C. F. GORDON-CUMMING
The valley can be approached from several different points. That by which we entered is, I think, known as Inspiration Point. When we started from Clarke’s Ranch, we were then at about the same level as we are at this moment—namely, 4,000 feet above the sea. The road gradually wound upwards through beautiful forest and by upland valleys, where the snow still lay pure and white: and here and there, where it had melted and exposed patches of dry earth, the red flame-like blossoms of the snow-plant gleamed vividly.
It was slow work toiling up those steep ascents, and it must have taken us much longer than our landlord had expected, for he had despatched us without a morsel of luncheon; and ere we reached the half-way house, where we were to change horses, we were all ravenous. A dozen hungry people, with appetites sharpened by the keen, exhilarating mountain air! No provisions of any sort were to be had; but the compassionate horse-keeper, hearing our pitiful complaints, produced a loaf and a pot of blackberry jelly, and we all sat down on a bank, and ate our “piece” (as the bairns in Scotland would say) with infinite relish, and drank from a clear stream close by. So we were satisfied with bread here in the wilderness. I confess to many qualms as to how that good fellow fared himself, as loaves cannot grow abundantly in those parts.
Once more we started on our toilsome way across mountain meadows and forest ridges, till at last we had gained a height of about 7,000 feet above the sea. Then suddenly we caught sight of the valley lying about 3,000 feet below us, an abrupt chasm in the great rolling expanse of billowy granite ridges—or I should rather describe it as a vast sunken pit, with perpendicular walls, and carpeted with a level meadow, through which flows a river gleaming like quicksilver.
Here and there a vertical cloud of spray on the face of the huge crags told where some snow-fed stream from the upper levels had found its way to the brink of the chasm—a perpendicular fall of from 2,000 to 3,000 feet.
The fall nearest to where we stood, yet a distance of seven miles, was pointed out as the Bridal Veil. It seemed a floating film of finest mist, on which played the loveliest rainbow lights. For the sun was already lowering behind us, though the light shown clear and bright on the cold white granite crags, and on the glittering snow-peaks of the high Sierras.
Each mighty precipice, and rock-needle, and strange granite dome was pointed out to us by name as we halted on the summit of the pass ere commencing the steep descent. The Bridal Veil falls over a granite crag near the entrance of the valley, which, on the opposite side, is guarded by a stupendous square-cut granite mass, projecting so far as seemingly to block the way. These form the gateway of this wonderful granite prison. Perhaps the great massive cliff rather suggests the idea of a huge keep wherein the genii of the valley braved the siege of the Ice-giants.
The Indians revere it as the great chief of the valley, but white men only know it as El Capitan. If it must have a new title, I think it should at least rank as a field-marshal in the rock-world, for assuredly no other crag exists that can compare with it. Just try to realize its dimensions: a massive face of smooth cream-coloured granite, half a mile long, half a mile wide, three-fifths of a mile high. Its actual height is 3,300 feet—(I think that 5,280 feet go to a mile). Think of our beautiful Castle Rock in Edinburgh, with its 434 feet; or Dover Castle, 469 feet; or even Arthur’s Seat, 822 feet,—what pigmies they would seem could some wizard transport them to the base of this grand crag, on whose surface not a blade of grass, not a fern or a lichen, finds holding ground, or presumes to tinge the bare, clean-cut precipice, which, strange to tell, is clearly visible from the great San Joaquin Valley, a distance of sixty miles!
Imagine a crag just the height of Snowdon, with a lovely snow-stream falling perpendicularly from its summit to its base, and a second and larger fall in the deep gorge where it meets the rock-wall of the valley. The first is nameless, and will vanish with the snows; but the second never dries up, even in summer. It is known to the Indians as Lung-oo-too-koo-ya, which describes its graceful length; but white men call it The Virgin’s Tears or The Ribbon Fall—a blending of millinery and romance doubtless devised by the same genius who changed the Indian name of Pohono to The Bridal Veil.
We passed close to the latter as we entered the valley—in fact, forded the stream just below the fall—and agreed that if Pohono be in truth, as the Indian legend tells, the spirit of an evil wind, it surely must be repentant glorified spirit, for nothing so beautiful could be evil. It is a sight to gladden the angels—a most ethereal fall, light as steam, swaying with every breath.