"Grizzly. An' you can bet he heard the dogs an' got
movin' away from here. But he ain't scared. He was walkin'."
I forgot the arduous toil. How tight and cool and prickling the feel of
my skin! The fresh track of a big grizzly would rouse the hunter in any
man. We made sure how fresh this track was by observing twigs and sprigs
of manzanita just broken. The wood was green, and wet with sap. Old
Bruin had not escaped our eyes any too soon. We followed this bear
trail, evidently one used for years. It made climbing easy for us. Trust
a big, heavy, old grizzly to pick out the best traveling over rough
country! This fellow, I concluded, had the eye of a surveyor. His trail
led gradually toward a wonderful crag-crowned ridge that rolled and
heaved down from the rim. It had a dip or saddle in the middle, and rose
from that to the lofty mesa, and then on the lower side, rose to a bare,
round point of gray rock, a landmark, a dome-shaped tower where the gods
of that wild region might have kept their vigil.
Long indeed did it take us to climb up the bear trail to where it
crossed the saddle and went down on the other side into a canyon so deep
and wild that it was purple. This saddle was really a remarkable
place--a natural trail and outlet and escape for bears traveling from
one canyon to another. Our bear tracks showed fresh, and we saw where
they led down a steep, long, dark aisle between pines and spruces to a
dense black thicket below.
Pages:
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403