me to bathe their backs with
cold water; to stake the picket-animal where it will at once get good
feed and not tangle its rope in bushes, roots, or stumps; to hobble the
others; and to bell those inclined to wander. After this is done, it
is well, for the peace and well-being of the party, to take food.

A smoke establishes you in the final and normal attitude of good humor.
Each man spreads his tarpaulin where he has claimed his bed. Said
claim is indicated by his hat thrown down where he wishes to sleep. It
is a mark of pre-emption which every one is bound to respect. Lay out
your saddle-blankets, cover them with your quilt, place the
sleeping-blanket on top, and fold over the tarpaulin to cover the
whole. At the head deposit your duffle-bag. Thus are you assured of a
pleasant night.

About dusk you straggle in with trout or game. The camp-keeper lays
aside his mending or his repairing or his note-book, and stirs up the
cooking-fire. The smell of broiling and frying and boiling arises in
the air. By the dancing flame of the campfire you eat your third
dinner for the day--in the mountains all meals are dinners, and
formidable ones at that. The curtain of blackness draws down close.
Through it shine stars, loom mountains cold and mist-like in the moon.
You tell stories. You smoke pipes. After a time the pleasant chill
creeps down from the eternal snows. Some one throws another handful of
pine-cones on the fire. Sleepily you prepare for bed. The pine-cones
flare up, throwing their light in your eyes. You turn over and wrap
the soft woolen blanket close about your chin. You wink drowsily and
at once you are asleep. Along late in the night you awaken to find
your nose as cold as a dog's. You open one eye. A few coals mark
where the fire has been. The mist mountains have drawn nearer, they
seem to bend over you in silent contemplation. The moon is sailing
high in the heavens.

With a sigh you draw the canvas tarpaulin over your head. Instantly it
is morning.

V

THE COAST RANGES

At last, on the day appointed, we, with five horses, climbed the Cold
Spring Trail to the ridge; and then, instead of turning to the left, we
plunged down the zigzag lacets of the other side. That night we camped
at Mono Canon, feeling ourselves strangely an integral part of the
relief map we had looked upon so many times that almost we had come to
consider its features as in miniature, not capacious for the
acco