186

 

CROFUTT'S NEW OVERLAND TOURIST

 

can see, on every hand, the miner’s work.
Long flume beds, which carry off the
washed gravel and retain the gold; long
and large ditches full of ice-cold water,
which, directed by skillful hands, are fast
tearing down the mountains and sending
the washed debris to fill the river-beds in
the plains below. There are a set of
“pipes” busily playing against the
hillside, which often comes down in
acres. All is life, energy and activity.
We don’t see many children peeping out
of those cabins, for they are not so plentful
in the mining districts as in Salt Lake.
But we do see nearly all of the cabins sur-
rounded with little gardens and orchards,
which produce the finest of fruits.
Descending the mountain rapidly, amid
mining claims, by the side of large ditches,
through the deep gravel cuts, and along
the grassy hill-sides, until, on the left, a
glimpse of the North Fork of the Ameri-
can River can be had, foaming and dash-
ing along in a narrow gorge full 1,500
feet beneath us. Farther on we see the
North Fork of the North Fork, dashing
down the steep mountain at right angles
with the other, leaping from waterfall to
waterfall, its sparkling current resembling
an airy chain of danc-
ing sunbeams, as it has-
tens on to unite with
the main stream. Now
we lose sight of it, while
it passes through one of
those grand canyons on-
ly to be met with in these
mountains. :
C. H. Mills—a sta
tion where trains sel- |
dom stop, is 5.96 miles
from Gold Run. The j
passenger should be on [Rigas
the lookout, and look to |
the left—south—as the #f
scene changes withevery |
revolution of the wheels. §f
A few moments ago we §
left the canyon behind—
now, behold, it breaks &
on our view again, and
this timeright under us,
as it were, but much
farther down. It seems
as though wecould jump
from the platform into
the river, so close are we
to the brink of the preci-
Pice; steadily on goes

the long train, while far below us the wa-
ters dance along, the river looking like a
winding thread of silver laid in the bottom
of the chasm, 2,500 feet below us. This 1s
Cape Horn, one of the grandest scenes on

the American Continent, if not in the -

world. Timid ladies will draw back with
a shudder—one look into the awful chasm
being sufficient to unsettle their nerves,
and deprive them of the wish to linger
near the grandest scene on the whole line
of the trans-continental railroad.

Now look farther down the river and

behold that black speck spanning the sil- |

ver line. That is the turnpike bridge on
the road to Iowa Hill, though it looks no
larger than a foot plank. Now we turn
sharp around to our right, where the
towering masses of rock have been cut
down, affording a road-bed, where a few
years ago the savage could not make a
foot trail. Far above us they rear their
black crests, towering away, as it were,
to the clouds, their long shadows falling
far across the lovely little valley now ly-
ing on our left, and a thousand feet below
us still. We have lost sight of the river,

and are following the mountain side, look-
ing for a place to cross this valley and

 

ROUNDING CAPE HORN