The Last of the Plainsmen 



&quot; I m going to see the sunrise from the north rim 

 of the Grand Canon,&quot; I said, and knew when I spoke 

 that very few men, out of all the millions of travelers, 

 had ever seen this, probably the most surpassingly 

 beautiful pageant in the world. At most, only a 

 few geologists, scientists, perhaps an artist or two, 

 and horse wranglers, hunters and prospectors have 

 ever reached the rim on the north side; and these 

 men, crossing from Bright Angel or Mystic Spring 

 trails on the south rim, seldom or never get beyond 

 Powell s Plateau. 



The frost cracked under my boots like frail ice, 

 and the bluebells peeped wanly from the white. 

 When I reached the head of Clarke s trail it was 

 just daylight; and there, under a pine, I found Jones 

 rolled in his blankets, with Sounder and Moze asleep 

 beside him. I turned without disturbing him, and 

 went along the edge of the forest, but back a little 

 distance from the rim wall. 



I saw deer off in the woods, and tarrying, watched 

 them throw up graceful heads, and look and listen. 

 The soft pink glow through the pines deepened to 

 rose, and suddenly I caught a point of red fire. Then 

 I hurried to the place I had named Singing Cliffs, 

 and keeping my eyes fast on the stone beneath me, 

 crawled out to the very farthest point, drew a long, 

 deep breath, and looked eastward. 



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