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Steep Trails-Part14_John Muir(1838-1914)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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culture out of sight and mind.

But in the very heart of this thornywilderness, down in the dells,



you may find gardens filled with the fairest flowers, that any child

would love, and unapproachable linns lined with lilies and ferns,



where the ousel builds its mossy hut and sings in chorus with the

white falling water. Bears, also, and panthers, wolves, wildcats;



wood rats, squirrels, foxes, snakes, and innumerable birds, all find

grateful homes here, adding wildness to wildness in glorious profusion



and variety.

Where the coast ranges and the Sierra Nevada come together we find a



very complicatedsystem of short ranges, the geology and topography of

which is yet hidden, and many years of laborious study must be given



for anything like a complete interpretation of them. The San Gabriel

is one or more of these ranges, forty or fifty miles long, and half as



broad, extending from the Cajon Pass on the east, to the Santa Monica

and Santa Susanna ranges on the west. San Antonio, the dominating



peak, rises towards the eastern extremity of the range to a height of

about six thousand feet, forming a sure landmark throughout the valley



and all the way down to the coast, without, however, possessing much

striking individuality. The whole range, seen from the plain, with



the hot sun beating upon its southern slopes, wears a terribly

forbidding aspect. There is nothing of the grandeur of snow, or



glaciers, or deep forests, to excitecuriosity or adventure; no trace

of gardens or waterfalls. From base to summit all seems gray, barren,



silent--dead, bleached bones of mountains, overgrown with scrubby

bushes, like gray moss. But all mountains are full of hidden beauty,



and the next day after my arrival at Pasadena I supplied myself with

bread and eagerly set out to give myself to their keeping.



On the first day of my excursion I went only as far as the mouth of

Eaton Canyon, because the heat was oppressive, and a pair of new shoes



were chafing my feet to such an extent that walking began to be

painful. While looking for a camping ground among the boulder beds of



the canyon, I came upon a strange, dark man of doubtful parentage. He

kindly invited me to camp with him, and led me to his little hut. All



my conjectures as to his nationality failed, and no wonder, since his

father was Irish and mother Spanish, a mixture not often met even in



California. He happened to be out of candles, so we sat in the dark

while he gave me a sketch of his life, which was exceedingly



picturesque. Then he showed me his plans for the future. He was

going to settle among these canyonboulders, and make money, and marry



a Spanish woman. People mine for irrigating water along the foothills

as for gold. He is now driving a prospecting tunnel into a spur of



the mountains back of his cabin. "My prospect is good," he said, "and

if I strike a strong flow, I shall soon be worth five or ten thousand



dollars. That flat out there, " he continued, referring to a small,

irregular patch of gravelly detritus that had been sorted out and



deposited by Eaton Creek during some flood season, "is large enough

for a nice orange grove, and, after watering my own trees, I can sell



water down the valley; and then the hillside back of the cabin will do

for vines, and I can keep bees, for the white sage and black sage up



the mountains is full of honey. You see, I've got a good thing." All

this prospective affluence in the sunken, boulder-choked flood-bed of



Eaton Creek! Most home-seekers would as soon think of settling on the

summit of San Antonio.



Half an hour's easy rambling up the canyon brought me to the foot of

"The Fall," famous throughout the valley settlements as the finest yet



discovered in the range. It is a charming little thing, with a voice

sweet as a songbird's, leaping some thirty-five or forty feet into a



round, mirror pool. The cliff back of it and on both sides is




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