102 BOOK OF A HUNDRED BEARS 



wilderness of the lodge-pole pine, each about the 

 right Christmas tree size for a medium family. 

 No wonder Mr. Pinchot says we need not worry 

 about Christmas trees. There are enough here 

 to keep us running for several hundred years, and 

 that is all they are good for. 



Within a mile or two we strike the Madison 

 River, and here your surprises begin. I had 

 expected mountains, cliffs, precipitous gorges, and 

 awe-inspiring canons from the outset. Not so. 

 The road winds in and out by a tranquil stream 

 that might be born in any eastern state. There 

 are no mountains in sight — just big brotherly hills 

 that make you feel comfortable and neighborly; 

 hills that alternate the sombre green of the pine 

 and the lively emerald of long grassy slopes. 

 Once there was a waterfall, a most conventional^ 

 ladylike waterfall, nothing rude or boisterous 

 about it. It dances and splutters and sparkles 

 down some stagey rocks, in the most theatrical 

 way, with the most self-conscious air. I more 

 than suspect that an army engineer built that 

 waterfall. It is as nice and precise as any West 

 Pointer. 



