THE ISLAND OF SAN CLEMENTE 135 



The trail was about a foot or so wide on the side or 

 face of an almost vertical cliff of volcanic rock three 

 or four hundred feet above the wild and breaking sea 

 that surged in below like a gigantic witch's caldron. 

 There was just room for the horses, as the cliff reached 

 back a Uttle, and each horse moved slowly along, pla- 

 cing his feet exactly so, while the sea roared and howled 

 beneath. A slip or a slide, and the horse would have 

 dropped, not rolled, two or three hundred feet onto 

 jagged rocks swept by the wild waves. 



I have been in startling places in the saddle, have 

 even had my horse turn a somersault with me in taking 

 a ditch, but this narrow ledge, with no chance to turn, 

 was an extraordinary place. I fancy our genial host 

 thought it would be a good opportunity to try out 

 the chief forester and myself, to see if our nerves were 

 perfectly adjusted, for he stopped his horse in the most 

 trying spot, being just ahead of me, and leisurely 

 began to take off his sweater, an operation which 

 kept us swinging our legs over space; then, doubtless 

 satisfied that we were undisturbed by the menace, or 

 "dead game," he started on, and we shortly reached 

 the Eagle Ranch house — on a lava point which 

 extended into the sea. 



The view of the island and coast here was desolation 

 worse confounded: great lava-flows in every direction, 

 the divide cut by strange caiions, the choya cactus 

 increasing as we progressed. Suddenly we dropped 

 down into a deep canon where the road was a slide 

 down its side. Taking the lariat I slid ahead, the 

 horse following, and on reaching the bottom found 

 myself in a deep and narrow cut, its sides filled with 

 strange caves rising tier above tier, — literally the 



