I threw on some branches of sage. The fire blazed up. But it seemed
different from other camp-fires. No cheer, no glow, no sparkle! Perhaps
it was owing to scant and poor wood. Still I thought it was owing as
much to the place. The sadness, the loneliness, the desolateness of this
place weighed upon the camp-fire the same as it did upon my heart.
We got up at five-thirty. At dawn the sky was a cold leaden gray, with a
dull gold and rose in the east. A hard wind, eager and nipping, blew up
the canyon. At six o'clock the sky brightened somewhat and the day did
not promise so threatening.
An hour later we broke camp. Traveling in the early morning was
pleasant and we made good time down the winding canyon, arriving at
Furnace Creek about noon, where we halted to rest. This stream of warm
water flowed down from a gully that headed up in the Funeral Mountains.
It had a disagreeable taste, somewhat acrid and soapy. A green thicket
of brush was indeed welcome to the eye. It consisted of a rank coarse
kind of grass, and arrowweed, mesquite, and tamarack. The last named
bore a pink fuzzy blossom, not unlike pussy-willow, which was quite
fragrant. Here the deadness of the region seemed further enlivened by
several small birds, speckled and gray, two ravens, and a hawk. They all
appeared to be hunting food. On a ridge above Furnace Creek we came upon
a spring of poison water.
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