close companionship. After I had bathed in
the bright river, sauntered over the meadows, conversed with the domes,
and played with the pines, I still felt blurred and weary, as if tainted in
some way with the sky of your streets. I determined, therefore, to run
out for a while to say my prayers in the higher mountain temples. "The
days are sunful," I said, "and, though now winter, no great danger need

be encountered, and no sudden storm will block my return, if I am
watchful."
The morning after this decision, I started up the canyon of Tenaya,
caring little about the quantity of bread I carried; for, I thought, a fast
and a storm and a difficult canyon were just the medicine I needed.
When I passed Mirror Lake, I scarcely noticed it, for I was absorbed in
the great Tissiack--her crown a mile away in the hushed azure; her
purple granite drapery flowing in soft and graceful folds down to my
feet, embroidered gloriously around with deep, shadowy forest. I have
gazed on Tissiack a thousand times--in days of solemn storms, and
when her form shone divine with the jewelry of winter, or was veiled in
living clouds; and I have heard her voice of winds, and snowy, tuneful
waters when floods were falling; yet never did her soul reveal itself
more impressively than now. I hung about her skirts, lingering timidly,
until the higher mountains and glaciers compelled me to push up the
canyon.
This canyon is accessible only to mountaineers, and I was anxious to
carry my barometer and clinometer through it, to obtain sections and
altitudes, so I chose it as the most attractive highway. After I had
passed the tall groves that stretch a mile above Mirror Lake, and
scrambled around the Tenaya Fall, which is just at the head of the lake
groves, I crept through the dense and spiny chaparral that plushes the
roots of the mountains here for miles in warm green, and was ascending
a precipitous rock front, smoothed by glacial action, when I suddenly
fell--for the first time since I touched foot to Sierra rocks. After several
somersaults, I became insensible from the shock, and when
consciousness returned I found myself wedged among short, stiff
bushes, trembling as if cold, not injured in the slightest.
Judging by the sun, I could not have been insensible very long;
probably not a minute, possibly an hour; and I could not remember
what made me fall, or where I had fallen from; but I saw that if I had
rolled a little further, my mountain climbing would have been finished,
for just beyond the bushes the canyon wall steepened and I might have
fallen to the bottom. "There," said I, addressing my feet, to whose
separate skill I had learned to trust night and day on any mountain,
"that is what you get by intercourse with stupid town stairs, and dead
pavements." I felt degraded and worthless. I had not yet reached the

most difficult portion of the canyon, but I determined to guide my
humbled body over the most nerve-trying places I could