That first night as we sat around the 
camp fire there came out of the black- 
ness behind us a faint greeting — 
Wheres Who—Wheres Who—from a 
denizen of this mountain park, the 
great horned owl. The next morning 
we packed biscuits into our saddle-bags 
and separated for the day into two par- 
ties, Nimrod and the Horsewrangler, 
the Host and myself, leaving the 
Cook to take care of camp. We were 
hunting for elk, mountain lion, or 
bear. Nimrod had his camera, as well 
as his gun, a combination which the 
Horsewrangler eyed with scant toler- 
ance. 
The Host led me down the Wiggin’s 
Fork for two miles, when we came out 
upon a sandy, pebbly stretch which 
in spring the torrents entirely covered, 
but now had been dried up for 
