Autumn Days in the Rockies. 



Wednesday afternoon another crank and myself went on 

 a photographing tramp up the canyon. We followed the rail- 

 road as far as the falls, then taking a dim trail, started up the 

 steep side of the canyon towards one of the highest peaks, the 

 roar of the little cataract behind us growing fainter and fainter 

 as we toiled up the rough mountain side. The trail led through 

 beautiful groves of pine and spruce among raspberry bushes 

 loaded with luscious fruit. We picked and ate until our stom- 

 achs said "enough." The raspberries were not the only attrac- 

 tion, for 



"Beside the path hung trailing vine 

 Pretty bluebells and columbine." 



We began to wonder where the trail was taking us when 

 an abrupt turn brought us out on a table-like spur near the top. 

 The view that lay spread around and below us well repaid the 

 hours of toil up the steep mountain side. Around us on all 

 sides towered the stupendous rocky masses that form the west- 

 ern slope of the Rockies. From the cliff side where we stood 

 stretched away to the southward the rugged green fringed 

 walls of the canyon, the tumbling river appearing and disap- 

 pearing among the green like a silver ribbon. Behind us lay 

 the snow-capped peaks hidden in a bank of dark clouds. The 

 world goes by comparisons and we did not realize how high 

 we were until we caught sight of two white specks on the dark 

 rocks above the falls. Setting up the camera I put on the tele- 

 photo and focused on the falls, and the ground glass showed 

 two anglers dressed in white, about one-eighth of an inch tall. 

 The day was ideal for camera work and we made the most of 

 the opportunity until the declining sun and chill air warned 

 us that it was time to move toward home. It was pretty dark 

 in the thick timber, but we made the descent without accident 

 and reached the cottages in time for a late supper. 



Outers' Book. 



