120 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 



"Holy Mackinaw Moses," he ejaculated, in a 

 tone of vast respect, "they's all the original fifty- 

 seven varieties of country there, ain't they?" 



"It shore looks like a piece of God's careless- 

 ness!" assented Bob Moak. No one could add to 

 that comment. 



Our intention was to camp on the main stream, 

 some four miles from the top. There was but one 

 trail down, and that none of the best. It had an 

 alarming habit of vanishing at every particularly 

 awkward place, as if its former users had been pos- 

 sessed of wings wherewith to fly over the more diffi- 

 cult stretches. At times we encountered obstacles 

 that taxed even the ability of men on foot to sur- 

 mount, but the packers by marvels of ingenuity and 

 resource somehow got the burros through. About 

 noon we found ourselves on the last ridge before the 

 final drop to the bottom. This ridge separated the 

 two main forks of the Animas. Where they came 

 together it ended in a high, narrow, precipitous 

 point, and here again the trail stopped abruptly. 

 The descent seemed impossible but we had to get 

 down somehow or go back to where we had started. 

 So the packers, reconnoitring the edges, chose what 

 seemed the least of many evils and drove the burros 

 over. 



Then our troubles began. The shrewd pack ani- 

 mals at once adopted a zigzag course of descent but 

 even then, so steep was the slope, they could scarcely 

 keep their feet. Luckily the surface rock was cov- 



