HUNTING THE GRISLY. 8 1 



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 

 with black, ice-skimmed tarns ; and the dark 

 spruces clustered also in the higher gorges > 

 and were scattered thinly along the mountain 

 sides. The snow which had fallen lay in drifts 

 and streaks, while, where the wind had scope 

 it was blown off, and the ground left bare. 



For two hours I walked onwards across the 

 ridges and valleys. Then among some scat- 

 tered spruces, where the snow lay to the depth 

 of half a foot, I suddenly came on the fresh, 



