42 Life in the Open 



following them over the country, and my first effort along 

 this line in Southern California demonstrated that for 

 me at least, where deer were not very common, the 

 sport merged into work of the most arduous nature, and 

 after that I hunted deer with hounds, skirting the 

 slopes of mountains, using the dogs to start them in the 

 lower cafions but not to run them down. 



A single hunt may illustrate the arduous nature of 

 the sport if followed with enthusiasm. By sunrise we 

 were riding down the Caftada between the Sierra Madre 

 and the San Rafael Hills, the road lying between the 

 ridges in the centre of a wide valley. It was Septem- 

 ber, the last of the long summer. The alfileria that swept 

 along the valley in the early spring, clothing it with 

 green, was dead, and the open country bore a brown 

 and burnt-umber shade. The vineyards, orange and 

 lemon trees were green, but the tall mustard stalks that 

 had been laden with gold, the clovers and others were 

 dead, and their tones and shades combined with the 

 barren spots in rich neutral tints. The sun was just 

 rising, the ranges were clothed in purple hues, and far 

 to the east a scarlet alpine glow appeared growing and 

 spreading over the world. The deep shadows crept out 

 of the cafions, the divides became more pronounced, the 

 distant ranges assumed deeper blues, and finally the big 

 trees that fringed the summits were silhouetted against 

 the blue sky as the sun climbed up out of the desert 

 and looked down on California. 



We drove through a long line of ranches for five 



