Chapter 7 ~ Page 99
Approaching Mammoth Lakes Ski Area we began to climb. The country still was dry, but a higher altitude made for cooler days, and easier breathing. I have never been able to understand the phenomenon of altitude sickness that affects some lowlanders. I have always felt "bouncier" when the atmosphere is less dense. Jubilant, in fact, when it meant camping at a creek loaded with fish, surrounded by knee high grass.
Out came my harmonica again. This time the desert—I hoped really and truly—possibly—was behind. Nothing but mountains ahead. There was a grove of willows not far from our tents, that had been carved with names and dates going back as far as 1900. I am not a name-leaver-behinder, or carver, but that night I sharpened my knife to inscribe a few words by Theodore S. Solomons: "Behold the horizon of high enchantment!"
Out came my harmonica again. This time the desert—I hoped really and truly—possibly—was behind. Nothing but mountains ahead. There was a grove of willows not far from our tents, that had been carved with names and dates going back as far as 1900. I am not a name-leaver-behinder, or carver, but that night I sharpened my knife to inscribe a few words by Theodore S. Solomons: "Behold the horizon of high enchantment!"
|
|
|
Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia