Mathematical Models and Methods for Real World Systems 1st Edition K.M. Furati
Mathematical Models and Methods for Real World Systems 1st Edition K.M. Furati
Mathematical Models and Methods for Real World Systems 1st Edition K.M. Furati
Mathematical Models and Methods for Real World Systems 1st Edition K.M. Furati
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56. stoicism of his race, but he went away alone into the wood,
returning at the dawn of day. When he returned Black Eagle was
dying.
RAPIDS, COLUMBIA RIVER.
57. Slowly the pale lids closed over the sunken eyes, a breath and the
brave lad had trusted his soul to the white man’s God.
The broken-hearted old chief sat the long night through by the
corpse of his son. When morning came he called the tribe together
and told them he wished to follow his last child to the grave, but he
wanted them to promise him that they would cease to war with the
white man and seek his friendship. At first many of the warriors
refused, but Umatilla had been a good chief, and always had given
them fine presents at the potlatches. Consulting among themselves
they finally consented. When the grave was ready, the braves laid
the body of Black Eagle to rest. Then said the old chief: “My heart is
in the grave with my son. Be always kind to the white man as you
have promised me, and bury us together. One last look into the
grave of him I loved and Umatilla too shall die.” The next instant the
gentle, kind hearted old chief dropped to the ground dead. Peace to
his ashes. They buried him as he had requested and a little later
sought the teacher’s friendship, asking him to guide them. That year
saw the end of the trouble between the Indians and the white race
at the Dalles.
The old chief still lives in the history of his country. Umatilla is a
familiar name in Dalles City. The principal hotel bears the name of
Umatilla.
On either side of the river farm houses, orchards and wheat fields
dot the landscape.
Salmon fishing is the great industry on the river. The wheels along
both sides of the river have been having a hard time of it this season
from the drift wood, the high water and the big sturgeon, which
sometimes get into the wheels. A big sturgeon got into a wheel
belonging to the Dodon Company and slipped into the bucket, but
was too large to be thrown out. It was carried around and around
until it was cut to pieces, badly damaging the wheel. Now the law
expressly states, as this is the close season for sturgeon, that when
caught they must be thrown back in the water. “But what is the use,”
inquires the Daily News, “if they are dead?”
58. FARM ON THE BANK OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER,
BELOW THE DALLES, OREGON.
A visit to a salmon cannery is full of interest. As the open season for
salmon is from April first to August first, the buildings though large
59. are mere sheds. The work is all done by Chinamen. The fish are
tossed onto the wharf, where they are seized by the men, who carry
them in and throw them on to long tables, chop off their heads,
dress them and hold them, one fish at a time, under a stream of
pure mountain water, which pours through a faucet over the long
sink. Next they are thrown onto another table, where other
Chinamen cut them up ready for the cans, all in much less time than
it takes to tell about it. The tin is shipped in the sheet to the
canneries and the cans are made on the ground.
Astoria, the Venus of America, is headquarters for the salmon fishing
on the Columbia River. Joaquin Miller described it as a town which
“clings helplessly to a humid hill side, that seems to want to glide
into the great bay-like river.” Much of it has long ago glided into the
river. Usually the salmon canneries are built on the shores, but down
here and on toward the sea, where the river is some seven miles
wide, they are built on piles in mid stream. Nets are used quite as
much as wheels in salmon fishing. Sometimes a hungry seal gets
into the nets, eating an entire “catch,” and playing havoc with the
net. Up toward the Dalles on the Washington side of the river, are
three springs. These springs have long been considered by the
Indians a veritable fountain of youth. Long before the coming of the
white man they carried their sick and aged to these springs, across
the “Bridge of the Gods.” Just above Dalles City lies the dalles which
obstruct navigation for twelve miles. Beyond this point the river is
navigable two hundred miles. Here, too, legends play an important
part.
When the volcanoes of the northwest were blazing forth their storm
of fire, ashes and lava, a tribe known as the Fire Fiends walked the
earth and held high revelry in this wild country. When Mount Rainier
had ceased to burn the Devil called the leaders of the tribe together
one day and proposed that they follow nature’s mood and live more
peaceably, and that they quit killing and eating each other. A howl
met this proposal. The Devil deemed it wise just at this moment to
move on, so off he set, a thousand Fire Fiends after him. Now his
majesty could easily whip a score of Fiends, but he was no match for
60. a thousand. He lashed his wondrous tail about and broke a great
chasm in the ground. Many of the Fiends fell in, but the greater part
leaped the rent and came on. A second time the ponderous tail
came down with such force that a large ravine was cracked out of
the rocks, the earth breaking away into an inland sea. The flood
engulfed the Fiends to a man. The bed of the sea is now a prairie
and the three strokes of the Devil’s tail are plainly visible in the bed
of the Columbia at the dalles.
