North loomed up the lofty, steep rim of the Mogollon Mesa, with
its cliffs of yellow and red, and its black line of timber. Westward
lay fold on fold of low cedar-covered hills. The valley appeared a
kind of magnificent bowl, rough and wild, with the distance lost
in blue haze. The vegetation was dense and rather low. I saw both
prickly-pear and mescal cactus, cedars, manzanita brush, scrub oak,
and juniper trees. These last named were very beautiful, especially
the smaller ones, with their gray-green foliage, and purple berries,
and black and white checkered bark. There were no pine trees. Since we
had left the rim above the character of plant life had changed.
We crossed the plateau leading to the valley where the Natural Bridge
was located. A winding road descended the east side of this valley.
A rancher lived down there. Green of alfalfa and orchard and walnut
trees contrasted vividly with a bare, gray slope on one side, and a
red, rugged mountain on the other. A deep gorge showed dark and wild.
At length, just after sunset, we reached the ranch, and rode through
orchards of peach and pear and apple trees, all colored with fruit,
and down through grassy meadows to a walnut grove where we pitched
camp. By the time we had supper it was dark. Wonderful stars, thick,
dreamy hum of insects, murmur of swift water, a rosy and golden
afterglow on the notch of the mountain range to the west--these were
inducements to stay up, but I was so tired I had to go to bed, where
my eyelids fell tight, as if pleasantly weighted.
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