This last overflow is very
plainly marked; there is soil, with trees and grass, to the very edge
of it, on a more ancient bed. The flood was, everywhere on its border,
from 10 to 20 feet in height, terminating abruptly and looking like a
wall from below. On cooling, it shattered into fragments, but these are
still in place and the outlines of streams and waves can be seen. So
little time has elapsed since it ran down that the elements have not
weathered a soil, and there is scarcely any vegetation on it, but here
and there a lichen is found. And yet, so long ago was it poured from the
depths, that where ashes and cinders have collected in a few places,
some huge cedars have grown. Xear the crater the frozen waves of black
basalt are rent with deep fissures, transverse to the direction, of the
flow. Then we ride through a cedar forest up a long ascent, until we
come to cliffs of columnar basalt. Here we tie our horses and prepare
for a climb among the columns. Through crevices we work, till at last we
are on the mountain, a thousand acres of pine laud spread out before us,
gently rising to the other edge. There are two peaks on the mountain. We
walk two miles to the foot of the one looking to be the highest, then a
long, hard climb to its summit. What a view is before us! A vision of
glory! Peaks of lava all around below us. The Vermilion Cliffs to the
north, with their splendor of colors; the Pine Valley Mountains to the
northwest, clothed in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the
southwest, towering over canyons bottomless to my peering gaze, like
chasms to nadir hell; and away beyond, the San Francisco Mountains,
lifting their black heads into the heavens.
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