Still, after a while we heard the mellow tones of Edd's horn, calling in
the hounds. And then he blew the signal to acquaint all of us above that
he was going down around the point to drive the next canyon. Copple and
I had to choose between climbing back to the rim or trying to cross the
slopes and head the gorges, and ascend the huge ridge that separated
Pyle's Canyon from the next canyon. I left the question to Copple, with
the result that we stayed below.
We were still high up, though when we gazed aloft at the rim we felt so
far down, and the slopes were steep, stony, soft in places and slippery
in others, with deep cuts and patches of manzanita. No stranger was I to
this beautiful treacherous Spanish brush! I shared with Copple a dislike
of it almost equal to that inspired by cactus. We soon were hot, dusty,
dry, and had begun to sweat. The immense distances of the place were
what continually struck me. Distances that were deceptive--that looked
short and were interminable! That was Arizona. We covered miles in our
detours and we had to travel fast because we knew Edd could round the
base of the lower points in quick time.
Above the head of the third gorge Copple and I ran across an enormous
bear track, fresh in the dust, leading along an old bear trail. This
track measured twelve inches. "He's an old Jasper, as Haught says,"
declared Copple.
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