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yons, of which Yosemite is the most beautiful
and most widely visited, are thought
to be the result of violent earth cataclysms
and subsequent erosion by ice and
water. Sheer walls of granite thousands
of feet high, that have been smoothed and
polished by mighty rivers of ice, cannot
help but impress one with the tremendous
dynamic forces of nature.
Continuing up through the foot-hills,
the grass beside the road gradually becomes
greener and flowing streams replace
dry creek-beds. Tall, stately pines and
sequoias begin to appear, and an exuberant
vegetation supplants the dry, sparse
growth of the lower country. For a distance
of five or six miles the road follows
along the top of a ridge fifteen hundred
feet above the North Fork of the Tuolumne
River, finally climbing over the
divide and dropping down on the other
side to the South Fork of the Stanislaus.
This river is crossed at a small mountain
settlement named Strawberry, and from
this point there is a stiff climb to the top
of the next ridge; but the view from the
summit looking down two thousand feet
into a deep granite gorge, with a tumbling
stream at the bottom, well repays the
effort of ascent. There is now a restful
glide of three or four miles down to the
Middle Fork of the Stanislaus, which is
crossed at Brightman's Flat and whose
banks are closely followed to one of those
beautiful mountain garden spots known
in this case as Kennedy's Meadows.
This point is six thousand two hundred
feet above sea-level and marks the beginning
of the last climb to the summit of the
pass. The grade rises very steeply and at
the end of the first mile the river has been
left almost a thousand feet below. The
steepest pitch is, by measurement, twentyseven
per cent at a point called the "Qde-Porka."
This place is a narrow defile
through the solid rock, a hundred feet in
length, forty feet deep, and just wide
enough to allow a machine to pass. With
an underpowered machine '' Q-de-Porka''
would present serious difficulties.
The scenery now becomes more rugged;
the large trees begin to disappear and are
replaced by gnarled and twisted specimens
entirely lacking in the symmetry and rich
foliage of their lower neighbors. The road
leads steadily upward, and as one gazes at
Motoring in the High Sierras 211
the serrated outline of the peaks towering
above, it seems as though the road could
go no farther and that it must momentarily
come to an abrupt end against a
granite wall. Just as this is about to happen,
however, a narrow canyon opens up
on one side and a steep rise half a mile in
length brings the summit into view. The
motorist is now above perpetual snow-line,
and if it is early in the season snow-drifts
may block the way. By the first or middle
of July, however, the road has usually
been opened to ordinary travel by the
California State Highway Commission
and may be relied upon as being in passable
condition. A glorious run on high
gear through beautiful alpine meadows,
covered with succulent grass and spring
wild flowers, brings one to the foot of the
last ascent, which is rather abrupt but fortunately
only a few hundred feet in length.
On all sides rugged granite peaks rise into
the impenetrable vault of hollow space
above, and the silence and desolation of
this inferno of rock and ice are broken only
by the hum of the motor. As the last rise
is surmounted at good speed on second
gear, both hand and foot brakes are suddenly
applied and the startled passenger
in the tonneau is brought to his feet by the
yawning chasm in front. The summit has
been gained and the crest is so narrow that
the water from the overflow of the grumbling
radiator trickles away to the east
while the rear wheels are still resting on
the western slope. The scene that falls
away under the traveller's feet is almost
terrifying in its aspect and gives one the
familiar sensation experienced in a rapidly
descending elevator. The words of that
genial and beloved mountaineer Clarence
King are recalled and describe the view
with the fidelity of the genius he possessed:
"East the whole range fell in sharp, hurrying
abruptness to the desert, where, ten
thousand feet below, lay a vast expanse
of arid plain intersected by low parallel
ranges traced from north to south. Upon
the one side a thousand sculptures of
stone, hard, sharp, shattered by cold into
infiniteness of fractures and rift, springing
up, mutely severe, into the dark, austere
blue of heaven; scarred and marked, except
where snow and ice, spiked down by
ragged granite bolts, shields with its pale
armor these rough mountain shoulders,