HUNTING THE WILD GOAT 175 



if some magic wand had been waved, mountains, 

 ocean, rocks, abysmal canons, distant peaks melted 

 away like a dream, and from a burning temperature 

 I was projected into one that had the chill of night. 

 For a short time this genie of the sky swept about me, 

 so thick that I could hardly see a yard ahead; then it 

 broke, became dissipated, the varying currents of the 

 mountain canons rent it in twain, and through a thou- 

 sand hazy openings I could again see as a mosaic the 

 turquoise waters of the Kuro Shiwo. Again the sun 

 shone, the mountain slopes were tinted with gold as 

 the strong light fell on the dead wild oats whose awns 

 sang in the gentle wind. 



This spectacle of the fog on the Channel Islands is 

 a wonderful vision. The fog comes in at night, gen- 

 erally beginning in the afternoon about four. It 

 strikes the southwest coast of the island, creeps up to 

 the summit, and instead of passing on is blown down 

 against the north slope — flattened out, as it were — 

 thence pours and creeps down the one or two thousand 

 feet in a splendid fall of flocculent silver, a spectacle 

 of profound majesty and sublimity, yet among the 

 common phenomena of this home of the wild goat. 

 I have repeatedly seen it here; also at Santa Catalina, 

 and best of all at Santa Cruz. 



Released from the fog flurry I climbed on until I 

 reached the summit, a level mesa from which the 

 many canons sprang. There were no goats in sight, 

 nothing but eagles high in air, and an occasional raven. 

 The choya cactus and the tuna formed a broken forest 

 here and there, among which I found the remains of 

 stone implements, telling of the natives who once lived 

 on these heights. From the summit I could hear the 



