At length, after the temperature was somewhat mitigated on this memorable first of May, we arose and began to struggle homeward.  Our frozen trousers could scarcely be made to bend at the knee, and we waded the snow with difficulty.  The summit ridge was fortunately wind-swept and nearly bare, so we were not compelled to lift our feet high, and on reaching the long home slopes laden with loose snow we made rapid progress, sliding and shuffling and pitching headlong, our feebleness accelerating rather than diminishing our speed.  When we had descended some three thousand feet the sunshine warmed our backs and we began to revive.  At 10 a.m. we reached the timber and were safe.

Half an hour later we heard Sisson shouting down among the firs, coming with horses to take us to the hotel.  After breaking a trail through the snow as far as possible he had tied his animals and walked up.  We had been so long without food that we cared but little about eating, but we eagerly drank the coffee he prepared for us.  Our feet were frozen, and thawing them was painful, and had to be done very slowly by keeping them buried in soft snow for several hours, which avoided permanent damage.  Five thousand feet below the summit we found only three inches of new snow, and at the base of the mountain only a slight shower of rain had fallen, showing how local our storm had been, notwithstanding its terrific fury.  Our feet were wrapped in sacking, and we were soon mounted and on our way down into the thick sunshine—­“God’s Country,” as Sisson calls the Chaparral Zone.  In two hours’ ride the last snowbank was left behind.  Violets appeared along the edges of the trail, and the chaparral was coming into bloom, with young lilies and larkspurs about the open places in rich profusion.  How beautiful seemed the golden sunbeams streaming through the woods between the warm brown boles of the cedars and pines!  All my friends among the birds and plants seemed like old friends, and we felt like speaking to every one of them as we passed, as if we had been a long time away in some far, strange country.

In the afternoon we reached Strawberry Valley and fell asleep.  Next morning we seemed to have risen from the dead.  My bedroom was flooded with sunshine, and from the window I saw the great white Shasta cone clad in forests and clouds and bearing them loftily in the sky.  Everything seemed full and radiant with the freshness and beauty and enthusiasm of youth.  Sisson’s children came in with flowers and covered my bed, and the storm on the mountaintop banished like a dream.

V

Shasta Rambles and Modoc Memories