It was springtime in the California Sierra. Never were skies bluer,
never did the golden sun-flood steep the endless forest lands in
richer life-giving glory. Ridge after ridge the mountains swept on
and fell away upon one side until in the vague distances they sank
to the monotonous level of the Sacramento Valley; down there it was
already summer, and fields were hot and brown. Ridge after ridge
the mountains stretched on the other side, rising steadily, growing
ever more august and mighty and rocky; on their crests across the
blue gorges the snow was dazzling white and winter held stubbornly
on at altitudes of seven thousand feet. Thus winter, spring-time,
and ripe, fruit-dropping summer coexisted, touching fingers across
the seventy miles that lie between the icy top of the Sierra and
the burning lowlands. Here, in a region lifted a mile into the rare
atmosphere, was a ridge all naked boulder and spire along its
crest, its sides studded with pine and incense cedar. The afternoon
sunlight streaked the big bronze tree trunks, making bright gay
spots and patches of light, casting cool black shadows across the
open spaces where the brown dead needles lay in thick carpets.
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