They seem to have been broken off from the summits above and arrested here for future ages and movements to change or pass on.
The road grows severer than ever, and we cannot help again picturing those old heroes driving their wagons up, while the women and children toiled painfully on foot up the steep and rocky slopes.

Could anything ever daunt them after this?
any obstacle, however insurmountable, discourage them?
any labor, however severe, compel them to turn back?
Though there is a deep pathos in all these memories, the heroism of it makes our blood tingle with pride that such men and women belonged to us, that we are privileged to live in the land their labors, loves and lives have sanctified.
We turn to the right; a tiny waterfall, which in the season must be quite a sight, trickles down near by; we are now advancing directly upon the serrated ridge of fantastic spires that have long accompanied us.

We now find those white-seeming pinnacles are of delicate pinks, creams, blues, slates and grays.

In one place, however, it seems for all the world as if there were a miniature Gothic chapel built of dark, brownish-black lava.

Another small patch of the same color and material, lower down, presents a gable end, with windows, reminding us of the popular picture of Melrose Abbey in the moonlight.
Now we are lined on either side by removed bowlders, but the road! ah the road! who could ever have traveled over it?
Trees twenty feet high have now grown up in the roadway.