Just across the river from Dalles City on a high bluff, stands a four
story building, the tower in the center running two stories higher.
The building stands out there alone, a monument to the enterprise
of one American. He called it a shoe factory, but no machinery was
ever put in position. After the pseudo shoe factory was completed
false fronts of other buildings were set up and the rugged bluffs laid
out in streets. An imaginary bridge spanned the broad river. Electric
lights, also imaginary, light up this imaginary city. The pictures which
this genius drew of his town showed street cars running on the
principal streets and a busy throng of people passing to and fro. As
to the shoe factory, it was turning out thousands of imaginary shoes
every day. Now this rogue, when all was ready, carried the maps and
cuts of his town to the east, where he sold the factory and any
number of lots at a high figure, making a fortune out of his paper
town.
From Dalles City across the country to Prineville in the Bunch Grass
country, a distance of a hundred miles, the country is principally
basalt, massive and columnar, presenting many interesting
geological features. Deep gorges separate the rolling hills which are
covered with a soil that produces bunch grass in abundance. This
same ground produces fine wheat and rye. This is a good sheep
country and wool is one of the principal products.
Crater Lake is haunted by witches and wizards. Ghosts, with seven
leagued boots, hold high revelry on its shores on moonlight nights,
catching any living thing that comes their way and tossing it into the
deep waters of the lake, where the water devils drag it under.
61. SCENE ON AN OREGON FARM IN THE WILLAMETTE
VALLEY.
We spent two delightful days on an Oregon farm near Hubbard,
thirty miles south of Portland.
62. We drove from Hubbard in the morning to Puddin river. The bridge
was being repaired, so we walked across, our man carrying our
traps. We had just passed Whisky hill when we met our friend Mr.
Kauffman and his daughter, driving down the road. We were warmly
welcomed and after an exchange of greetings we drove back with
them to their home, where we partook of such a dinner as only true
hospitality can offer.
Mr. Kauffman owns three hundred acres of fine farming land. There
is no better land anywhere on the Pacific coast than in this beautiful
valley of the Willamette river. Beautiful flowers and shrubs of all
sorts in fine contrast to the green lawn surround the house, which is
painted white, as Ruskin says all houses should be when set among
green trees. Near by is a spring of pure mountain water. In the
woods pasture beyond the spring pheasants fly up and away at your
approach. Tall ferns nod and sway in the wind, while giant firs
beautiful enough for the home of a hamadryad lend an enticing
shade at noontime.
If any part of an Oregon farm can be more interesting than another
it is the orchard, where apple, peach, plum, pear and cherry trees
vie with each other in producing perfect fruit. Grapes, too, reach
perfection in this delightful climate. One vine in Mr. Kauffman’s
vineyard measures eighteen inches in circumference. The dryhouse
where the prunes are dried for market is situated on the south side
of the orchard. No little care and skill is required to dry this fruit
properly.
Wednesday morning we reluctantly bade good-by to our kind
hostess and departed with Mr. Kauffman for Woodburn, where we
took the train for Portland. The drive of ten miles took us through a
fine farming district. Here farms may be seen in all stages of
advancement from the “slashing” process, which is the first step in
making a farm in this wooded country, to the perfect field of wheat,
rye, barley or hops.
Arriving at Woodburn we lunched at a tidy little restaurant. The train
came all too soon and we regretfully bade our host farewell.
63. The memory of that delightful visit will linger with us as long as life
shall last.
ROADWAY IN OREGON.
64. There are few regions in the West to-day where game is as
abundant as in times past. Yet there are a few spots where sport of
the old time sort may be had, and the lake district of Southern
Oregon is one of these. Here, deer and bear abound as in days of
yore, while grouse, squirrel, mallard duck and partridge are most
plentiful.
