134 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



familiar ; across the Thompson, up stream, westward for 

 a mile, we turned up a " draw " to the right, for a swale 

 in the ridge dividing the Thompson and its tributary, 

 Fall Biver. By nine o'clock we had reached the sum- 

 mit of the divide. Before and below us lay a beautiful 

 park, three miles in length, by a mile in width toward 

 its upper end, where it rounded at the base of the 

 mountain range, giving it the shape of a horse shoe, 

 which no doubt suggested its name. To the north it 

 is guarded by an immense mountain of rocks, where 

 towering and impenetrable cliffs stand out against the 

 background of blue sky, as though the Titans had some 

 time builded there, and mother earth had turned their 

 castles into ruins, and left them as monuments of her 

 power. To the south a long, low-lying, pine-covered 

 hill, while from the range in the west with its snow 

 covered summit and base of soft verdure, comes a limpid 

 stream winding down through the grass-covered park, 

 its course marked by the deeper green of the wild grass 

 and the willows. A mile away a band of mountain 

 sheep are feeding ; they have evidently been down to 

 water and are making their way back to their haunts 

 in the cliffs, and whence we know they will quickly 

 scud when they see or wind us. Ferguson longed for 

 his rifle ; it was just his luck ; he had the "old girl " 

 with him the last time, but "nary hoof" had he seen. 

 To me they were precious hints of man's absence, and 

 the wilderness. 



Eeaching the stream we picketed the ponies in the 



