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 



