Hetch-Hetchy Valley is about half as large as Yosemite and almost as beautiful. Early in the season the mosquitoes make life miserable, but as late as August the swampy land is pretty well dried up and they are few. The Tuolumne tumbles in less effectively than the Merced enters Yosemite. Instead of two falls of nine hundred feet, there is one of twenty or so. The Wampana, corresponding to the Yosemite Falls, is not so high nor so picturesque, but is more industrious, and apparently takes no vacation. Kolana is a noble knob, but not quite so imposing as Sentinel Rock.
We camped in the valley two days and found it very delightful. The dam-site is not surpassed. Nowhere in the world, it is said, can so large a body of water be impounded so securely at so small an expense.
There is an admirable camping-ground within easy distance of the valley, and engineers say that at small expense a good trail, and even a wagon-road, can be built along the face of the north wall, making possible a fine view of the magnificent lake.
With the argument for granting the right the city seeks I am not here concerned. The only purpose in view is the casual recital of a good time. It has to do with a delightful sojourn in good company, with songs around the camp-fire, trips up and down the valley, the taking of photographs, the appreciation of brook-trout, the towering mountains, the moon and stars that looked down on eyes facing direct from welcome beds. Mention might be made of the discovery of characters—types of mountain guides who prove to be scholars and philosophers; of mules, like "Flapjack," of literary fame; of close intercourse with men at their best; of excellent appetites satisfactorily met; of genial sun and of water so alluring as to compel intemperance in its use.
The climbing of the south wall in the early morning, the noonday stop at Hog Ranch, and the touching farewell to mounts and pack-train, the exhilarating ride to Crocker's, and the varied attractions of that fascinating resort, must be unsung. A night of mingled pleasure and rest with every want luxuriously supplied, a half-day of good coaching, and once more Yosemite—the wonder of the West.
Its charms need no rehearsing. They not only never fade, but they grow with familiarity. The delight of standing on the summit of Sentinel Dome, conscious that your own good muscles have lifted you over four thousand feet from the valley's floor, with such a world spread before you; the indescribable beauty of a sunrise at Glacier Point, the beauty and majesty of Vernal and Nevada falls, the knightly crest of the Half Dome, and the imposing grandeur of the great Capitan—what words can even hint their varied glory!
All this packed into a week, and one comes back strengthened in body and spirit, with a renewed conviction of the beauty of the world, and a freshened readiness to lend a hand in holding human nature up to a standard that shall not shame the older sister.
A DAY IN CONCORD
There are many lovely spots in New England when June is doing her best. Rolling hills dotted with graceful elms, meadows fresh with the greenest of grass, streams of water winding through the peaceful stretches, robins hopping in friendly confidence, distant hills blue against the horizon, soft clouds floating in the sky, air laden with the odor of lilacs and vibrant with songs of birds. There are many other spots of great historic interest, beautiful or not—it doesn't matter much—where memorable meetings have been held which set in motion events that changed the course of history, or where battles have been fought that no American can forget. There are still other places rich with human interest where some man of renown has lived and died—some man who has made his undying mark in letters, or has been a source of inspiration through his calm philosophy. But if one would stand upon the particular spot which can claim supremacy in each of these three respects, where can he go but to Concord, Massachusetts!
It would be hard to find a lovelier view anywhere in the gentle East than is to be gained from the Reservoir Height—a beautifully broken landscape, hill and dale, woodland, distant trees, two converging streams embracing and flowing in a quiet, decorous union beneath the historic bridge, comfortable homes, many of them too simple and dignified to be suspected of being modern, a cluster of steeples rising above the elms in the center of the town, pastures and plowed fields, well-fed Jerseys resting under the oaks, an occasional canoe floating on the gentle stream, genuine old New England homes, painted white, with green blinds, generous wood-piles near at hand, comfortable barns, and blossoming orchards, now and then a luxurious house, showing the architect's effort to preserve the harmonious—all of these and more, to form a scene of pastoral beauty and with nothing to mar the picture—no uncompromising factories, no blocks of flats, no elevated roads, no glaring signs of Cuban cheroots or Peruna bitters. It is simply an ideal exhibit of all that is most beautiful and attractive in New England scenery and life, and its charm is very great.