Fort Klamath lake is a beautiful sheet of water, sixty miles long by
thirty wide. Among the tules in the marshes the mallard is at home,
while grouse and nut brown partridge by the thousands glide
through the grass. Fish lake speaks for itself, while the very name,
Lake of the Woods, carries with it an enticing invitation to partake of
its hospitality and royal sport.
Travel is an educator. It gives one a broader view of life and one
soon comes to realize that this great world swinging in space is a
vast field where millions and millions of souls are traveling each his
own road, all doing different things, all good, all interesting.
In our journeyings we have met many interesting people, but none
more interesting than Miss McFarland, whom we met on our voyage
up the Columbia river. Miss McFarland was the first American child
born in Juneau, Alaska.
Her only playmates were Indian children. She speaks the language
like a native and was for years her father’s interpreter in his mission
work. She has lived the greater part of her life on the Hoonah
islands. The Hoonah Indians are the wealthiest Indians in America.
Having all become Christians they removed the last totem pole two
years ago.
Reminiscences of Miss McFarland’s childhood days among the
Indians of Alaska would make interesting reading.
The old people as well as the children attend the mission schools.
One day an old chief came in asking to be taught to read. He came
quite regularly until the close of the school for the summer vacation.
The opening of the school in the autumn saw the old man in his
place, but his eyes had failed. He could not see to read and was in
65. despair. Being advised to consult an optician he did so and
triumphantly returned with a pair of “white man’s eyes.”
Upon one occasion Miss McFarland’s mother gave a Christmas dinner
to the old people of her mission. It is a custom of the Indians to
carry away from the feast all of the food which has not been eaten.
One old man had forgotten his basket, but what matter, Indian
ingenuity came to his aid. Stepping outside the door he removed his
coat and taking off his dress shirt triumphantly presented it as a
substitute in which to carry home his share of the good things of the
feast.
These Indians believe that earthquakes are caused by an old man
who shakes the earth. Compare this with Norse Mythology. When
the gods had made the unfortunate Loke fast with strong cords, a
serpent was suspended over him in such a manner that the venom
fell into his face causing him to writhe and twist so violently that the
whole earth shook.
When Miss McFarland left her home in Hoonah last fall to attend
Mill’s college every Indian child in the neighborhood came to say
good-by. They brought all sorts of presents and with many tears
bade her a long farewell. “Edna go away?” “Ah! Oh! Me so sorry.”
“Edna no more come back?” “We no more happy now Edna gone,”
“No more happy, Oh! Oh!” “Edna no more come back.” “Oh, good-by,
Edna, good-by.”
Every Christmas brings Miss McFarland many tokens of affection
from her former playmates. Pin cushions, beaded slippers, baskets,
rugs, beaded portemonnaies. Always something made with their
own hands.
Miss McFarland’s name, through that of her parents, is indissolubly
connected with Indian advancement in Alaska.
One meets curious people, too, in traveling. In the parlor at the
hotel one evening a party of tourists were discussing the point of
extending their trip to Alaska. The yeas and nays were about equal
when up spoke a flashily dressed little woman, “Well,” said she,
66. “what is there to see when you get there?” That woman belongs to
the class with some of our fellow passengers, both men and women
who sat wrapped in furs and rugs from breakfast to luncheon and
from luncheon to dinner reading “A Woman’s Revenge,” “Blind Love,”
and “Maude Percy’s Secret,” perfectly oblivious to the grandest
scenery on the American Continent, scenery which every year
numbers of foreigners cross continents and seas to behold.
One of our fellow travelers is a German physician who is spending
the summer on the coast. He is deeply interested in the woman
question in America. He is quite sure that American women have too
much liberty. “Why,” said he, “they manage everything. They rule the
home, the children and their husbands, too. Why, madam, it is
outrageous. Now surely the man ought to be the head of the house
and manage the children and the wife too, she belongs to him,
doesn’t she?”
“Not in America,” we replied, “the men are too busy, and besides
they enjoy having their homes managed for them. Then, too, the
women are too independent.”
“That is just what I say, madam, they have too much liberty, they
are too independent. They go everywhere they like, do everything
they like and ask no man nothings at all.”
My German friend evidently thinks that unless this wholesale
independence of women is checked our country will go to
destruction. The war with Spain does not compare with it. I am
wondering yet if our critic’s wife is one of those independent
American women.
