We had run through Utah and Nevada, and were now approaching the
northern part of California. In the very early morning of December 6th I
awoke and found that the train was at a standstill. Thinking that we
were at a station I tried to sleep again, but, finding that we continued
motionless, I went out on to the platform connecting our car with the
next and found all around was deep snow, and that another train on the
other metals had broken down, and that our men were apparently helping
to get it off. We were then two miles from Truckee, and at an elevation
of nearly 6,000 feet. After a long delay we got away and ran into
Truckee. The scenery on this day was also of a truly grand character:
precipices, declivities, chasms; and in one very romantic spot, of weird
and wild mountain sides, graduating to narrow gullies, with pine and
other trees, some perfect, others broken by the wind was one great
wreck of a forest monster--a tree rudely snapped asunder by wind or
lightning, about 40 feet from the ground, and stripped of every branch,
so that it looked like a broken column; on its top sat a great vulture
in the well-known attitude of its kind, as motionless as rock, and
apparently meditating on the incongruity of a noisy, vulgar bit of
machinery, with its train of cars, invading such a nook of Nature's
solitudes.
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