Canyons of the Colorado
I climb Mount Trumbull. On our way we pass the point that was the last opening to the volcano.
It seems but a few years since the last flood of fire swept the valley. Between two rough, conical hills it poured, and ran down the valley to the foot of a mountain standing almost at the lower end, then parted, and ran on either side of the mountain. This last overflow is very plainly marked; there is soil, with trees and grass, to the very edge
CAVE LAKE IN KANAB CANYON.
of it, on a more ancient bed. The flood was, everywhere on its border, from 10 to 20 feet in height, terminating abruptly and looking like a wall from below. On cooling, it shattered into fragments, but these are still in place and the outlines of streams and waves can be seen. So
THE RIO VIRGEN AND THE UINKARET MOUNTAINS.
little time has elapsed since it ran down that the elements have not weathered a soil, and there is scarcely any vegetation on it, but here and there a lichen is found. And yet, so long ago was it poured from the depths, that where ashes and cinders have collected in a few places, some huge cedars have grown. Near the crater the frozen waves of black basalt are rent with deep fissures, transverse to the direction, of the flow. Then we ride through a cedar forest up a long ascent, until we come to cliffs of columnar basalt. Here we tie our horses and prepare for a climb among the columns. Through crevices we work, till at last we are on the mountain, a thousand acres of pine laud spread out before us, gently rising to the other edge. There are two peaks on the mountain. We walk two miles to the foot of the one looking to be the highest, then a long, hard climb to its summit. What a view is before us! A vision of glory! Peaks of lava all around below us. The Vermilion Cliffs to the north, with their splendor of colors; the Pine Valley Mountains to the northwest, clothed in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the southwest, towering over canyons bottomless to my peering gaze, like chasms to nadir hell; and away beyond, the San Francisco Mountains, lifting their black heads into the heavens. We find our way down the mountain, reaching the trail made by the pack train just at dusk, and follow it through the dark until we see the camp fire—a welcome sight.
Two days more, and we are at Pipe Spring; one day, and we are at Kanab. Eight miles above the town is a canyon, on either side of which is a group of lakes. Four of these are in caves where the sun never shines. By the side of one of these I sit, at my feet the crystal waters, of which I may drink at will.