42 Rod, Gun, and Palette in the High Rockies 



of the main Madison range, a blue wall of many-peaked majesty 

 that crowns and closes a far-stretching ocean of heaved gold that 

 brightens with the slant of sun upon the crown of a rise, and deep- 

 ens to the pale violet of the hollows, and the passage of a cloud 

 shadow, and in whose coulees and draws the aspens flame in orange 

 and brilliant gold. 



Coming down the easy slope to the floor of the valley, the 

 north fork of the Madison, below the level of the prairie, makes a 

 wide and sinuous sweep among reed beds compassing numberless 

 islets of willow brush. Following the south bank to the west end 

 of the valley, a halt was made on the side of a great hill — a north- 

 ward extension of Horse Butte — above the water, close to the point 

 where, in a deep channel, the north fork leaves the lake. Here, 

 the horses unharnessed and left to graze, the two hunters with 

 Jay took the boat, and left the artist to his own devices. 



Lying upon the hillside, one could but look, and look and 

 worship the very beauty of it. I sketched in haste. There was 

 but one pair of hands, and a day all too short. Wild duck passed 

 overhead or skimmed over the water below every few minutes. 

 A splendid fish hawk circled over the lake. A grass snake and a 

 great prairie cricket came up and fraternized with me. A badger 

 came to the mouth of his hole, a few feet in front and gazed curi- 

 ously at me. The interval before the hunters returned for lunch, 

 bringing back one mallard and a widgeon, was all too short. 



After lunch. Art, Bill and Jay again departing in the boat 

 for further sport and exploration, the easel was shifted to a fresh 

 point commanding the far-off Madison canyon. This, a great 

 gap in the line of hills that closed the eastern horizon, marking 

 the point of emergence of the main stream, an ochreously bright 

 sky visible through its depths, combined with near at hand willow 

 banks and reed beds in the stream, snow- threatening clouds over- 

 head drifting across a clear sky, whose reflections were dragged 

 down in the water into long columns of gray light, and scattering 

 breaks of yellow sun marking the fast advancing afternoon, to 

 form a most impressive composition. 



As I painted, wild bees embarrassed me much by continually 

 lighting on my palette, and diving head first into my colors, getting 

 themselves terribly messed up. Continually I had to lift them 

 out and put them on my coat sleeve, where at one time I had two 



