Probably what one can really love about America is it's metamorphosis of the landscape behind the windscreen of the car — just a couple of hours and the withering desert hell turns into cooled mountain freshness.
And so gradually the bald hills are covered with first forests and instead of the hot sun plump drops of the rain beat on the glass.
At the first stop near a lake covered with fog you run to the boot trying to find all the warm clothes — after a hot wasteland the air of icy and wet.
But it is sobering exhausted by the heat brain, slipping with pleasant needles along the body.
Lungs greedily absorb the smell of the mountain ridge — wet fallen leaves on the ground, the moisture in the rough sides of the stones and rocks, dank fog covering the road. But it's all just shades.
3000 square kilometers of the Sierra Nevada western slopes are thoroughly imbued with the coniferous sweetness of sequoias. It is absorbing into the clothes and hair and every breath is like a first one.
Have a good day, MarrySav!)
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