A mile from the rim we were deep in the canyon, walled in by rock-strewn and pine-timbered slopes too steep for a horse to climb.  There was a little gully on the black soil where there were no evidences of recent water.  Haught said he had never seen Beaver Dam Creek dry until this season.  We traveled on until we came to a wide, open space, where three forks of this canyon met, and where in the middle of this glade there rose a lengthy wooded bench, shaded and beautified by stately pines and silver spruce.  At this point water appeared in the creek bed, flowing in tiny stream that soon gathered volume.  Cold and clear and pure it was all that was needed to make this spot an ideal camp site.  Haught said half a mile below there was a grassy park where the horses would graze with elk.

We pitched our tents on this bench, and I chose for my location a space between two great monarchs of the forests, that had surely shaded many an Indian encampment.  At the upper end of the bench rose a knoll, golden and green with scrub oaks, and russet-colored with its lichened rocks.  About all we could manage that evening was to eat and go to bed.

Morning broke cool and bright, with heavy dew.  I got my boots as wet as if I had waded in water.  This surprised me, occurring on October sixth, and at eight thousand feet altitude, as I had expected frost.  Most of this day was spent in making camp, unpacking, and attending to the many necessary little details that make for comfort in the open.  To be sure Romer worked very spasmodically.  He spent most of his time on the back of one of Haught’s burros, chasing and roping another.  I had not remembered seeing the lad so happily occupied.

Late in the afternoon I slipped off down the canyon alone, taking Haught’s rifle for safety rather than a desire to kill anything.  By no means was it impossible to meet a bad bear in that forest.  Some distance below camp I entered a ravine and climbed up to the level, and soon found myself deep in the fragrant, colorful, wild forest.  Like coming home again was it to enter that forest of silver-tipped, level-spreading spruce, and great, gnarled, massive pines, and oak-patches of green and gold, and maple thickets, with shining aspens standing white against the blaze of red and purple.  High, wavy, bleached grass, brown mats of pine needles, gray-green moss waving from the spruces, long strands of sunlight—­all these seemed to welcome me.

At a distance there was a roar of wind through the forest; close at hand only a soft breeze.  Rustling of twigs caused me to compose myself to listen and watch.  Soon small gray squirrels came into view all around me, bright-eyed and saucy, very curious about this intruder.  They began to chatter.  Other squirrels were working in the tops of trees, for I heard the fall of pine cones.  Then came the screech of blue jays.  Soon they too discovered me.  The male birds were superb, dignified, beautiful.