222 Bailey, A Drop of Four Thousand Feet. [.April 



spruces. If we stayed till the storm came we might get snowed in. 

 It was now the last of October and the Forest Ranger at Mogollon 

 had said that it was " generally hard to get in or out of this country 

 after the first of November," that sometimes the snow was seven 

 feet deep here. To provide against trouble he had given us the 

 key to a cabin two miles below that held emergency supplies, but 

 we were not prepared for winter and having no snowshoes, if caught 

 by a storm might have to wade seventeen miles through the snow. 

 We decided to go out while we could drive out! 



Breaking camp in a cold rain we climbed 500 feet up a steep 

 wet trail to the top of the canon and the wagon road ; and the next 

 morning after driving across long miles of a road recognized as 

 fit only for pack trains, went down 2600 feet on a steep slippery 

 lumber grade to the mining town of Mogollon near which we spent 

 the night; the following morning climbing up 450 feet, and then 

 dropping down the 1500 foot Mogollon grade across the rocky face 

 of the bare southwest slope of the mountains — a striking con- 

 trast to the heavily-timbered northeast slope from which we had 

 come — we finally reached the stage station of Glenwood at the 

 junction of White Water Creek with the San Francisco River. 



We had come down 4000 feet in twenty-eight hours, from 9000 

 feet at the top of Willow Creek Canon to 5000 feet at the foot of 

 the Mogollon Mountains. After rattling down the cold mountain 

 grades we were glad to camp here for a few days work, pitching 

 our tents in a little amphitheater that was warm and still, and 

 filled with sunny nut pines and junipers. Bordering the river 

 below us were glistening live oaks and broad-leafed cottonwoods 

 that glowed with a lovely languorous yellow in the warm afternoon 

 sunshine while cobwebs floated on the quiet air and the gentle 

 voices of lowland Quail made sweet music. Looking back up the 

 Mogollons, storm clouds shrouding the peaks made us thankful 

 that we had escaped in time. It was pleasanter to sit safe and warm 

 below and watch the pink sunset light on the mountains than to be 

 wading in seven feet of snow ! 



"The grasshoppers are squeaking up on the hill!" some one 

 called out, and after a moment, the camp man's deliberate voice 

 responded dryly — "We did n't hear many over on Willow Crickl" 



From listening to Spotted Owls barking from the moonlit firs 



