212 East and West 
by this large and free self of me, whose views 
of life are broad and serene and genial; who 
knows nothing of either money or time but 
who looks abroad over the landscape as if 
indeed he were the owner of this great South- 
West, and the silent mountains and the 
shimmering deserts were his private estate. 
Every mountain trail ascends to a region 
as remote from the gossipy world of the hotel 
or the ‘‘resort’’ as are the Pleiades or the Pole 
Star. With every foot of ascent that little 
world grows smaller, until finally it dwindles 
to nothing and vanishes as we cross some 
saddle or shoulder and continue the ascent on 
another slope of the mountain. There below 
they have mountain air but up here we have 
mountain thoughts as well: another point of 
view, that can never be enjoyed from a hotel 
veranda. For the ideas that go with rocking 
chairs and afternoon tea are not the ideas 
that go with the saddle and the spur. Here 
we abide by the traditions of the trail. I do 
not know whether we have become more 
spiritual or more healthily animal; whichever 
it is, it is far removed from that with which 
they are concerned in the hotel and which now 
plays no more part with us than it does with 
the horse. 