Just below Portland on the banks of the Willamette river and
connected with Portland by an electric street railway stands the first
capital of Oregon, Oregon City, the stronghold of the Hudson Bay
Company, which aided England in so nearly wrenching that vast
territory from the United States.
This quaint old town is rapidly taking on the marks of age. The
warehouse of that mighty fur company stands at the wharf, weather
67. beaten and silent. No busy throng of trappers, traders and Indians
awaken its echoes with barter and jest. No fur loaded canoe glides
down the river. No camp fire smoke curls up over the dark pine tops.
The Indian with his blanket, the trapper with his snares and the
trader with his wares have all disappeared before the march of a
newer civilization. The camp fire has given place to the chimney; the
blanket to the overcoat; the trader to the merchant and the game
preserves to fields of waving grain.
The lonely old warehouse looks down in dignified silence on the busy
scenes of a city full of American push and go.
All the forenoon the drowsy porter sat on his stool at the door of the
sleeper, ever and anon peering down the aisle or scanning the
features of the passengers.
What could be the cause of his anxiety? Was he a detective in
disguise? Had some one been robbed the night before? Had some
one forgotten to pay for services rendered? Had that handsome man
run away with the beautiful fair haired woman at his side? Visions of
the meeting with an irate father at the next station dawned on the
horizon.
The train whirled on and still the porter kept up his vigilance.
It was nearly noon when I stepped across to my own section and
picked up my shoes. The sleepy porter was wide awake now. His
face was a study. For one brief moment I was sure that he was a
detective and that he thought he had caught the rogue for whom he
was looking.
“Them your shoes, Madam?” said he approaching me.
“Yes.”
“Why, Madam, I’ve been waitin’ here all mornin’ for the owner to
come and get ’em.”
Ah, now I understood. He was responsible for the shoes and he
thought that they belonged to a man. Fifty cents passed into the
68. faithful black hands and my porter disappeared with just a hint of a
smile on his face.
69. CHAPTER XII
OFF FOR CALIFORNIA
We left Portland on the night train for San Francisco. I took my gull,
the Captain we called him, into the sleeper with me. He was asleep
when I placed his basket under my berth, but about midnight he
awoke and squawked frightfully.
I rang for the porter but before he arrived the Captain had
awakened nearly every one in the car. Angry voices were heard
inquiring what that “screeching, screaming thing,” was.
An old gentleman thrust his red night capped head out of his berth
next to mine and angrily demanded of me where that nasty beast
came from. When I politely told him he said he wished that I had
had the good sense to leave it there. Then he said something that
sounded dreadfully like swear words, but being such an old
gentleman I’ve no doubt that my ears deceived me.
At any rate it was something about sea gulls in general and my own
in particular. His red flannel cap disappeared and presently I heard
him snoring away up in G. Now my poor gull only squawked on low
C. After that the Captain traveled in the baggage car with the trunks
and packages.
Traveling south from Portland one passes farms and orchards until
the foot of the Sierra Nevada range is reached. Most of the farms
are well improved. Many of the orchards are bearing, while others
are young.
Here and there in the mountains are cattle ranches. These
mountains are not barren, rugged rocks like the Selkirks of Alaska.
Here there is plenty of pasture to the very summit of the mountains.
Wolf Creek valley is one vast hay field. Up we go until the far-famed
Rogue River valley is reached. This noble valley lying in the heart of
70. the Sierras reminds one of the great Mohawk valley of New York.
Ashland is the center of this prosperous district. The Southern State
Normal School is located here.
The seventh annual assembly of the Southern Oregon Chautauqua
will convene in Ashland in July. This assembly is always well
attended. Farmers bring their families and camp on the grounds. The
program contains the names of musicians prominent on the coast.
Among the lecturers are the names of men and women prominent in
their special fields. Frank Beard, the noted chalk talk lecturer, will be
present. So you see that the wild and woolly west is not here, but
has moved on to the Philippines.
When the passenger train stops at the station of Ashland a score of
young fruit venders swarm on the platform, crying plums, cherries,
peaches and raspberries at fifteen cents a box. When the train-bell
rings fruit suddenly falls to ten cents and when the conductor cries
“All aboard” fruit takes a downward plunge to five cents a box, but
the fruit is all so delicious that you do not feel in the least cheated in
having paid the first price. “Look here, you young rascal,” said a
newspaper man, who travels over the road frequently to one of the
young fruit dealers, “I bought raspberries of you yesterday at five
cents a box.” “O no you didn’t, mister, never sold raspberries at five
cents a box in my life sir, pon honor.” In less than three minutes this
young westerner was crying “Nice ripe raspberries here, five cents a
box.” “Why,” said I, “I thought you told the gentleman that you
never sold berries at five cents a box.” “No, Madam, I didn’t, pon
honor,” and the little rogue really looked innocent.
