The New York herald., 1922-12-24
By HARRIET GEITHMANN.

only spot l have ever found that came
up to the brag' what would he say were
he to visit the Valley in midwinter?
AS 1 left Pasadena's feathery pepper
trees and palms, headed for my Seattle
home. heard the clear call of the Yosemite
Valley. 1t was the same old call Of our
National Parks which said as plain as day:
stop off several days on your way North
and wallow in the snow and trek the
snowy heights of the Yosemite Valley.
Check off the sixth National Park from
your list. Follow In the steps of the
buffalo horns tn Glacier National Park
which say to an the world. saw America
first" 1 needed the call.
At Ell Portal we were hustled into auto
stages and buried alive In woolly blankets.
That ride along the banks of the Merced
River. past granite peaks towering over
three thousand feet above us in the mist,
noble FL Captain, the Three Brothers and
the Cathedral Spires to the old fashioned
Sentinel Hotel In the heart Of the Valley,
was an Introduction that kindled my blood
in spite of the frosty air.
Back of the hotel was the placid Merced,
ripping along with shoulders robed in
midwinter's ermine furs The Valley artist,
a hardy Norseman, sat on the back porch
In the frosty air with rapidly growing
picture of the snow clad peaks on hts
easel and at his back prosaic oil stove
When the Frenchman's Chinese valet,
direct from Shanghai. strolled out on the
verandah to enjoy the scenery I asked
him, do you have anything like this In
Shanghai"
"No catchee; no nkee; too cold" was
his cryptic answer
The following morning. equipped with
woolens. corduroy from head to foot and
moccasin boots 1 was ready for real hike
Both Vernal and Nevada Falls were calling
from their snowy heights, but no one
seemed to hear the call that wintry day.
Has anybody here seen Casey?" laughed
some one. Presently Casey, the hardy
guide. appeared on the scene ready and
eager to lead the way. With our cameras
and lunch in his knapsack and Pumpkin
Seed snowshoes On our feet, we We're off
The air was clear and sparkling, an ex-
hilarating tonic. Crossing the level floor
of the valley, covered with snow at least
three feet thick, We headed for Happy
Isles on the Merced. In our ears rang
the merry cries of the gang shooting the
toboggan chutes. the ski jumpers the
horseback riders and the sleighing parties
They were enjoying winter sports to the
fullest degree, yet through all their mtrth
I heard the call of the heights
We were tempted to loaf and invite
ing way. inch by inch. across the log
bridges heaped with snow at Happy Isles,
while we listened TO the iding songs of
the Merced and watched the joyous water
ousel spring from rock to rock, dive and
reappear. shaking his shining black
plumage with coquettish shivers. At times
he looked ,as if dancing the latest shfmmy
to the liquid music of the Merced orchestra
AS l started to climb the Mist Trail with
my showshoes I encountered many an
entangling alliance. so we discarded them
as the trail grew sleeper and the drop to
the river more precipitous. From then
on 1t was safer to trust merely to our feet
while we sank knee deep in February snow
at every step. On several occasions 1 sank
hip deep while my feet argued 1t out with
the rocks below
At Lady Franklin Rock the view of
Vernal Falls was a revelation. The waters
of the Merced thundered over the granite
precipice into the churning, seething cal
dron below. adding constantly to the great
icy cone on the left hand side.