Haught led the
way. Romer attached himself to the bear-hunter, and wherever the trail
was wide enough rode beside him. R.C. and I followed. The other men
fell in behind the pack train.
The ride was hot, and for the most part all up hill. That basin could
be likened to the ribs of a washboard: it was all hills, gorges,
ridges and ravines. The hollows of this exceedingly rough country were
thick with pine and oak, the ridges covered with cedar, juniper, and
manzanita. The ground, where it was not rocky, was a dry, red clay. We
passed Haught's log cabin and clearing of a few acres, where I saw fat
hogs and cattle. Beyond this point the trail grew more zigzag, and
steeper, and shadier. As we got higher up the air grew cooler. I noted
a change in the timber. The trees grew larger, and other varieties
appeared. We crossed a roaring brook lined by thick, green brush, very
pleasant to the eye, and bronze-gold ferns that were beautiful. We
passed oaks all green and yellow, and maple trees, wonderfully colored
red and cerise. Then still higher up I espied some silver spruces,
most exquisite trees of the mountain forests.
During the latter half of the climb up to the rim I had to attend to
the business of riding and walking. The trail was rough, steep, and
long. Once Haught called my attention to a flat stone with a plain
trail made by a turtle in ages past when that sandstone was wet,
sedimentary deposit.
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