For a while we brushed through thickets of scrub oak. The whole
slope of the mountain was ridged and hollowed, so that we were always going
down and climbing up. The pines and spruces grew smaller, and were more
rugged and gnarled.
"Hyar's the canyon!" sang out Bill, presently.
We came out on the edge of a deep hollow. It was half a mile wide. I looked
down a long incline of sharp tree-tips. The roar of water rose from below,
and in places a white rushing torrent showed. Above loomed the snow-clad
peak, glistening in the morning sun. How wonderfully far off and high it
still was!
To my regret it was shut off from my sight as we descended into the canyon.
However, I soon forgot that. I saw a troop of coyotes, and many black and
white squirrels. From time to time huge birds, almost as big as turkeys,
crashed out of the thickets and whirred away. They flew swift as pheasants,
and I asked Dick what they were.
"Blue grouse," he replied. "Look sharp now, Ken, there are deer ahead of
us. See the tracks?"
Looking down I saw little, sharp-pointed, oval tracks. Presently two foxes
crossed an open patch not fifty yards from us, but I did not get a glimpse
of the deer. Soon we reached the bottom of the canyon, and struck into
another trail. The air was full of the low roar of tumbling water.
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