The Proposed Roosevelt National Park 31 



ordinary places a most discouraging task, but here merely a 

 succession of animals to be laden and hitched leisurely, me- 

 thodically, joyously. Time was never of the essence of the con- 

 tract. If we got under way at nine, we were in danger of 

 breaking a record ; if at eleven, all well and good. The five of 

 us usually took the trail a half-hour or so ahead of the packers 

 and train, meandering on our way. A curious bit of conglom- 

 erate rock would stop us for a look, a stream always — for our 

 thirst was unquenchable. A vista down a valley, a new view 

 of some familiar peak, an alpine garden of wild flowers, would 

 call for unlimbering the camera and tripod. 



Lunch was merely incidental, thanks to our nearly adequate 

 breakfast. Its time was a widely variable one, its place deter- 

 mined largely by what was offered in the way of feed for the 

 stock, in addition to the essential water. A small flour-bag on 

 the saddle-pommel would disclose a few hunks of hard bread, 

 perhaps some cold fried ham or bacon, certainly a dessert in a 

 can of peaches or pears. Half an hour later would find us in 

 the saddle once more. 



The afternoon's ride was frequently the larger part of the 

 day's journey. Its end had to find us near good grazing — not 

 an easy thing to find in that country when the sheep occupy it 

 — preferably close beside a stream, and with a grove of trees 

 for our sleeping-quarters, if the gods were so kindly disposed. 



My inclination is to speak of the evening meal, but good taste 

 bids me forbear. With the brief admission that it was larger, 

 more varied, with rather greater bulk than that offered by the 

 matutinal affair, I am constrained to allow the reader's imagi- 

 nation to do its worst. 



We were following the Muir Trail along the backbone of the 

 Sierra from Grant Park to the Yosemite, by way of the South 

 Fork of the Kings River, Granite Pass, the Middle Fork of 

 the Kings, Grouse Meadows, the Evolution Basin, VermiUon 

 Valley, Goodale Pass, Fish Greek, the Devil's Postpile, Thou- 

 sand Island Lake, and down the Lyell Canon to the Tuolumne 

 Meadows. The names alone almost epitomize the glorious 

 country that Clarence King, Muir, Le Conte, and others have 

 known far better how to picture in words. May I claim only 

 the credit of knowing enough not to try to describe it? If I 



