30 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
could not but admire the gigantic abandon with which 
the tall cliffs broke away in ragged bluffs and ridges 
of rim rock, the sweep of the towering timbered 
ridges, the sinister depth of great yawning canyons, 
haunts of the grizzly and the mountain lion. 
I remember one evening especially when this 
matchless panorama produced an impression upon 
me that still remains vivid and undimmed, with all 
the wild grandeur of outline and delicacy of colour- 
ing that made the original unique in my experience. 
Frazer and I had strolled out to Lookout Ledge, 
a little rocky point near camp, just at sunset. The 
broad forest falling downward and away before us 
stretched grandly, a mass of moving green, to the 
timber line. Beyond, rolling yellow hills tumbled 
and sprawled, lower and ever lower, till they melted 
into a velvet plain with the tiny silver vein of the 
Rio Grande winding across like an attenuated, shin- 
ing snake. Further yet, beyond other plains, faintly 
visible, rose the uneven, misty line of the San Mateo 
mountains, fifty miles away as the crow flies. The 
sky and the air were alive with a warm, marvellous 
afterglow. It subdued the harsher features of the 
scene, touched the hills and valleys with wonderfully 
soft pastel shades, and made the wavering outline of 
the far-off range throb and glow with magical 
opalescent hues, like the Mountains of Dream. 
I had been completely lost in this vision, when F'ra- 
zer’s voice brought me back with a jerk. ’ 
