268 CAMP-FIRES IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES 



done. As before noted, the sheep were far from safety 

 rocks when the hunter opened fire. 



At last we reached the top of that awful mountain, 

 and sat down to rest on Cyclorama Point, where the great 

 ridge stops short in its easterly course. Take a large 

 visiting card, fold it lengthwise along the middle, back 

 the western end of it up against a conical ink-bottle and 

 you will have the topography, with the eastern point as 

 our coign of vantage. 



The top of the ridge was barely wide enough for a 

 game trail, and the trail was there, leading back to the 

 tall peak farther west. From the crest, the northern slope 

 fell away even more steeply than the southern, but it 

 was well covered with green timber. Far below us, a 

 mile at least, a creek ran through a narrow valley, and 

 on the farther side of that another mountain ridge, two 

 miles long from bottom to top and three miles long from 

 end to end, swept steeply upward. It was a crazy-quilt 

 of green timber, brush, slide-rock and dead timber. 



As usual when hunters reach the top of a lofty ridge, 

 and a new prospect opens to view, every eye quickly 

 swept the opposite mountain-side in quest of big game. 

 Mack Norboe had not looked through his glasses for 

 more than ten seconds when his low, deeply-resonant 

 voice rumbled out of the depths of his chest. 



" I see a big grizzly! Come here, and I'll show him 

 to you." I went. 



" He's right over there, in the open, near the east 

 side of that patch of green timber," and in an instant 

 more every eye had picked it out. 



