n keen for sight of bear
trails and scent of bear fur, but this was a little too much. I thought
it was too much because the place was lonely and dark and absolutely
silent. I went on down to the gully that ran down the middle of the
canyon. It was more open here. The sun got through, and there were some
big pines.

I could see the bluff that the Haughts had climbed so laboriously, and
now I understood why they had been so slow. It was straight up, brush
and jumbled rock, and two hundred feet over my head. Somewhere above
that bluff was the bluff where our bear had run along.

I rested and listened for the dogs. There was no wind to deceive me, but
I imagined I heard dogs everywhere. It seemed unwise for me to go on
down the canyon, for if I did not meet the men I would find myself lost.
As it was I would have my troubles climbing out.

I chose a part of the thicket some distance above where I had come down,
hoping to find it more open, if not less steep, and not so vastly
inhabited with bears. Lo and behold it was worse! It was thicker,
darker, wilder, steeper and there was, if possible, actually more bear
sign. I had to pull myself up by holding to the trees and branches. I
had to rest every few steps. I had to watch and listen all the time.
Half-way up the trunks of the aspens and oaks and maples were all bent
down-hill. They curved out and down before the rest of the tree stood
upright. And all the brush was flat, bending down hill, and absolutely
almost impassable. This feature of tree and brush was of course caused
by the weight of snow in winter. It would have been more interesting if
I had not been so anxious to get up. I grew hotter and wetter than I had
been in the manzanitas. Moreover, what with the labor and worry and
exhaustion, my apprehensions had increased. They increased until I had
to confess that I was scared. Once I heard a rustle and pad on the
leaves somewhere below. That made matters worse. Surely I would meet a
bear. I would meet him coming down-hill! And I must never shoot a bear
coming down-hill! Buffalo Jones had cautioned me on that score, so had
Scott Teague, the bear hunter of Colorado, and so had Haught. "Don't
never shoot no ole bar comin' down hill, 'cause if you do he'll just
roll up an' pile down on you!"

I climbed until my tongue hung out and my heart was likely to burst.
Then when I had to straddle a tree to keep from sliding down I got
desperate and mad and hoped an old grizzly