Farther up, or down, it is split into various channels by great masses of upheaved rock, and these miniature streams, after winding hither and thither through deep, dark, narrow fissures for perhaps one or two hundred yards, reunite to form this headlong mountain torrent. Viewing these scenes, one is forcibly reminded of the poet's words:
"How the giant element, From rock to rock, leaps with delirious bound."
Series of cascades, a quarter to half a mile long, are met with at frequent intervals, which rival in their beauty and magnificence those of the Columbia or the Upper Yellowstone. Whirlpools occur at the foot of some of these, in which the clear, bright green water boils, sparkles, and effervesces like vast reservoirs of champagne. The moanings and roarings emitted by this matchless stream in its mad career may be heard in places half a mile. At many points its banks rise almost perpendicularly to heights of 300, 400, or 500 feet. You may stand so nearly over the water that you can easily toss a large rock into it, and yet you are far above the tops of the massive firs and cedars that grow at the water's edge. Looking down from these heights you may see in the crystal fluid whole schools of the lordly salmon plowing their way up against the almost resistless fury of the current, leaping through the foam, striking with stunning force against hidden rocks, falling back half dead, and, drifting into some clear pool below, recovering strength to renew the hopeless assault.
The time will come when an easy roadway, and possibly an iron one, will be built up this grand cañon, and thousands of tourists will annually stand within its walls to gaze upon these magic pictures, absorbed in their grandeur and romantic beauty. Nor does the main stream afford the only objects of beauty and interest here. It is a diamond set in a cluster of diamonds, for many of the little brooks, already mentioned as coming down the mountain on either side, are only less attractive because smaller. Many of them tumble from the tops of rocky walls, and dance down among the branches of evergreen trees, sparkling like ribbons of silver in the rays of the noonday sun.
Theodore Roosevelt, in his excellent work, "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman;" says: "Thirst is largely a matter of habit." So it may be, but I am sadly addicted to the habit, and I found it one from which, on this trip, I was able to extract a great deal of comfort, for we crossed one or more of these little brooks every hour, and I rarely passed one without taking a copious draught of its icy fluid. The days, were moderately warm, and the hard labor we performed, walking and climbing, made these frequent opportunities to quench thirst one of the most pleasant features of the journey. I was frequently reminded of Cole's beautiful tribute to the mountain brook: