170 CHANNEL ISLANDS OF CALIFORNIA 



imagine this a rent in some canon of the moon, where 

 a giant pteranodon-hke woodpecker or rockpecker 

 had delved, picking out the soft places in a strange 

 conglomerate, until the entire surface was a maze of 

 caves; or one might picture some apparently imagi- 

 native achievement so uncanny and weird that one 

 could but stand and look far up the deep rift into the 

 tender blue field of visual endeavor — stand and try 

 to adjust the imaginative values. The rock was 

 brown and red, and far away it melted into the blue 

 haze. The caves were seemingly patches of black 

 velvet, and all had ragged gnawing edges like teeth. 

 Surely I was in the front row of some spectacular 

 extravaganza conjured up by a clever magician. I 

 sat, forgetting my horse and where I was going, when 

 I saw a moving object in the mouth of one of the largest 

 of the caves a thousand or more feet above me. Then 

 came a shot; and as the echoes rumbled, rolled, and 

 caromed down into the abysmal depths of the rift I 

 saw a black and white goat come out of the velvet- 

 mouthed cave and dash down the seemingly impossible 

 slopes, springing from rock to rock as shot after shot 

 rang out. 



Suddenly he stopped on the very pinnacle of a cape 

 which projected into the air, stood a moment in strong 

 relief against the blue haze, then (Pinchot must have 

 caught him as he started) fell and rolled over and 

 over down into the canon. I started up the caiion 

 to see if I could reach him, but my way was stopped 

 by huge rocks, and from here I could see the goat- 

 hunters coming down the side after the game. 



A more sporting proposition than goat-hunting on 

 this island can hardly be imagined; if we could give 



