There never was a more pleasing sight than their uneven profile sharply drawn against the grayish purple. Watch them as they gradually assume shape out of the decreasing shadows. The blotches of green and brown take form and grow into cañons and gullies, rocks and towers, domes and minarets. What a place to build a mosque, and say one's prayers to the rising sun!
Near the Greek Theater, which pushes its vast amphitheater into the heart of the hills, winds a cañon, not large and imposing, but very beautiful. It is called by some, after the policy of the University of California, through whose domain it runs, "Co-ed Cañon"; by others, from the abundance of charming blossoms and luscious fruit found upon its rugged sides, "Strawberry Cañon." But "What's in a name?" By any other it would be as pleasing.
Trees, gnarled and twisted, reach out their arms across the little brook that sings merrily at the bottom. Far into the hills it pushes its winding way, and one must needs scramble over many a fallen tree and mossy rock in following its beautiful path.
One cannot see very far ahead, but at each succeeding turn in the trail new wonders open before us. Here it is so narrow we are compelled to walk in single file, while just beyond it broadens out into a grassy slope, and through an open vista on the right we get a glimpse of Old Grizzly looming up in all its grandeur. To the left, far above us on the hillside, we can see a large cement "C" some thirty feet in length, placed there by the students of the university to commemorate hotly contested games of football between the two colleges. With what jealous care is it watched over on the eve of a battle to keep the contesting team from painting it with their college colors!
In this cañon we find that pest of nature-lovers who are susceptible to it, the poison oak. For all its sinister effects, it is a charming shrub so far as appearance goes, with its bright, glossy serrated leaves; but do not invite a too familiar acquaintance, for it is a shrub to be admired at a distance.
At a path that seems quite accessible we climb out of the cañon, and strike out across the hills. We stop for a moment's rest at a fence, and while we are filling our lungs with the crisp morning air we see where a spider has industriously spun his web during the night, from a stalk of ragweed to the fence corner. The dew has settled upon it and each silken thread stands out perfectly, shining in the morning sunshine like some old jewelry made of filagree silver. You little realize, you tiny spinner of silken fabrics, how easily your gauzy structure may be broken, and all your work come to naught; for on the fence a catbird, scolding incessantly, has one eye open for a stray titbit in the shape of a little weaver of webs, and you may help to make him an early breakfast.
The meadow larks are sending out their cheery "Spring o' the year" from fence rail and covert, a song most sweet and inspiring. A flock of blackbirds goes sailing past, and high overhead a killdee's plaintive cry echoes over the valley. From here we get a beautiful view of the bay and the Golden Gate, and in the far distance the dome of Mount Tamalpais rises above the clouds.
The ferryboats from Oakland, Berkeley, Alameda, and Sausalito are plying their ceaseless traffic from mole to mole. White-sailed ships from foreign countries, outward bound with the tide, conveyed by little bustling tugs, look like monster white-winged gulls; and somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bristling with deadly engines of war, strain at their cables. It is an inspiring sight, and, turning away with reluctance, we circle the hill to Cragmont Heights, stopping to rest on the rocky summit that overlooks the valley.