Burney Falls Loop Trail

Burney Falls is considered one of the most spectacular waterfalls in the state of California. It is located in the Cascade mountains, forty miles north of Lassen Volcanic National Park.  The falls are given their longevity by the release of meltwater from porus volcanic rock from the surrounding mountains.

McArthur-Burney Falls

The Waterfall

I do not ask for youth, nor for delay

in the rising of time's irreversible river

that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall

in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,

all that I have and all I am always losing

as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.

I do not dream that you, young again,

might come to me darkly in love's green darkness

where the dust of the bracken spices the air

moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness

and water holds our reflections

motionless, as if for ever.

It is enough now to come into a room

and find the kindness we have for each other

-- calling it love -- in eyes that are shrewd

but trustful still, face chastened by years

of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons

in mild conversation, without nostalgia.

But when you leave me, with your jauntiness

sinewed by resolution more than strength

-- suddenly then I love you with a quick

intensity, remembering that water,

however luminous and grand, falls fast

and only once to the dark pool below.                         

By Lauris Dorothy Edmond (1924 - 2000)

New Zealand Poet & Writer

Yosemite Thru a Photographer's Eye

 

Bridalveil Fall

  

Bridalveil Fall is located in Yosemite National Park.  Ansel Adams is my favorite nature photographer.  He took a picture of Bridalveil Fall in 1927 when there was no drought that California has been experiencing in the last few years and no tourist.  Now days, water levels are low and many rivers and lakes are dried.  Here is a link to his gallery http://anseladams.com

Ring of Fire Lassen Peak

Before the 1980 eruption of Mount Saint Helens in Washington, Lassen Peak was the most recent volcanic outburst in the contiguous 48 states. The peak is the southernmost volcano in the Cascade Range, which extends from here into Canada. Lassen Peak is but one of the active, dormant, or extinct volcanoes that extend around the Pacific Ocean in a great "Ring of Fire".

Deep Blue Waters

Crater Laker has a depth of 1,943 feet (592 meters) which makes it the deepest lake in the United States, and the ninth deepest in the world. The color of the lake is a stunning blue and considered one of the most pristine lakes on earth.  Fortunately, it was a clear day and the lake colors were vibrant!

The path to Arcady

The Forest Path

Oh, the charm of idle dreaming
Where the dappled shadows dance,
All the leafy aisles are teeming
With the lure of old romance!

Down into the forest dipping,
Deep and deeper as we go,
One might fancy dryads slipping
Where the white-stemmed birches grow.

Lurking gnome and freakish fairy
In the fern may peep and hide . . .
Sure their whispers low and airy
Ring us in on every side!

Saw you where the pines are rocking
Nymph's white shoulder as she ran?
Lo, that music faint and mocking,
Is it not a pipe of Pan?

Hear you that elusive laughter
Of the hidden waterfall?
Nay, a satyr speeding after
Ivy-crowned bacchanal.

Far and farther as we wander
Sweeter shall our roaming be,
Come, for dim and winsome yonder
                      Lies the path to Arcady!                       
                                               

By Lucy Maud Montgomery

Secret and Forgotten Road

A Forest Path in Winter
 by Archibald Lampman

Along this secret and forgotten road
All depths and forest forms, above, below,
Are plumed and draped and hillocked with the snow
A branch cracks now and then, and its soft load
Drifts by me in a thin prismatic shower;
Else not a sound, but vistas bound and crossed
With sheeted gleams and sharp blue shadows, frost,
And utter silence. In his glittering power
The master of mid-winter reveries
Holds all things buried soft and strong and deep.
The busy squirrel has his hidden lair;
And even the spirits of the stalwart trees
Have crept into their utmost roots, and there,
Upcoiled in the close earth, lie fast asleep.

Archibald Lampman, FRSC was a Canadian poet. "He has been described as 'the Canadian Keats;' and he is perhaps the most outstanding exponent of the Canadian school of nature poets." The Canadian Encyclopedia says that he is "generally considered the finest of Canada's late 19th-century poets in English." 

Rocky Pointe Trail

Patrick's Point is in the heart of California's coast redwood country. The State Park was named for Patrick Beegan, an Irish immigrant who originally called it Patrick's Ranch.

Tenaya Lake

The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
       To haunt of the wide world a spot
       The which I could not love the less-
       So lovely was the loneliness
       Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
       And the tall pines that towered around.

       But when the Night had thrown her pall
       Upon that spot, as upon all,
       And the mystic wind went by
       Murmuring in melody-
       Then- ah then I would awake
       To the terror of the lone lake.

       Yet that terror was not fright,
       But a tremulous delight-
       A feeling not the jewelled mine
       Could teach or bribe me to define-
       Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

       Death was in that poisonous wave,
       And in its gulf a fitting grave
       For him who thence could solace bring
       To his lone imagining-
       Whose solitary soul could make
       An Eden of that dim lake.

By Edgar Allen Poe

Light Between the Trees

Light Between the Trees
by Henry Van Dyke

Long, long, long the trail
Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
Into silence, like a room
Where the light of life has fled,
And the jealous curtains close
Round the passionless repose
Of the silent dead.

Plod, plod, plod away,
Step by step in mouldering moss;
Thick branches bar the day
Over languid streams that cross
Softly, slowly, with a sound
In their aimless creeping
Like a smothered weeping,
Through the enchanted ground.

"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
Whispers through the woodland deep;
"Come to me and be at rest;
"I am slumber, I am sleep."
Then the weary feet would fail,
But the never-daunted will
Urges "Forward, forward still!
"Press along the trail!"

Breast, breast, breast the slope!
See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
When the stream begins to leap.
Though the forest, far and wide,
Still shuts out the bending blue,
We shall finally win through,
Cross the long divide.

On, on, onward tramp!
Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
Welcome waits us there, my friend.
Can we reach it ere the night?
Upward, upward, never fear!
Look, the summit must be near;
See the line of light!

Red, red, red the shine
Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
Clear along the mountain-crest!
Long, long, long the trail
Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
But at last the traveller sees
Light between the trees!

The Sound of Trees

The Sound of the Trees

by Robert Frost

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

"Miles To Go Before I Sleep"

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, 1923
by Robert Frost (26 March 1874 – 29 January 1963)

The Woods that Bring the Sunset

The Woods That Bring The Sunset Near

The wind from out the west is blowing.

The homeward-wandering cows are lowing;

Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear--

The woods that bring the sunset near.

 

When o'er wide seas the sun declines,

Far off its fading glory shines,--

Far off, sublime, and full of fear,--

The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

 

This house that looks to east, to west,

This, dear one, is our home, our rest;

Yonder the stormy sea, and here

The woods that bring the sunset near.

By Richard Watson Gilder (1844-1909)

One Misty, Moisty Morning

One misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather.
He began to compliment, and I began to grin,
How do you do, and how do you do?
And how do you do again?


 "Mother Goose, the Original Volland Edition," (1915)

"My Soul Is In the Sky"

 

"Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike. "
       

John Muir - The Yosemite (1912), page 256.

The Splendor Falls on Castle Walls

 

The Splendor Falls

Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1809 - 1892

The splendor falls on castle walls
    And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
    And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
    And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
    The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugles; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
    They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
    And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.