The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1922-06-15
BRYCE CANYON
Continued from page 1

it. Twenty miles, 80 miles, even 40 miles
is not uncommon, but S0-even the sage
brusher is astounded when he calculates
moment, for there before his eyes rests an
empire of nearly 5000 square miles.
All this while the play on the stage be-
low has been rushing forward the light
flashes from pillar to statue, it scintllates
in hundred hues, every crevice and
nook burning with the multiple reflections,
until the radiance is like the splendor of
brazen images glowing under the enchant-
ment of million candles. Ah-if the
ancient Aztecs had builded such an altar,
never could the fair god, Ouetzalcohuatl,
have deserted them; never could he have
laid his curse on them if they had erected
but single pair of such gorgeous pillars
as are poised row on row within that as
semblage. And the Creeks with all their
beauty, might have here learned new les
sons in architecture, color and design.
Then in side slide we espied ladder
some one had placed it there for CHM
bers who might desire to meander down
into the stage, and there make the more
intimate acquaintance of the characters 1t
is a queer world below the ladder, and
the trail disappears between two rocky,
crumbly walls of white and ocher. The
inclosure is dark and damp.
Out in the open is another theater, with
the figures perched high on the golden
walls like so many humpty dumpties set
in ranks; and they, too, are tinted delicate
ly. Shadows are again absent, and the
singing light CLOVIS everywhere as if it
were strains of soft music. Among the
minarets and pinnacles grow the green
pines, while little patches of wild grape
and clumps of larb add vigor to the
groundwork. Even as we watch, a storm
tops the ridge and drops a shower on the
opposite wall scarcely mile away, yet
the cracking lightning and the roaring, re-
echoing thunder brings the rain no closer
to the center of the gorge-leaving us I'M
disturbed to wander along the dry wash
exclaiming as we go about the statues set
in natures hall of fame. Some of them
have names, others have not, and after all
it is better to let the Imagination run ram
pant among these mysterious shapes; they
are all so necessary to the complete beauty;
they are all so human and sympathetic, we
cannot but like them best when our own
individuality designates them as giants,
gnomes, dwarfs, goblins or this or that
denizen of the pandemonum.
The faint trail leads around pine tree,
tops a smooth, shale rock ridge, and then
leaves no trace until it begins again near
the bottom of the embankment. Twice one
afternoon, we looked for the resumption of
that path, and only after we had gone
backward to explore dozen canyon alleys
did we return to find it slipping slyly
away toward natural bridge.
We continued on the trail, across an
other dry wash, around fallen trees, and
up the corridor to where a pale gray
bridge hung its Intel between the gap of
the bounding walls Through the portal
CLEANED the pink of a farther wall, and
above it reared the towers of a golden
castle. Silence-sience was everywhere.
Away from the archway, the trail pur-
sued the top of climbing runway, bring
ing us eventually into the shadow of two
huge pillars-for evening was approach
ing and the brilliant torchlight of day was
settling slowly into chiaroscuro of ex-
quisite tracery. We had marveled at the
iridescence of the morning, but now, it ap-
peared as though blue light had replaced
the earlier one of yellow. Instead of a
playhouse, the arena became in the after
noon, church; and all the shapes sat in
straight erect row of pews waiting for the
peal of the organ from the pink acropols Is