The sun was still below the mountain's crest, though the higher points were gilded with its light, when they turned their backs upon the city made by men, and set their faces toward the hills that bore in every ridge and peak and cliff and crag and canyon the signature of God.
As Conrad Lagrange said--they might have hired a wagon, or even an automobile, to take them and their goods to some mountain ranch where they would have had no trouble in securing a burro for their wanderings A team would have made the trip by noon.

A machine would have set them down in Clear Creek Canyon before the sun could climb high enough to look over the canyon walls.

"But that"-- explained the novelist, as they trudged leisurely along between rows of palms that bordered the orange groves on either side of their road, and sensed the mystery that marks the birth of a new day--"but that is not a proper way to go to the mountains.
"The mountains"-- he continued, with his eyes upon the distant heights--"are not seen by those who would visit them with a rattle and clatter and rush and roar--as one would visit the cities of men.

They are to be seen only by those who have the grace to go quietly; who have the understanding to go thoughtfully; the heart to go lovingly; and the spirit to go worshipfully.

They are to be approached, not in the manner of one going to a horse-race, or a circus, but in the mood of one about to enter a great cathedral; or, indeed, of one seeking admittance to the very throne-room of God.