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Excerpted from "A Rival of the Yosemite; The Cañon of the South Fork of Kings River, California," by John Muir, The Century Magazine, November 1891.

From the base of the first grand mountain plateau we can see the outstanding pines and sequoias 4000 feet above us, and We now ascend rapidly, sweeping from ravine to ravine around the brows of subordinate ridges. The vegetation shows signs of a cooler climate; the golden-flowered Fremontia, manzanita, ceanothus, and other bushes show miles of bloom; while great beds of blue and purple bells brighten the open spaces, made up chiefly of brodiaea, calochortus, gilia of many species, etc., the whole forming a floral apron of fine texture pattern, let down from the verge of the forest in graceful, flowing folds. At a height of 3000 feet we find here and there a pine standing among the bushes by the wayside, lonely and far apart, as if it had come down from the woods to welcome us. As we continued to ascend the flower-mantle thickens, wafts of balsam come from the evergreens, fragrant tassels and plumes are shaken above us, cool brooks cross the road, till at length we enter the glorious forest, passing suddenly out of the sunglare into cooling shadows as if we had entered some grand inclosed hall.

We have now reached an elevation of 6000 feet, and are on the margin of the main forest belt of the Sierra. Looking down we behold the central plain of California outspread like an arm of the sea, bounded in the hazy distance the mountains of the coast, and bathed in evening purple. Orange groves and vineyards, fields, towns, and dusty pastures are all submerged and made glorious in the divine light. Finer still is the light streaming past us through the aisles of the forest.

Down through the shadows we now make our way for a mile or two in lone of the upper ravines of Mill Creek. Stumps, logs, and the smashed ruins of the trees cumber the ground; the scream of saws is heard; a lumber village comes in sight, and are arrive at the Moore and Smith Mills, the end of the stage line. From here the distance to the valley in a direct line is online about eighteen miles, and two trails lead to it, one of which traces the divide between the waters of the Kahweah and King's rivers, while the other holds a more direct course across the basins of Big and Little Boulder creeks, tributaries of King's River. Both ways are fairly good as mountain-trails go, inasmuch as you are seldom compelled to travel more than two miles to make an advance of one, and less than half of the miles are perpendicular. A stout walker may make the trip to the valley in a day. But if instead of crossing every ridge-wave of these broad boulder basins a good carriage-road were built around the brows and headlands of the main river cañon, the valley could be reached in less than half a day, and with the advantage of still grander scenery. The lower trail is the one commonly traveled, and upon the whole it is the more interesting, for it leads all the way through glorious forests, amid which the stately shafts and domes of sequoia are frequently seen. Climbing a steep mile from the mill we enter the General Grant National Park of Big Trees, a square mile in extent, where a few of the giants are now being pre- served amid the industrious destruction by ax, saw, and blasting-powder going on around them. Still ascending we pass the little flowering Round Meadow, set in a superb growth of silver firs, and gain the summit of the ridge that forms the west boundary of Little Boulder Creek Basin, from which a grand view of the forest is obtained,--cedar, sugar-pine, yellow pine, silver fir, and sequoia filling every hollow, and sweeping up the sides and over the top of every ridge in measureless exuberance and beauty, only a few gray rock brows on the southern rim of the basin appearing in all the sylvan sea.

We now descend to Bearskin Meadow, a sheet of purple-topped grasses enameled with violets, gilias, larkspurs, potentillas, ivesias, columbine, etc.; parnassia and sedges in the wet places, and majestic trees crowding forward in proud array to form a curving border, while Little Boulder Creek, a stream twenty feet wide, goes humming and swirling merrily through the middle of it. Here we begin to climb again; ever up or down we go, not a fairly level mile in the lot. But despite the quick, harsh curves, vertical or horizontal, and the crossings of bogs and boulder-choked gullies, the sustained grandeur of the scenery keeps weariness away. The air is exhilarating. Crisp and clear comes the bold ringing call of the mountain quail, contrasting with the deep blunt bumping of the grouse, while many a small singer sweetens the air along the leafy fringes of the streams.

The next place with a name in the wilderness is Tornado Meadow. Here the sequoia giants stand close about us, towering above the firs and sugar-pines. Then follows another climb of a thousand feet, after which we descend into the magnificent forest basin of Big Boulder Creek. Crossing this boisterous stream as best we may, up again we go 1200 feet through glorious woods, and on a few miles to the emerald Horse Corral and Summit Meadows, a short distance beyond which the highest point on the trail is reached at Grand Lookout, 8300 feet above the sea. Here at length we gain a general view of the great cañon of King's River lying far below, and of the vast mountain-region in the sky on either side of it, and along the summit of the range.