As night approaches we get higher and higher up the far-famed
Rocky Mountains, and before dark reach the most elevated point, at
Sherman, eight thousand feet above tide. But our preconceived
notions of the Rocky Mountains, derived from pictures of Fremont _a
la_ Napoleon crossing the Alps, have received a rude shock; we only
climb high plains--not a tree, nor a peak, nor a ravine; when at the
top we are but on level ground--a brown prairie, "only this, and
nothing more."
* * * * *
TUESDAY, October 22.
Desolation! In the great desert! It extends southward to Mexico
and northward to British Columbia, and is five hundred miles in
width. Rivers traverse it only to lose themselves in its sands,
there being no known outlet for the waters of this vast basin.
What caverns must exist below capable of receiving them! and
whither do they finally go?
At the station we begin to meet a mixture of Chinese and
Indians--Shoshones, Piutes, and Winnemuccas. The Chinamen are at
work on the line, and appear to be very expert. At Ogden we get
some honey grapes--the sweetest I ever tasted. It is midnight
before we are out of the desert.
We are up early to see the Sierras. My first glimpse was of a
ravine resembling very much the Alleghany Gap below
Bennington--going to bed in a desert and awaking to such a view
was a delightful surprise indeed.
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