71. CLIMBING THE SHASTA RANGE.
Leaving Ashland with three big engines we climb steadily up four
thousand one hundred and thirty feet to the summit of the range.
72. The Rogue River valley spreads out below us in a grand panorama of
wheat, oats, barley fields and orchards. Down the southern slope the
commercial interest centers in large saw-mills and cattle ranches.
Off to the east lie the lava beds where Gen. Canby and his
companions were so treacherously assassinated by the Modoc
Indians under the leadership of Captain Jack and Scar Faced Charley.
Crossing the Klatmath River valley the dwelling place in early days of
the Klatmath Indians, the engines make merry music as they puff,
puff, puff in a sort of Rhunic rhyme to the whir of the wheels as they
groan and climb three thousand nine hundred feet to the summit of
the Shasta range. There is something wonderfully fascinating about
mountain climbing. Whether by rail over a route laid out by a skilled
engineer; on the back of a donkey over a trail just wide enough for
the feet of the little beast, or staff in hand you go slowly up over
rocks and bowlders, or around them, clinging to trees and shrubs for
support. The very fact that the train may without a moment’s notice
plunge through a trestle or go plowing its way down the mountain
side; the donkey lose his head and take a false step; the shrub break
or a bowlder come tearing down the rock-ribbed mountain and crush
your life out, thrills the blood and holds the mind enthralled as a bird
is held enchanted by the charm of the pitiless snake.
Throughout the mountains mistletoe, that mystic plant of the Druids,
hangs from the limbs and trunks of tall trees.
It was with an arrow made from mistletoe that Hoder slew the fair
Baldur.
All day long snow-covered Mt. Shasta has been in sight and toward
evening we pass near it on the southern side of the range and stop
at the Shasta Soda Springs. The principal spring is natural soda
water. This is the fashionable summer resort of San Francisco
people, who come here to get warm, the climate of that city being
so disagreeable during July and August that people are glad to leave
town for the more genial air of the mountains.
73. THE HIGHEST TRESTLE IN THE WORLD, NEAR MUIR’S
PEAK, SHASTA RANGE.
It certainly is odd to have people living in the heart of a great city
ask you during these two months if it is hot out in the country. “Out
74. in the country” means forty or fifty miles out, where there is plenty
of heat and sunshine. At Shasta Springs, however, the weather is
cooler. The climate is delightful, the water refreshing and the
strawberries beyond compare. Boteler, known as a lover of
strawberries, once said of his favorite fruit: “Doubtless God could
have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.”
Just beyond the springs stand the wonderful Castle Crags. Hidden in
the very depths of these lofty Crags lies a beautiful lake. This
strange old castle of solid granite, its towers and minarets casting
long shadows in the moonlight for centuries, is not without its
historic interest, though feudal baron nor chatelaine dainty ever
ruled over it. Joaquin Miller, in the “Battle of Castle Crag,” tells the
tale of its border history.
Not far away at the base of Battle Rock a bloody battle was once
fought between a few whites and the Shasta Indians on one side
and the Modoc Indians on the other.
MOUNT SHASTA.
By permission of F. Laroche, Photographer, Seattle,
Washington.
75. The Indians of California say that Mt. Shasta was the first part of the
earth created. Surely it is grand enough and beautiful enough to lay
claim to this pre-eminence. When the waters receded the earth
became green with vegetation and joyous with the song of birds, the
Great Manitou hollowed out Mt. Shasta for a wigwam. The smoke of
his lodge fires (Shasta is an extinct volcano) was often seen pouring
from the cone before the white man came.
Kmukamtchiksh is the evil spirit of the world. He punishes the
wicked by turning them into rocks on the mountain side or putting
them down into the fires of Shasta.
Many thousands of snows ago a terrible storm swept Mt. Shasta.
