THE KILLING OF THE GREY BEAR 177 



At last we reached the Mecca of the jaunt, not one 

 corrie, but many. We pitched camp, and made it as 

 comfortable as could be, and sent back the pack animals 

 to some good grazing ground five or six miles away. 

 There was no timber within twelve or fourteen. 



Our bivouac was most beautifully situated, at so 

 high an altitude that ofttimes we mistook the low- 

 hanging clouds for peaks. The song of the torrent 

 racing through the ravine below deceived us into think- 

 ing it the wind rising, until we got used to it and didn't 

 hear it at all. We looked right down into the seething 

 whiteness, where black rocks showed above the rushing 

 waters, like the rounded backs of so many hippopotami. 

 The Siwash Indians in British Columbia always say 

 that where the rocks are black the waters are white, 

 which is true of their rapids, and in Caucasia is illus- 

 trated also. 



We had not the luxury of camp beds, but our 

 sleeping-bags laid out on tiny round pebbles, strewn 

 very thickly, provided comfortable resting-places. 

 The stones kept out the damp and yielded to the body, 

 and were certainly as soft to lie upon as the average 

 seaside lodging-house bed, for which you have to pay 

 ever so much. 



Perhaps the real consciousness of the wilds we had 

 reached only came to us in the dark hours. All was so 

 solemn, so weird, so still. I have never felt a stillness 

 like it. And when, perhaps, the haunting cry of some 

 rare night-bird cut the silence, the indescribable deso- 

 lation seemed intensified a hundredfold. On every 

 side loomed mighty isolated terraces where even ghosts 



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