120 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
“‘Holy Mackinaw Moses,’’ he ejaculated, in a 
tone of vast respect, ‘‘they’s all the original fifty- 
seven varieties of country there, ain’t they?’’ 
“‘It shore looks like a piece of God’s careless- 
ness!’’ assented Bob Moak. No one could add to 
that comment. 
Our intention was to camp on the main stream, 
some four miles from the top. There was but one 
trail down, and that none of the best. It had an 
alarming habit of vanishing at every particularly 
awkward place, as if its former users had been pos- 
sessed of wings wherewith to fly over the more diffi- 
cult stretches. At times we encountered obstacles 
that taxed even the ability of men on foot to sur- 
mount, but the packers by marvels of ingenuity and 
resource somehow got the burros through. About 
noon we found ourselves on the last ridge before the 
final drop to the bottom. This ridge separated the 
two main forks of the Animas. Where they came 
together it ended in a high, narrow, precipitous 
point, and here again the trail stopped abruptly. 
The descent seemed impossible but we had to get 
down somehow or go back to where we had started. 
So the packers, reconnoitring the edges, chose what 
seemed the least of many evils and drove the burros 
over. 
Then our troubles began. The 'shrewd pack ani- 
mals at once adopted a zigzag course of descent but 
even then, so steep was the slope, they could scarcely 
keep their feet. Luckily the surface rock was cov- 
