Excerpt from Yosemite as I Saw It

Hanging Basket. Another tree is called the Pitchfork, because of its growing in that shape. Then there is the Bologna Sausage tree, hanging full of short stubby limbs in sections, not unlike bologna sausage.

We are now rattling and rolling along, ominously near the edges of chasms, which grow deeper at every turn. The brain grows dizzy at an upward glance and the heart sinks, as the eyes are cast down, when at last we reach the summit. Our first experience in staging down the mountains, almost takes the breath away, until we become somewhat accustomed to the sweep and curve of the roads. As we near the valley, the scene is enhanced by a running stream, clear as crystal, showing the fish at the bottom, and here are hundreds of campers enjoying small fry and the mountain air. Shimmering through the trees is the dying sunlight, touching the leaves with silver and gold, and transforming the dusty road into a street of crimson light, as we wind in and out among the rocks and trees, beside the river, as it rushes onward to the sea.

We can imagine that the New Jerusalem lies not far away, as we revel in the changing light, and listen to the birds singing lullabys to the little ones in their keeping, as they rock them in the wind-swayed boughs, by the flickering light of the all mother's candle. The woods begin to darken with the lengthening shadows, as we near the floor of the valley, when Presto! Change! We sweep through the gates of the long mountain ranges, into the dazzling blaze of a sunset on the mountains. We spring to our feet and wave our hands, while we sing Hallelujah, as the doors of this heavenly city are thrown open to receive us. In the warmth and glow and grandeur of this new old scene, how the soul rejoices that I and my father are one. That the light flashing hitherward from the heavens is the same light that flashed thither ward from the misty eyes upturned to meet it; that the All hail of recognition is mutual. Immed iately before our enraptured vision, lies against the sky, the peaks of two lofty mountains. These with the space between them, form an undulation not unlike the great waves of the sea. Behind and through them, the sunlight plays, like smiles around the dimpled mouth of a child. A misty, hazy blue tinges the whole mountain range. It is darkness in the valley. Along these two majestic peaks the lines of gold dance like fireflies in the night, and just above them a sheet of gold spreads across the sky like an unbroken placid bosom of water. This melts away into the flame and fire of the upper sky. While over all hang somesnow white clouds, pink at the lower edges and silver lined above. Slowly this vivid picture fades into yel low crimson and green. Looking over yonder what do we see 'tis the blushing response of the clouds on the farther side of the valley. Across this awful chasm souls clasp hands. The law of affinity draws the sleepy clouds, these countless miles away into the embrace of their lover, the sun, for his good night kiss, which is manifested in the crimson impress he leaves upon their snowy faces. Like so many coy maidens, they seem to play hide and seek with the hills and the valley below.

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