Hunting the Grisly 93 



its bed choked with ice-covered rocks ; I had 

 been lulled to sleep by the stream s splashing 

 murmur, and the loud moaning of the wind 

 along the naked cliffs. At dawn I rose and 

 shook myself free of the buffalo robe, coated 

 with hoar-frost The ashes of the fire were 

 lifeless; in the dim morning the air was bitter 

 cold. I did not linger a moment, but snatched 

 up my rifle, pulled on my fur cap and gloves 

 and strode off up a side ravine ; as I walked 

 I ate some mouthfuls of venison, left over from 

 supper. 



Two hours of toil up the steep mountain 

 brought me to the top of a spur. The sun had 

 risen, but was hidden behind a bank of sullen 

 clouds. On the divide I halted, and gazed 

 out over a vast landscape, inconceivably wild 

 and dismal. Around me towered the stupen 

 dous mountain masses which make up the 

 backbone of the Rockies. From my feet, as 

 far as I could see, stretched a rugged and 

 barren chaos of ridges and detached rock 

 masses. Behind me, far below, the stream 

 wound like a silver ribbon, fringed with dark 

 conifers and the changing, dying foliage of 

 poplar and quaking aspen. In front the bot 

 toms of the valleys were filled with the som 

 bre evergreen forest, dotted here and there 



