150 SADDLE AND CAMP 



puncture the landscape, and beyond them lie 

 the Escalante Mountains, rugged and sere. 

 Above rise other white cliffs, visible through 

 stunted cedars. As I gained the summit I 

 passed very near these cliffs and still farther on 

 skirted what are locally known as the "Washed 

 Cliffs," the sides worn into smooth-scoured 

 ridges or waves. 



Descending the west slope of the ridge, I was 

 treated to a magnificent view of the country to 

 the westward. The sun was setting in an efful- 

 gence of marvelous colors behind lofty, ser- 

 rated peaks, which rolled away toward Dixie. 

 Below, in shadow, lay the narrow valley of the 

 Rio Virgin, enclosed by high ramparts of rock, 

 which the sun still gilded. The river itself, a 

 silver thread, wound down the valley, to be lost 

 in a canon below, and the little village of 

 Mount Carmel lay snug and cozy, surrounded 

 by green alfalfa fields and gardens, in vivid 

 contrast to the gray sand stretch and somber, 

 towering cliffs. 



The sun had set before the descent into the 

 valley was accomplished and the river forded, 

 and deep twilight had settled when I reached 

 a ranch at the outskirts of the hamlet. The 

 door of the little log ranchhouse stood open, 

 but the place was quite deserted save by a cat, 



