Little Rivers [20]
and then we had the mountain fairly before
us. Not that we could see anything of it, for the woods still shut
us in, but the path became very steep, and we knew that it was a
straight climb; not up and down and round about did this most
uncompromising trail proceed, but right up, in a direct line for
the summit.
Now this side of Ampersand is steeper than any Gothic roof I have
ever seen, and withal very much encumbered with rocks and ledges
and fallen trees. There were places where we had to haul ourselves
up by roots and branches, and places where we had to go down on our
hands and knees to crawl under logs. It was breathless work, but
not at all dangerous or difficult. Every step forward was also a
step upward; and as we stopped to rest for a moment, we could see
already glimpses of the lake below us. But at these I did not much
care to look, for I think it is a pity to spoil the surprise of a
grand view by taking little snatches of it beforehand. It is
better to keep one's face set to the mountain, and then, coming out
from the dark forest upon the very summit, feel the splendour of
the outlook flash upon one like a revelation.
The character of the woods through which we were now passing was
entirely different from those of the lower levels. On these steep
places the birch and maple will not grow, or at least they occur
but sparsely. The higher slopes and sharp ridges of the mountains
are always covered with soft-wood timber. Spruce and hemlock and
balsam strike their roots among the rocks, and find a hidden
nourishment. They stand close together; thickets of small trees
spring up among the large ones; from year to year the great trunks
are falling one across another, and the undergrowth is thickening
around them, until a spruce forest seems to be almost impassable.
The constant rain of needles and the crumbling of the fallen trees
form a rich, brown mould, into which the foot sinks noiselessly.
Wonderful beds of moss, many feet in thickness, and softer than
feathers, cover the rocks and roots. There are shadows never
broken by the sun, and dark, cool springs of icy water hidden away
in the crevices. You feel a sense of antiquity here which you can
never feel among the maples and birches. Longfellow was right when
he filled his forest primeval with "murmuring pines and hemlocks."
The higher one climbs, the darker and gloomier and more rugged the
vegetation becomes. The pine-trees soon cease to follow you; the
hemlocks disappear, and the balsams can go no farther. Only the
hardy spruce keeps on bravely, rough and stunted, with branches
matted together and pressed down flat by the weight of the winter's
snow, until finally, somewhere about the level of four thousand
feet above the sea, even this bold climber gives out, and the
weather-beaten rocks of the summit are clad only with mosses and
Alpine plants.
Thus it is with mountains, as perhaps with men, a mark of superior
dignity to be naturally bald.
Ampersand, falling short by a thousand feet of the needful height,
cannot claim this distinction. But what Nature has denied, human
labour has supplied. Under the direction of the Adirondack Survey,
some years ago, several acres of trees were cut from the summit;
and when we emerged, after the last sharp scramble, upon the very
crest of the mountain, we were not shut in by a dense thicket, but
stood upon a bare ridge of granite in the centre of a ragged
clearing.
I shut my eyes for a moment, drew a few long breaths of the
glorious breeze, and then looked out upon a wonder and a delight
beyond description.
A soft, dazzling splendour filled the air. Snowy banks and drifts
of cloud were floating slowly over a wide and wondrous land. Vast
sweeps of forest, shining waters, mountains near and far, the
deepest green and the palest blue, changing colours and glancing
lights, and all so silent, so strange,
us. Not that we could see anything of it, for the woods still shut
us in, but the path became very steep, and we knew that it was a
straight climb; not up and down and round about did this most
uncompromising trail proceed, but right up, in a direct line for
the summit.
Now this side of Ampersand is steeper than any Gothic roof I have
ever seen, and withal very much encumbered with rocks and ledges
and fallen trees. There were places where we had to haul ourselves
up by roots and branches, and places where we had to go down on our
hands and knees to crawl under logs. It was breathless work, but
not at all dangerous or difficult. Every step forward was also a
step upward; and as we stopped to rest for a moment, we could see
already glimpses of the lake below us. But at these I did not much
care to look, for I think it is a pity to spoil the surprise of a
grand view by taking little snatches of it beforehand. It is
better to keep one's face set to the mountain, and then, coming out
from the dark forest upon the very summit, feel the splendour of
the outlook flash upon one like a revelation.
The character of the woods through which we were now passing was
entirely different from those of the lower levels. On these steep
places the birch and maple will not grow, or at least they occur
but sparsely. The higher slopes and sharp ridges of the mountains
are always covered with soft-wood timber. Spruce and hemlock and
balsam strike their roots among the rocks, and find a hidden
nourishment. They stand close together; thickets of small trees
spring up among the large ones; from year to year the great trunks
are falling one across another, and the undergrowth is thickening
around them, until a spruce forest seems to be almost impassable.
The constant rain of needles and the crumbling of the fallen trees
form a rich, brown mould, into which the foot sinks noiselessly.
Wonderful beds of moss, many feet in thickness, and softer than
feathers, cover the rocks and roots. There are shadows never
broken by the sun, and dark, cool springs of icy water hidden away
in the crevices. You feel a sense of antiquity here which you can
never feel among the maples and birches. Longfellow was right when
he filled his forest primeval with "murmuring pines and hemlocks."
The higher one climbs, the darker and gloomier and more rugged the
vegetation becomes. The pine-trees soon cease to follow you; the
hemlocks disappear, and the balsams can go no farther. Only the
hardy spruce keeps on bravely, rough and stunted, with branches
matted together and pressed down flat by the weight of the winter's
snow, until finally, somewhere about the level of four thousand
feet above the sea, even this bold climber gives out, and the
weather-beaten rocks of the summit are clad only with mosses and
Alpine plants.
Thus it is with mountains, as perhaps with men, a mark of superior
dignity to be naturally bald.
Ampersand, falling short by a thousand feet of the needful height,
cannot claim this distinction. But what Nature has denied, human
labour has supplied. Under the direction of the Adirondack Survey,
some years ago, several acres of trees were cut from the summit;
and when we emerged, after the last sharp scramble, upon the very
crest of the mountain, we were not shut in by a dense thicket, but
stood upon a bare ridge of granite in the centre of a ragged
clearing.
I shut my eyes for a moment, drew a few long breaths of the
glorious breeze, and then looked out upon a wonder and a delight
beyond description.
A soft, dazzling splendour filled the air. Snowy banks and drifts
of cloud were floating slowly over a wide and wondrous land. Vast
sweeps of forest, shining waters, mountains near and far, the
deepest green and the palest blue, changing colours and glancing
lights, and all so silent, so strange,