210 BOOK OF A HUNDRED BEARS 



ambled quietly over to the town of Gardiner, 

 which lies at the northern gate of the Park. A& 

 you leave Mammoth, the trail mounts a lofty 

 ridge, and, at once, you are in a barren land. 



It is curious, but on every side of the Park 

 is a region of little rain, an arid, barren land. 

 The moment you quit its borders greenness and 

 vegetation are left behind. 



It is as though Nature herself had set this nook 

 there in the hills, surrounded by barriers, re-en- 

 forced with arid and desolate hills. Beyond its 

 limits are no wild flowers, no long green slopes, no 

 streams and waterfalls, no animal life — just deso- 

 lation. 



I like the trail. I have ridden it in many lands, 

 followed its windings, perused its pages, learned 

 its secrets, and, after the weary and crow^ded 

 ways of the road, gladly found myself again in 

 the loneliness of the trail. 



The road proceeds by indirection; it avoids 

 obstacles; the trail surmounts them. On the road 

 is traffic and commerce — people coming and 

 going — the clamor of business. The trail is lonely. 



