That night I had a wretched bed, one that I could hardly stay in, and I passed miserable hours.  I got up sore, cramped, sleepy and irritable.  We had to wait three hours for the horses to be caught and packed.  I had predicted straying horses.  At last we were off, and rode along the steep slope of a canyon for several miles, and then struck a stream of amber-colored water.  As we climbed along this we came into deep spruce forest, where it was pleasure to ride.  I saw many dells and nooks, cool and shady, full of mossy rocks and great trees.  But flowers were scarce.  We were sorry to pass the head-springs of that stream and to go on over the divide and down into the wooded, but dry and stony country.  We rode until late, and came at last to a park where sheep had been run.  I refused to camp here, and Teague, in high dudgeon, rode on.  As it turned out I was both wise and lucky, for we rode into a park with many branches, where there was good water and fair grass and a pretty grove of white pines in which to pitch our tents.  I enjoyed this camp, and had a fine rest at night.

The morning broke dark and lowering.  We hustled to get started before a storm broke.  It began to rain as we mounted our horses, and soon we were in the midst of a cold rain.  It blew hard.  We put on our slickers.  After a short ride down through the forest we entered Buffalo Park.  This was a large park, and we lost time trying to find a forester’s trail leading out of it.  At last we found one, but it soon petered out, and we were lost in thick timber, in a driving rain, with the cold and wind increasing.  But we kept on.

This forest was deep and dark, with tremendous windfalls, and great canyons around which we had to travel.  It took us hours to ride out of it.  When we began to descend once more we struck an old lumber road.  More luck—­the storm ceased, and presently we were out on an aspen slope with a great valley beneath, and high, black peaks beyond.  Below the aspens were long swelling slopes of sage and grass, gray and golden and green.  A ranch lay in the valley, and we crossed it to climb up a winding ravine, once more to the aspens where we camped in the rancher’s pasture.  It was a cold, wet camp, but we managed to be fairly comfortable.

The sunset was gorgeous.  The mass of clouds broke and rolled.  There was exquisite golden light on the peaks, and many rose- and violet-hued banks of cloud.

Morning found us shrouded in fog.  We were late starting.  About nine the curtain of gray began to lift and break.  We climbed pastures and aspen thickets, high up to the spruce, where the grass grew luxuriant, and the red wall of rock overhung the long slopes.  The view west was magnificent—­a long, bulging range of mountains, vast stretches of green aspen slopes, winding parks of all shapes, gray and gold and green, and jutting peaks, and here and there patches of autumn blaze in grass and thicket.

We spent the afternoon pitching camp on an aspen knoll, with water, grass, and wood near at hand, and the splendid view of mountains and valleys below.