that at midday one travels in gloom; 

 protecting one's knees from the army 

 of trunks, getting out of the way of 

 Daisy and Billy, worse off than you 

 and this going on for hours. 



Ever we were toiling up, scaling 

 bald ridges that left no cover for the 

 imagination, mile after mile of chasm 

 and rock showed death waiting but 

 for an instant loss of poise, a single 

 misstep of a horse. 



Oh, we had not lacked incident, 

 and now we were enjoying the hiatus 

 of some sweetly dull days in camp 

 a tiny strip of green, scant pasture for 

 the horses, having called a halt. Un- 

 compromisingly rose the rocky cliffs 

 above, beside, beyond us. 



Bobbie Tevis was fishing in the 

 inevitably nearby stream. 



I never could understand the 

 fascination of holding an end of a stick 

 while a foolish bit of string soaked 

 in the water, but for Bobbie it has 

 volumes of interest. The stick is 

 glorified into a rod that cost a 

 month's wage for a labouring man, 

 and the paraphernalia of hooks, reels 

 and flies takes more thought than my 

 winter's wardrobe. Fortunately the 



