Читать книгу Oregon, the Picturesque. A Book of Rambles in the Oregon Country and in the Wilds of Northern California онлайн

33 страница из 44

“You can never see the color beauties of a lake at their best from a boat,” I declared. “We once had the opportunity of making the Great Glen trip by steamer and a year later of following these splendid Scotch lakes with our car; the effects of color and light which we saw on the latter trip were indescribably the more glorious.”

“Then let’s abandon the boat and hire a car for the return trip to the Tavern,”—a proposition to which all agreed. The car, a good one, was easily secured and we were soon away on what has been described as the most beautiful twenty-five mile drive in the world—a true claim so far as we know; the Columbia River Boulevard or Crater Lake road may rival it for scenic beauty, though these are perhaps too different for fair comparison.

The day was perfect, crystal clear except for a few white clouds drifting lazily across the sky or resting on the summits of the mountains beyond the lake; a day which our driver, an agreeable and intelligent young fellow, declared ideal for seeing Tahoe at its best. For a few miles out of Tallac we ran through a pine forest, catching fugitive glimpses of the blue water through the stately trunks. As we ascended the ridge overlooking Emerald Bay, exclamations of delight were frequent and enthusiastic as the magnificent panorama gradually unfolded to our view. The climax was reached when our driver paused at the summit of the ridge, where the whole of Tahoe spread out before us. Just beneath on one hand lay Emerald Bay; on the other gleamed Cascade Lake—a perfect gem in glorious setting of rock and tree. And the glory of color that greeted our eyes! Exaggerated in descriptions? No mortal language ever conveyed a tithe of its iridescent beauty and never will. One of the ladies exclaimed, “It is like a great black opal,” and knowing her passion for that gem, we recognized the sincerity of her tribute. And, indeed, the comparison was not inapt. There were the elusive, changeful greens and blues, the dark purples, and the strange, uncertain play of light and color that characterizes that mysterious gem. Near the shore line the greens predominated, reaching the deepest intensity in Emerald Bay, just below. Passing through many variations of color, the greens merged into the deep blues and farther out in the lake purple hues seemed to prevail. Along the opposite shore ran the rugged mountain range, the summits touched by cloud-masses which held forth the slightest threat of a summer shower—and, indeed, it came just before we reached the tavern. Overhead the sky was of the deepest azure and clear save for a few tiny white clouds mirrored in the gloriously tinted water. Altogether, the scene was a combination of transcendent color with a setting of rugged yet beautiful country that we have never seen equalled elsewhere and which we have no words to fittingly describe. Even the master artist fails here, since he can but express one mood of the lake—while it has a thousand every day. We have seen the Scotch, Italian and English lakes; we sailed the length of George and Champlain; we admired the mountain glories of Yellowstone Lake; we viewed Klamath and Crater Lakes from mountain heights, but none of them matched the wonderful color variations of Tahoe.