Almost directly
below them lay the wooded valley of Sycamore Flats, maplike, tiny. It
was just possible to make out the roofs of houses, like gray dots. Roads
showed as white filaments threading the irregular patches of green and
brown. From beneath flowed the wide oak and brush-clad foothills, rising
always with the apparent cup of the earth until almost at the height of
the eye the shimmering, dim plains substituted their brown for the dark
green of the hills. The country that yesterday had seemed mountainous,
full of canons, ridges and ranges, now showed gently undulating,
flattened, like a carpet spread before the feet of the Sierras. To the
north were tumbled, blue, pine-clad mountains as far as the eye could
see, receding into the dimness of great distance. At one point, but so
far away as to be distinguishable only by a slight effort of the
imagination, hovered like soap-bubbles against an ethereal sky the forms
of snow mountains. Welton pointed out the approximate position of
Yosemite.
They returned to camp where Welton showed the clean and painted little
house built for Bob and himself.
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