We were now
in the region of what they call in the West "buttes," a "butte" being,
so far as I know, a detached, isolated mass of mountain. The Wyoming
buttes are wonderfully carved by wind and sand and weather and many of
them present a mysterious and imposing appearance. Often they are table
lands, rising square and massive against the horizon like immense
fortresses. On the way to Granger these massive table lands with their
square outlines loom up against the grander background of the snowy
Wahsatch range.

The first thirty miles out of Evanston we had an excellent road. There
was a charming desert flower growing in the dusty road and alongside,
white and somewhat like a single petaled water-lily. Its buds were pink,
and it sprang from a whorl of leaves like those of a dandelion. Its
fragrance was most delicate. There was also the lovely blue larkspur,
and there were clusters of a brick-red flower which grew rather tall.
Then there were clumps of something very like a dark scarlet clover. The
fine mountain scenery, the fantastically carved buttes, sometimes like
miniature canyons, the glorious air, all put us in delightful humour
with ourselves and the world. At the little town of Granger on the
railroad line we met two young pedestrians who were walking on a wager
from Kearney, Nebraska, to Seattle. They were to have $500. apiece if
they reached Seattle by the first of August. Their yellow outing shirts
bore the inscription, "Walking from Kearney, Nebraska, to Seattle." They
told us they were able to make forty miles a day. When they reached Salt
Lake City they were to have substantial new walking boots from the
merchants at Kearney, the bargain being that at that point they were to
return their worn boots to be exhibited in the shop windows of Kearney.
They had been halted at Granger because of lack of money, having
miscalculated their needs. They had just had a telegram from home,
sending them money and assuring them of more help if they needed it.
They looked strong and fit and were perfectly confident that they would
win the wager. We also met two young motor-cyclists from Akron, Ohio, en
route for the coast.

There were several eating places at Granger, but it was too early for
luncheon, so we pressed on to Green River, a Union Pacific Railway town.
From Granger to Green River the road was poorer and more bumpy. Fine
masses of rock and carved tableland rose on the horizon as we drove
along. As we approached