There is no sleeping late in the morning when one sleeps in the open,
under the stars. After breakfast, the artist received another lesson in
packing, and they moved on toward the world that already seemed to dwarf
that other world which they had left, by one day's walking, so far below.
A heavy fog, rolling in from the ocean in the night, submerged the valley
in its dull, gray depths--leaving to the eye no view but the view of the
mountains before them, and forcing upon the artist's mind the weird
impression that the life he had always known was a fantastically unreal
dream.
And now,--as they approached,--the frowning entrance of Clear Creek Canyon
grew more and more clearly defined. The higher peaks appeared to draw back
and hide themselves behind the foothills, which--as the men came closer
under their immediate slopes and walls--seemed to grow magically in height
and bulk. A little before noon, they were in the rocky vestibule of the
canyon. On either hand, the walls rose almost sheer, while their road,
now, was but a narrow shelf under the overhanging cliffs, below which the
white waters of the stream--cold from the snows so far above--tumbled
impetuously over the boulders that obstructed their way--filling the
hall-like gorge with tumultuous melody.
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