You looked down the precipitous
rock-ribbed sides thousands of feet to the narrow, beautiful valleys,
made productive by the irrigation from many foaming waterfalls. We
circle the mountains many times before reaching the valleys, traveling
many hours to gain a straight-line mile.
These valleys are lovely to look down upon; but the fogs much of the
time hang over them like a pall, and catarrh and rheumatism render
life one of misery to many of the people.
[Illustration: Above the Clouds.]
CHAPTER XXIX.
AMONG THE CLOUDS.
In the following May, 1896, I took a sky-scraping journey to the great
states of Washington and Oregon. The climbing of Mt. Shasta and the
Siskyo range by train presented sublime views that no language can
even feebly describe. At the summits we were at least two miles in
the air higher than the dome of the Massachusetts State House. As
we climbed, I could see from the window of the palace car, the two
engines of our train puffing for all they were worth around the
curves, far ahead.
We looked down from the narrow rim of the railroad, thousands of feet
perpendicular upon foaming rivers dashing themselves into rainbows
and cataracts against the everlasting boulders in their courses.
Here cascades, miles in length, came rushing down the mountainsides,
shooting hundreds of feet into the air as they struck the giant rocks,
and at one place we stopped for half an hour to drink from the soda
springs pure, delicious soda water, huge geysers of it effervescing,
scintillating, silvery in the sunbeams, caught in a rocky basin from
which it is sent all over the world.
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