30 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 



could not but admire the gigantic abandon with which 

 the tall cliffs broke away in ragged bluffs and ridges 

 of rim rock, the sweep of the towering timbered 

 ridges, the sinister depth of great yawning canyons, 

 haunts of the grizzly and the mountain lion. 



I remember one evening especially v/hen this 

 matchless panorama produced an impression upon 

 me that still remains vivid and undimmed, with all 

 the wild grandeur of outline and delicacy of colour- 

 ing that made the original unique in my experience. 



Frazer and I had strolled out to Lookout Ledge, 

 a little rocky point near camp, just at sunset. The 

 broad forest falling downward and away before us 

 stretched grandly, a mass of moving green, to the 

 timber line. Beyond, rolling yellow hills tumbled 

 and sprawled, lower and ever lower, till they melted 

 into a velvet plain with the tiny silver vein of the 

 Eio Grande winding across like an attenuated, shin- 

 ing snake. Further yet, beyond other plains, faintly 

 visible, rose the uneven, misty line of the San Mateo 

 mountains, fifty miles away as the crow flies. The 

 sky and the air were alive with a warm, marvellous 

 afterglow. It subdued the harsher features of the 

 scene, touched the hills and valleys with wonderfully 

 soft pastel shades, and made the wavering outline of 

 the far-off range throb and glow with magical 

 opalescent hues, like the Mountains of Dream. 



I had been completely lost in this vision, when Fra- 

 zer 's voice brought me back with a jerk. 



