Coaching at Santa Catalina 281 



ains seemingly moving upward, the horses rushing into 

 the sea. There is a roar of wheels grinding over hard 

 roads ; a musical clanking of buckles and trapping, the 

 snap of a long lash ; words from the driver that the 

 horses understand. They appear to be running away, 

 yet it is merely as clever a piece of driving as one could 

 well imagine ; all six horses are running loosely in the 

 harness, and the coach is being managed by the brake. 

 No words can describe the sensation of this gallant run, 

 this exhibit of skill that is all too short. The horses 

 dash out onto a point seemingly into space, then wheel 

 around the lower trail, sending clouds of dust over the 

 edge of the precipice, and roll into Avalon town amid 

 the cheers of the observers who have been watching 

 the descent. 



"Eighteen minutes from the summit," some one 

 says, and you think it must have been a mistake. It 

 surely was instantaneous, a John Gilpin dream. 



If the return ride is not taken, the coach moves on 

 from the summit along the north face of the island; 

 crossing some of the deepest cafions, affording a series 

 of fine views of ocean and abyss. Suddenly the road 

 turns at the head of what is called Middle Ranch Canon, 

 and the horses gallop down into the heart of the island. 

 The cafion deepens and a brook appears ; now running 

 through an arcade of willows, between masses of the wild 

 rose, if in early spring, which fill the air with perfume. 

 Flocks of the plumed quail rise here and there, and count- 

 less numbers run along the road before the horses. 



