irty the sun was shining clear, and only a
few clouds sailed in the blue. Wind was in the west and the weather
promised fair. But clouds began to creep up behind the mountains,
first hazy, then white, then dark. Nevertheless we decided to ride
out, and cross the Flattop rim, and go around what they call the
Chinese Wall. It rained as we climbed through the spruces above Little
Trappers Lake. And as we got near the top it began to hail. Again
the air grew cold. Once out on top I found a wide expanse, green and
white, level in places, but with huge upheavals of ridge. There
were flowers here at eleven thousand feet. The view to the rear was
impressive--a wide up-and-down plain studded with out-cropping of
rocks, and patches of snow. We were then on top of the Chinese Wall,
and the view to the west was grand. At the moment hail was falling
thick and white, and to stand above the streaked curtain, as it fell
into the abyss was a strange new experience. Below, two thousand feet,
lay the spruce forest, and it sloped and dropped into the White River
Valley, which in turn rose, a long ragged dark-green slope, up to a
bare jagged peak. Beyond this stretched range on range, dark under the
lowering pall of clouds. On top we found fresh Rocky Mountain sheep
tracks. A little later, going into a draw, we crossed a snow-bank,
solid as ice. We worked down into this draw into the timber. It
hailed, and rained some more, then cleared. The warm sun felt good.
Once down in the parks we began to ride through a flower-garden. Every
slope was beautiful in gold, and red, and blue and white. These parks
were luxuriant with grass, and everywhere we found elk beds, where the
great stags had been lying, to flee at our approach. But we did not
see one. The bigness of this slope impressed me. We rode miles and
miles, and every park was surrounded by heavy timber. At length we
got into a burned district where the tall dead spruces stood sear and
ghastly, and the ground was so thickly strewn with fallen trees that
we had difficulty in threading a way through them. Patches of aspen
grew on the hillside, still fresh and green despite this frosty
morning. Here we found a sego lily, one of the most beautiful of
flowers. Here also I saw pink Indian paint brush. At the foot of this
long burned slope we came to the White River trail, and followed it up
and around to camp.

Late in the evening, about sunset, I took my rifle and slipped off
into the woods bac