Chapter 24 - The Plant Hunters by Mayne Reid

The Lone Mountain Valley.

A pass there was, sure enough, that opened between the cliffs like a great gate. Why they had not perceived it sooner was because the gorge bent a little to the right before opening to this outlet; and, of course, the bend from a distance appeared to be the termination of the ravine.

A hundred yards from the bend brought them into the great gate between the cliffs, and there a view opened before their eyes that filled their hearts with joy and admiration.

Perhaps in all the world they could not have looked upon a more singular landscape. Right before their faces, and somewhat below the level on which they stood, lay a valley. It was nearly of a circular shape, and, perhaps, a league or more in circumference. In the middle of this valley was a lake several hundred yards in diameter. The whole bottom of the valley appeared to be a plane, but slightly elevated above the water level, consisting of green meadows, beautifully interspersed with copses of shrubbery and clumps of trees, with foliage of rich and varied colours. What appeared to be droves of cattle and herds of deer were browsing on the meadows, or wandering around the copses; while flocks of waterfowl disported themselves over the blue water of the lake.

So park-like was the aspect of this sequestered valley, that the eyes of our travellers instinctively wandered over its surface in search of human dwellings or the forms of human beings; and were only astonished at not perceiving either. They looked for a house,—a noble mansion,—a palace to correspond to that fair park. They looked for chimneys among the trees—for the ascending smoke. No trace of all these could be detected. A smoke there was, but it was not that of a fire. It was a white vapour that rose near one side of the valley, curling upward like steam. This surprised and puzzled them. They could not tell what caused it, but they could tell that it was not the smoke of a fire.

But the form of the valley—its dimensions—its central lake—its green meadows and trees—its browsing herds—its wild fowl might have been seen elsewhere. All these things might occur, and do occur in many parts of the earth’s surface without the scene being regarded as singular or remarkable. It was not these that have led us to characterise the landscape in question as one of the most singular in the world. No—its singularity rested upon other circumstances.

One of these circumstances was, that around the valley there appeared a dark belt of nearly equal breadth, that seemed to hem it in as with a gigantic fence. A little examination told that this dark belt was a line of cliffs, that, rising up from the level bottom on all sides, fronted the valley and the lake. In other words, the valley was surrounded by a precipice. In the distance it appeared only a few yards in height, but that might be a deception of the eye.

Above the black line another circular belt encompassed the valley. It was the sloping sides of bleak barren mountains. Still another belt higher up was formed by the snowy crests of the same mountains—here in roof-like ridges, there in rounded domes, or sharp cone-shaped peaks, that pierced the heavens far above the line of eternal snow.

There seemed to be no way of entrance into this singular basin except over the line of black cliff. The gap in which our travellers stood, and the ravine through which they had ascended appeared to be its only outlet; and this, filled as it was by glacier ice, raised the summit of the pass above the level of the valley; but a sloping descent over a vast débris of fallen rocks—the “moraine” of the glacier itself—afforded a path down to the bottom of the valley.

For several minutes all three remained in the gap, viewing this strange scene with feelings that partook of the nature of admiration—of wonder—of awe. The sun was just appearing over the mountains, and his rays, falling upon the crystallised snow, were refracted to the eyes of the spectators in all the colours of the rainbow. The snow itself in one place appeared of a roseate colour, while elsewhere it was streaked and mottled with golden hues. The lake, too—here rippled by the sporting fowl, there lying calm and smooth—reflected from its blue disk the white cones of the mountains, the darker belting of the nearer cliffs, or the green foliage upon its shores.

For hours Karl Linden could have gazed upon that fairy-like scene. Caspar, of ruder mould, was entranced by its beauty; and even the hunter of the plains—the native of palm-groves and cane fields—confessed he had never beheld so beautiful a landscape. All of them were well acquainted with the Hindoo superstition concerning the Himalaya Mountains. The belief that in lonely valleys among the more inaccessible peaks, the Brahmin gods have their dwelling and their home; and they could not help fancying at that moment that the superstition might be true. Certainly, if it were true, some one of these deities, Vishnu, or Siva, or even Brahma himself, must dwell in that very valley that now lay before them.

But poetical and legendary sentiment soon vanished from the minds of our travellers. All three were hungry—hungry as wolves—and the ruling thought at the moment was to find the means for satisfying their appetites.

With this intent, therefore, they strode forward out of the gap, and commenced descending towards the bottom of the valley.