THE SHEEP OF MOUNT SHELDON 271 



September 4. It began to snow, and the next morning 

 four inches covered the ground. It was a beautiful clear 

 day and I was soon on the slopes of Mount Sheldon. Af- 

 ter ascending diagonally in a north-west direction, I saw 

 eight sheep three hundred yards beyond two rams, each 

 six years old, one dark, the other light, together with three 

 ewes and three lambs all quietly feeding. Two of the 

 ewes were dark, the other almost white. The white ewe 

 had a very dark lamb, while one of the dark ewes had two 

 nearly white lambs. I watched them for a long time, but 

 did not care to kill one. In color they agreed strictly with 

 the sheep found near the MacMillan River. 



Seeing a possible route to the peak of the mountain, 

 I began to ascend. Though leather moccasins were dan- 

 gerous, I had chosen a path among protruding rocks 

 where I hoped to find footing. Step by step I struggled 

 upward, often slipping and falling, and after reaching the 

 top made up my mind never to attempt another snow- 

 covered mountain unless with suitable footgear. When 

 I reached the crest of that stupendous granite mountain 

 and looked over, instead of seeing rough slopes, I looked 

 down into the depths of a magnificent cirque a vast 

 amphitheatre of perpendicular walls falling more than 

 three thousand feet to a lake of sapphire blue. Ancient 

 ice had carved out a great circular pit resembling a huge, 

 deep volcanic crater, the circle of cliffs almost meeting 

 toward the north-west, not three hundred feet apart. 

 Through this opening a stream trickled out from a lake. 

 Time had fashioned the precipice-walls in thousands of 

 fantastic shapes, the upper cliffs projecting in pillars, 