Fearing that his wigwam would be turned over, the Great Spirit sent
his youngest and fairest daughter to the crater at the top of the
mountain to speak to the storm and command it to cease lest it blow
the mountain away. She was told to make haste and not to put her
head out lest the Wind catch her in his powerful arms and carry her
away.
The beautiful daughter hastened to the summit of the peak, but
never having seen the ocean when it was lashed into a fury by the
storm wind, she thought to take just one peep, a fatal peep it
proved. The Wind caught her by her long red hair and dragged her
down the mountain side to the timber below.
At this time the grizzly bears held in fee all the surrounding country,
even down to the sea. In those magic days of long ago they walked
erect, talked like men and carried clubs with which to slay their
enemies.
At the time of the great storm a family of grizzlies was living in the
edge of the forest just below the snow line. When the father grizzly
returned one day from hunting he saw a strange little creature
sitting under a fir tree shivering with cold. The snow gleamed and
glowed where her beautiful hair trailed over it. He took her to his
wife who was very wise in the lore of the mountains. She knew who
the strange child was but she said nothing about it to old father
76. grizzly, but kept the little creature and reared her with her own
children.
When the oldest grizzly son had quite grown up his mother proposed
to him that he marry her foster daughter who had now grown to be
a beautiful woman.
Many deer were slain by the old father grizzly and his sons for the
marriage feast. All the grizzly families throughout the mountains
were bidden to the feast.
When the guests had eaten of the deer and drank of the wine
distilled from bear berries and elder berries in moonlight at the foot
of Mt. Shasta, when the feast was over, they all united and built for
their princess a magnificent wigwam near that of her father. This is
“Little Mt. Shasta.”
The children of this strange pair were a new race,—the first Indians.
Now, all this time the great spirit was ignorant of the fate of his
beloved daughter, but when the old mother grizzly came to die she
felt that she could not lie peacefully in her grave until she had
restored the princess to her father.
Inviting all the grizzlies in the forest to be present at the lodge of the
princess, she sent her oldest grandson wrapt in a great white cloud
to the summit of Mt. Shasta to tell the Great Spirit where his
daughter lived.
Now when the great Manitou heard this he was so happy he ran
down the mountain side so fast that the snow melted away under
his feet. To this day you can see his footprints in the lava among the
rocks on the side of the mountain.
The grizzlies by thousands met him and standing with clubs at
“attention” greeted him as he passed to the lodge of his daughter.
But when he saw the strange children and learned that this was a
new race he was angry and looked so savagely at the old mother
grizzly that she died instantly. The grizzlies now set up a dreadful
wail, but he ordered them to keep quiet and to get down on their
77. hands and knees and remain so until he should return. He never
returned, and to this day the poor doomed grizzlies go on all fours.
A wonderful feat of jugglery, but a greater was that of the Olympian
goddess who changed the beautiful maiden Callisto into a bear,
which Jupiter set in the heavens, and where she is to be seen every
night, beside her son the Little Bear.
The angry Manitou turned his strange grandchildren out of doors,
fastened the door and carried his daughter away to his own
wigwam.
The Indians to this day believe that a bear can talk if you will only sit
still and listen to him. The Indians will not harm a bear. Now for the
meaning of those queer little piles of stones one sees so frequently
in the Shasta mountains. If an Indian is killed by a bear he is burned
on the spot where he fell. Every Indian who passes that way will
fling a stone at the fated place to dispel the charm that hangs over
it.
“All that wide and savage water-shed of the Sacramento tributaries
to the south and west of Mt. Shasta affords good bear hunting at
almost any season of the year—if you care to take the risks. But he
is a velvet-footed fellow, and often when and where you expect
peace you will find a grizzly. Quite often when and where you think
that you are alone, just when you begin to be certain that there is
not a single grizzly bear in the mountains, when you begin to
breathe the musky perfume of Mother Nature as she shapes out the
twilight stars in her hair, and you start homeward, there stands your
long lost bear in your path! And your bear stands up! And your hair
stands up! And you wish you had not lost him! And you wish you
had not found him! And you start for home! And you go the other
way glad, glad to the heart if he does not come tearing after you.”[1]
Downward from Mt. Shasta flows the Sacramento river. For thirty
miles it goes tumbling over bowlders and granite ledges on its way
to the sea. In mid-summer the Sacramento cañon is a paradise of
umbrageous beauty, a region of forest and groves, of leafy shrubs,
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