Amid this icy wilderness our attention was centered on the great white mass of Jumbo, a peak, or rather group of peaks, on whose conquest we had likewise set our hearts. But the story of the Jumbo climb must still remain unwritten, for the latter part of our journey was largely a record of storms, delays, and disappointment in the end. The day after our triumphant climb we shifted camp to another base, but were no sooner settled than rain overtook us. On September 7th, after several storm-bound days, we attempted Jumbo and were within sight of its summit when a storm broke upon us and drove us down. The snow, a gentle descent at first, light as thistle-down, was soon a sleety mass driven against us by the rising wind until cheeks and ears tingled, eyes were blinded, and our clothing was coated with ice. We made record time down over the glacier, fearing that if snow once obliterated our tracks we might experience dangerous delays in groping our way among the network of open and blind crevasses, among which we had so slowly made our upward way. We were barely off the upper fields when a magnificent thunderstorm broke, whose tremendous reverberations among the lofty peaks above us did much to reconcile us to our inglorious but safe return. These days of storm that brought our mountaineering summer to a close had, after all, their own inimitable charm-the sifting of new-fallen snow on the dark ledges of the Farnham Group; the low-lying clouds that drifted across their cliffs; the marvelous storm-clouds that were gathered on Jumbo, and rent apart, and sent by the wind flying upward across its icy face; the glorious wealth of color that the frost painted on the aspens and dwarf birches, even upon the epilobium leaves, making the plants bloom again as in a second spring. And how glorious were our campfires, their sparks flying high aloft in the stormy darkness, and how warm and ruddy the firelight shone on faces grown so familiar and dear in these happy days of trail and camp. But, even though it matters so little in the after days whether the summit be lost or won, we followed the trail homeward through the autumnal splendor with the sense of defeat strong upon us; happily so, perhaps, for all the more urgently are we compelled to return to this glorious mountain country and try again. WITH THE SIERRA CLUB IN 1914 BY BERTHA GORHAM POPE The Sierra Club trip of 1914 really began, as always, with that first vivid moment when one has made the irrevocable decision and knows for sure that he is actually to be numbered, for the first or the twentieth time, in that goodly fellowship up among the great glorious wastes of the California mountains. It is from that moment that one travels: hits the trail of the ideal at dawn with an airy ease -somewhat unlike that in real life, be it said-looks off across a world from rocky peaks, meets rare friends in strange guise and parts from them again, eats the simple savory food of the gods and knows their fellowship, and at night lies down in Arcadian simplicity with only a sleeping bag and a friendly slender bush between him and all the world around. Not always is the fancy of the prospective Sierran thus employed. He can be practical. He discusses shoes, down blankets versus wool, and makes lists illimitable for thirty pounds of baggage. During all this time of dreaming and of preparation, the affairs of the classroom or the office are regarded as but impertinent interruptions to the real business of life. After such a period, and it is by no means the least happy part of one of the happiest experiences in life, we found ourselves at last, after a night in the Pullman, tearing along a somewhat crooked track above the foaming Merced river on our way to El Portal of the Yosemite. There had been a wreck a few days before, and our morning was piquant with expectation of seeing the overturned coaches below us at the river's edge, and we finally saw them. Some of our women (the night before) had so anticipated even more than a spectacle that they went to bed in stout Sierra boots and skirts-just as if one did not more closely approximate angelic styles in the usual garb of night! El Portal was hot. After taking luncheon in the hotel, we packed our civic dress away in suit cases, wondering what it would look like after a month of such confinement, and packed ourselves into automobile busses for the seventeenmile journey along the cliff and through the forests to Yosemite village and our camp beyond. It continued to be hot. The leather on the back of the seats was too heated to be touched by bare hands. But the world was beautiful. Below us, over its rocks, with fierce impetuosity, foamed the Merced river, which we were to see through much of our adventuring in so many moods and guises, even then still eloquent of the wild loveliness of Bridal Veil, the stormy power of Nevada, the crash of mountain cataract, and the cold purity of the melting snow of its earlier courses. Then came shady forests, and icy springs from which to drink, and at last the vision of El Capitan, Bridal Veil, and Yosemite Falls, all as overwhelmingly beautiful to those who see them for the first time as if they had never been the theme of countless descriptions and picture postals; as freshly marvelous to those who view them the hundredth time as at first. Our Sierra Club Camp was on the north bank of the river, wide here and smooth of surface, green, swirling, and swift. A great flag showed gorgeous above it, stretched from the Commissary to the opposite shore. Gay Japanese lanterns swung among the trees. Here day succeeded day, and daily the party grew larger. The active prepared for the "high trip" by climbs to Glacier Point, North Dome, Eagle Peak, and Clouds' Rest; and the less active prepared, too, by walking as far as Happy Isles and by sleeping on the ground at night. Ornithological wonders abounded in our midst. A Sierra hermit thrush so far forgot her name as to live among a group of five Sierrans, placidly brooding her eggs over the bed of one. A baby black-headed grosbeak regularly hopped into another camp group for a matutinal ration of cheese. A humming bird came along on came along on another day and, spying a bright bandana handkerchief scattered with triple sprigs of red and black flowers, darted hopefully toward it. Into each flower of each sprig he industriously |