Chapter II 



Hunting the Lynx 



ONE of the charms of Southern California lies 

 in the fact that the towns and many cities are 

 within a stone's throw of the open country, 

 or the mountains. Los Angeles is but thirteen miles 

 from the main range of the Sierra Madre, a jumble of 

 mountains so steep and forbidding that trained mount- 

 aineers have been confused by their precipitous caftons 

 and sharp divides. There is hardly a village, town, or 

 city where wild country is not available in some form in a 

 short distance. The stroller up the east branch of the Los 

 Angeles River, the Arroyo Seco, is led by agreeable paths 

 on this winter day into a cafton, down which a small 

 stream flows, now on the surface, again sinking beneath 

 it, flowing on and on to the distant sea. Here it has 

 high banks, and has cut into a series of hills that are a 

 blaze of yellow, carpeted with a small daisy-like flower. 

 Everywhere the river-bed is filled with polished stones, 

 and along the banks patches of silver foxtail grass nod 

 in the sunlight, and in the shallows windrows of mica 

 gleam in lines of gold. 



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