Roughing It by Mark Twain

avert the danger. But the boat would float on, and the boulder descend

again, and then we could see that when we had been exactly above it, it

must still have been twenty or thirty feet below the surface. Down

through the transparency of these great depths, the water was not merely

transparent, but dazzlingly, brilliantly so. All objects seen through it

had a bright, strong vividness, not only of outline, but of every minute

detail, which they would not have had when seen simply through the same

depth of atmosphere. So empty and airy did all spaces seem below us, and

so strong was the sense of floating high aloft in mid-nothingness, that

we called these boat-excursions “balloon-voyages.”

We fished a good deal, but we did not average one fish a week. We could

see trout by the thousand winging about in the emptiness under us, or

sleeping in shoals on the bottom, but they would not bite–they could see

the line too plainly, perhaps. We frequently selected the trout we

wanted, and rested the bait patiently and persistently on the end of his

nose at a depth of eighty feet, but he would only shake it off with an

annoyed manner, and shift his position.

We bathed occasionally, but the water was rather chilly, for all it

looked so sunny. Sometimes we rowed out to the “blue water,” a mile or

two from shore. It was as dead blue as indigo there, because of the

immense depth. By official measurement the lake in its centre is one

thousand five hundred and twenty-five feet deep!

Sometimes, on lazy afternoons, we lolled on the sand in camp, and smoked

pipes and read some old well-worn novels. At night, by the camp-fire, we

played euchre and seven-up to strengthen the mind–and played them with

cards so greasy and defaced that only a whole summer’s acquaintance with

them could enable the student to tell the ace of clubs from the jack of

diamonds.

We never slept in our “house.” It never recurred to us, for one thing;

and besides, it was built to hold the ground, and that was enough. We

did not wish to strain it.

By and by our provisions began to run short, and we went back to the old

camp and laid in a new supply. We were gone all day, and reached home

again about night-fall, pretty tired and hungry. While Johnny was

carrying the main bulk of the provisions up to our “house” for future

use, I took the loaf of bread, some slices of bacon, and the coffee-pot,

ashore, set them down by a tree, lit a fire, and went back to the boat to

get the frying-pan. While I was at this, I heard a shout from Johnny,

and looking up I saw that my fire was galloping all over the premises!

Johnny was on the other side of it. He had to run through the flames to

get to the lake shore, and then we stood helpless and watched the

devastation.

The ground was deeply carpeted with dry pine-needles, and the fire

touched them off as if they were gunpowder. It was wonderful to see with

what fierce speed the tall sheet of flame traveled! My coffee-pot was

gone, and everything with it. In a minute and a half the fire seized

upon a dense growth of dry manzanita chapparal six or eight feet high,

and then the roaring and popping and crackling was something terrific.

We were driven to the boat by the intense heat, and there we remained,

spell-bound.

Within half an hour all before us was a tossing, blinding tempest of

flame! It went surging up adjacent ridges–surmounted them and

disappeared in the canons beyond–burst into view upon higher and farther

ridges, presently–shed a grander illumination abroad, and dove again–

flamed out again, directly, higher and still higher up the mountain-side-

-threw out skirmishing parties of fire here and there, and sent them

trailing their crimson spirals away among remote ramparts and ribs and

gorges, till as far as the eye could reach the lofty mountain-fronts were

webbed as it were with a tangled network of red lava streams. Away

across the water the crags and domes were lit with a ruddy glare, and the

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