The great fern
leaves were sear and ragged, and they rustled in the breeze. Small gray
sheath-barked trees with clumpy foliage and snags of dead branches, Glenn
called cedars; and, grotesque as these were, Carley rather liked them. They
were approachable, not majestic and lofty like the pines, and they smelled
sweetly wild, and best of all they afforded some protection from the bitter
wind. Carley rested better than she walked. The huge sections of red rock
that had tumbled from above also interested Carley, especially when the sun
happened to come out for a few moments and brought out their color. She
enjoyed walking on the fallen pines, with Glenn below, keeping pace with
her and holding her hand. Carley looked in vain for flowers and birds. The
only living things she saw were rainbow trout that Glenn pointed out to her
in the beautiful clear pools. The way the great gray bowlders trooped down
to the brook as if they were cattle going to drink; the dark caverns under
the shelving cliffs, where the water murmured with such hollow mockery; the
low spear-pointed gray plants, resembling century plants, and which Glenn
called mescal cactus, each with its single straight dead stalk standing on
high with fluted head; the narrow gorges, perpendicularly walled in red,
where the constricted brook plunged in amber and white cascades over fall
after fall, tumbling, rushing, singing its water melody--these all held
singular appeal for Carley as aspects of the wild land, fascinating for the
moment, symbolic of the lonely red man and his forbears, and by their raw
contrast making more necessary and desirable and elevating the comforts and
conventions of civilization.
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