way, and fry his own
morning bacon over his fire of sticks.

Wherever one lives, however one lives, in this broad tableland, he is
under the spell of the range. The call of the mountains is ever present.
Riding, walking, motoring, fishing, golfing, sitting under the trees
with a book, continually he lifts his eyes to their calm heights.
Unconsciously he throws them the first morning glance. Instinctively he
gazes long upon their gleaming moonlit summits before turning in at
night. In time they possess his spirit. They calm him, exalt him,
ennoble him. Unconsciously he comes to know them in all their myriad
moods. Cold and stern before sunrise, brilliant and vivid in
mid-morning, soft and restful toward evening, gorgeously colored at
sunset, angry, at times terrifying, in storm, their fascination never
weakens, their beauty changes but it does not lessen.

Mountains of the height of these live in constant communion with the
sky. Mummy Mountain in the north and Longs Peak in the south continually
gather handfuls of fleecy cloud. A dozen times a day a mist appears in
the blue, as if entangled while passing the towering summit. A few
moments later it is a tiny cloud; then, while you watch, it thickens and
spreads and hides the peak. Ten minutes later, perhaps, it dissipates as
rapidly as it gathered, leaving the granite photographed against the
blue. Or it may broaden and settle till it covers a vast acreage of sky
and drops a brief shower in near-by valleys, while meadows half a mile
away are steeped in sunshine. Then, in a twinkling, all is clear again.
Sometimes, when the clearing comes, the summit is white with snow. And
sometimes, standing upon a high peak in a blaze of sunshine from a
cleared sky, one may look down for a few moments upon the top of one of
these settled clouds, knowing that it is sprinkling the hidden valley.

The charm of the mountains from below may satisfy many, but sooner or
later temptation is sure to beset. The desire comes to see close up
those monsters of mystery. Many, including most women, ignorant of
rewards, refuse to venture because they fear hardship. "I can never
climb mountains in this rarefied air," pleads one, and in most cases
this is true; it is important that persons unused to the higher
altitudes be temperate and discreet. But the lungs and muscles of a
well-trained mountain horse are always obtainable, and the least
practice will teach the unaccustomed rider that all he has to