the mountains(山脉)-第14部分
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walked with his father under a green roof of leaves that seemed farther
than the sky and as unbroken。 All of a sudden the man raised his gun and
fired upwards； apparently through the green roof。 A pause ensued。
Then； hurtling roughly through still that same green roof； a great bird fell；
hitting the earth with a thump。 The very little boy was I。 My trail must
have begun there under the bright green roof of leaves。
From that earliest moment the Trail unrolls behind you like a thread so
that never do you quite lose connection with your selves。 There is
something a little fearful to the imaginative in the insistence of it。 You
may camp； you may linger； but some time or another； sooner or later； you
must go on； and when you do； then once again the Trail takes up its
continuity without reference to the muddied place you have tramped out in
your indecision or indolence or obstinacy or necessity。 It would be
exceedingly curious to follow out in patience the chart of a man's going；
tracing the pattern of his steps with all its windings of nursery； playground；
boys afield； country； city； plain； forest； mountain； wilderness； home；
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always on and on into the higher country of responsibility until at the last
it leaves us at the summit of the Great Divide。 Such a pattern would
tell his story as surely as do the tracks of a partridge on the snow。
A certain magic inheres in the very name； or at least so it seems to me。
I should be interested to know whether others feel the same glamour that I
do in the contemplation of such syllables as the Lo…Lo Trail； the Tunemah
Trail； the Mono Trail； the Bright Angel Trail。 A certain elasticity of
application too leaves room for the more connotation。 A trail may be
almost anything。 There are wagon…trails which East would rank as
macadam roads； horse…trails that would compare favorably with our best
bridle…paths； foot…trails in the fur country worn by constant use as smooth
as so many garden…walks。 Then again there are other arrangements。 I
have heard a mule…driver overwhelmed with skeptical derision because he
claimed to have upset but six times in traversing a certain bit of trail not
over five miles long； in charts of the mountains are marked many trails
which are only 〃ways through；〃you will find few traces of predecessors；
the same can be said of trails in the great forests where even an Indian is
sometimes at fault。 〃Johnny； you're lost；〃 accused the white man。
〃Trail lost： Injun here；〃 denied the red man。 And so after your experience
has led you by the campfires of a thousand delights； and each of those
campfires is on the Trail； which only pauses courteously for your stay and
then leads on untiring into new mysteries forever and ever； you come to
love it as the donor of great joys。 You too become a Westerner； and
when somebody says 〃trail；〃 your eye too lights up。
The general impression of any particular trail is born rather of the little
incidents than of the big accidents。 The latter are exotic； and might
belong to any time or places； the former are individual。 For the Trail is a
vantage…ground； and from it； as your day's travel unrolls； you see many
things。 Nine tenths of your experience comes thus； for in the long
journeys the side excursions are few enough and unimportant enough
almost to merit classification with the accidents。 In time the character of
the Trail thus defines itself。
Most of all； naturally； the kind of country has to do with this
generalized impression。 Certain surprises； through trees； of vista looking
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out over unexpected spaces； little notches in the hills beyond which you
gain to a placid far country sleeping under a sun warmer than your
elevation permits； the delicious excitement of the moment when you
approach the very knife…edge of the summit and wonder what lies
beyond；these are the things you remember with a warm heart。 Your
saddle is a point of vantage。 By it you are elevated above the country；
from it you can see clearly。 Quail scuttle away to right and left； heads
ducked low； grouse boom solemnly on the rigid limbs of pines； deer
vanish through distant thickets to appear on yet more distant ridges； thence
to gaze curiously； their great ears forward； across the canon the bushes
sway violently with the passage of a cinnamon bear among them；you see
them all from your post of observation。 Your senses are always alert for
these things； you are always bending from your saddle to examine the
tracks and signs that continually offer themselves for your inspection
and interpretation。
Our trail of this summer led at a general high elevation； with
comparatively little climbing and comparatively easy traveling for days at
a time。 Then suddenly we would find ourselves on the brink of a great
box canon from three to seven thousand feet deep； several miles wide； and
utterly precipitous。 In the bottom of this canon would be good feed； fine
groves of trees； and a river of some size in which swam fish。 The trail to
the canon…bed was always bad； and generally dangerous。 In many
instances we found it bordered with the bones of horses that had failed。
The river had somehow to be forded。 We would camp a day or so in the
good feed and among the fine groves of trees； fish in the river； and then
address ourselves with much reluctance to the ascent of the other bad and
dangerous trail on the other side。 After that； in the natural course of
events； subject to variation； we could expect nice trails； the comfort of
easy travel； pines； cedars； redwoods； and joy of life until another great
cleft opened before us or another great mountain…pass barred our way。
This was the web and woof of our summer。 But through it ran the
patterns of fantastic delight such as the West alone can offer a man's utter
disbelief in them。 Some of these patterns stand out in memory with
peculiar distinctness。
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Below Farewell Gap is a wide canon with high walls of dark rock； and
down those walls run many streams of water。 They are white as snow
with the dash of their descent； but so distant that the eye cannot distinguish
their motion。 In the half light of dawn； with the yellow of sunrise behind
the mountains； they look like gauze streamers thrown out from the
windows of morning to celebrate the solemn pageant of the passing of
many hills。
Again； I know of a canon whose westerly wall is colored in the dull
rich colors； the fantastic patterns of a Moorish tapestry。 Umber； seal
brown； red； terra… cotta； orange； Nile green； emerald； purple； cobalt blue；
gray； lilac； and many other colors； all rich with the depth of satin； glow
wonderful as the craftiest textures。 Only here the fabric is five miles long
and half a mile wide。
There is no use in telling of these things。 They； and many others of
their like； are marvels； and exist； but you cannot tell about them； for the
simple reason that the average reader concludes at once you must be
exaggerating； must be carried away by the swing of words。 The cold
sober truth is； you cannot exaggerate。 They haven't made the words。
Talk as extravagantly as you wish to one who will in the most childlike
manner believe every syllable you utter。 Then take him into the Big
Country。 He will probably say； 〃Why； you didn't tell me it was going to
be anything like THIS！〃 We in the East have no standards of comparison
either as regards size or as regards colorespecially color。 Some people
once directed me to 〃The Gorge〃 on the New England coast。 I couldn't
find it。 They led me to it； and rhapsodized over its magnificent terror。 I
could have ridden a horse into the ridiculous thing。 As for color； no
Easterner believes in it when such men as Lungren or Parrish transposit it
faithfully； any more than a Westerner would believe in the autumn foliage
of our own hardwoods； or an Englishman in the glories of our gaudiest
sunsets。 They are all true。
In the mountains； the high mountains above the seven or eight
thousand foot level； grows an affair called the
