I Have
Found The Stomach Of A Bear With Fully A Pint Of Cherrystones In
It, And Have Spent An Hour In Getting The Kernels; And Lo!
Now,
at half-past nine, I see the culprit and his wife coming back
with the animals.
I. L. B.
LOWER CANYON, September 21.
We never reached Estes Park. There is no trail, and horses have
never been across. We started from camp at ten, and spent four
hours in searching for the trail. Chalmers tried gulch after
gulch again, his self-assertion giving way a little after each
failure; sometimes going east when we should have gone west,
always being brought up by a precipice or other impossibility.
At last he went off by himself, and returned rejoicing, saying he
had found the trail; and soon, sure enough, we were on a
well-defined old trail, evidently made by carcasses which have
been dragged along it by hunters. Vainly I pointed out to him
that we were going north-east when we should have gone
south-west, and that we were ascending instead of descending.
"Oh, it's all right, and we shall soon come to water," he always
replied. For two hours we ascended slowly through a thicket of
aspen, the cold continually intensifying; but the trail, which
had been growing fainter, died out, and an opening showed the top
of Storm Peak not far off and not much above us, though it is
11,000 feet high. I could not help laughing.
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