By this tranquil water we
pitched our third camp, and when the rising sun began to shine through
the mighty cleft before us, the play of color and _chiaroscuro_ on its
rugged walls was something for which an artist apt to oversleep himself
might well have sat up all the night. No such precaution was needed by
ourselves. Painters, sages, and gentlemen at large, all turned out by
dawn; for the studies were grander, the grouse and quail plentier, and
the butterflies more gorgeous than we found in any other portion of the
Valley. After passing the great cleft eastward, I found the river more
enchanting at every step. I was obliged to penetrate in this direction
entirely on foot,--clambering between squared blocks of granite
dislodged from the wall beneath the North Dome, any one of which might
have been excavated into a commodious church, and discovering, for the
pains cost by a reconnoissance of five miles, some of the loveliest
shady stretches of singing water and some of the finest minor waterfalls
in our American scenery.
Our last camp was pitched among the crags and forests behind the South
Dome,--where the Middle Fork descends through two successive waterfalls,
which, in apparent breadth and volume, far surpass Cho-looke, while the
loftiest is nearly as high as Po-ho-no.
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