There was no danger, the men who
managed the hand-car assured them; it was a couple of hours yet before the
next train came in; there was plenty of time to go three or four miles
down and return.
Anything more delicious than the early morning air in the Black Canyon it
would be difficult to imagine. Cool, odorous with pines and with the
breath of the mountains, it was like a zestful draught of iced summer.
Close beside the track ran a wondrous river which seemed made of melted
jewels, so curiously brilliant were its waters and mixed of so many hues.
Its course among the rocks was a flash of foaming rapids, broken here and
there by pools of exquisite blue-green, deepening into inky-violet under
the shadow of the cliffs. And such cliffs!--one, two, three thousand feet
high; not deep-colored like those about St. Helen's, but of steadfast
mountain hues and of magnificent forms,--buttresses and spires; crags
whose bases were lost in untrodden forests; needle-sharp pinnacles like
the Swiss Aiguilles. The morning was just making its way into the canyon;
and the loftier tops flashed with yellow sun, while the rest were still in
cold shadow.
Breakfast was just ready when the hand-car arrived again at the upper end
of the gorge, and loud were the reproaches which met the happy three as
they alighted from it. Phil was particularly afflicted.
"I call it mean not to wake a fellow," he said.
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