After forty miles of mountain climbing we reached the summit of the Rockies. At nine o’clock we were still in the mountains and the sun was still shining.
The smallest owl in the world has his home in these mountains. It is the Pigmy owl, but you must look sharply if you see him as he flits from limb to limb and hides in the dense foliage. The Rocky Mountain blue jay is not blue at all. His coat is a reddish brown, he sports a black-crested cap and has black bars on his wings like his Illinois brothers.
Flowers, ice, snow and mountain torrents spread out in one grand panorama. Fleecy white clouds not much larger than one’s hand float up and join larger ones at the summit of the peaks. There is no grander scene on earth than this range of snow-capped mountains spread out in mighty panorama, peak after peak and turret after turret glistening in the golden sunshine against skies as blue as those of Italy.
“Come up into the mountains—come up into the blue,
Oh, friend down in the valley, the way is clear for you;
The path is full of perils, and devious, but your feet
May safely thread its windings, and reach to my retreat.
The mountains, oh, the mountains! How all the ambient air
Bends like a benediction, and all the soul is prayer.
How blithely on this summit the echoing wind’s refrain