noon
The many pools and falls and swirling eddies of Clear Creek held for her , now , memories more attractive , by far , than the wary trout they sheltered . The familiar spots she had known since childhood were haunted by a something that made them seem new and strange . At last , -- thoroughly angry with her inability to control her mood , and half ashamed of the thoughts that forced themselves so insistently upon her ; with her nerves and muscles craving the action that would bring the relief of physical weariness , -- she determined to leave the more familiar ground , for the higher and less frequented waters of Fern Creek . Climbing out of the canyon , by the steep , almost stair-like trail on the San Bernardino side , she walked hard and fast to reach Lone Cabin by noon . But , before she had finished her lunch , she decided not to fish there , after all ; but to go on , over the still harder trail to Burnt Pine on Laurel Creek , and , returning to the lower canyon by the Laurel trail , to work down Clear Creek on the way to her home , in the late afternoon and twilight . The trail up the almost precipitous wall of the gorge at Lone Cabin , and over the mountain spur to Laurel Creek , is one that calls for a clear head and a sure foot . It is not a path for the city bred to essay , save with the ready arm of a guide .