[Illustration: THE BOTTOM OF THE CAÑON]

The view on every side is magnificent. Rising out of the cañon, on the
farther side, the rounded domes of the hills, clothed in velvet green,
roll from one to another like huge waves of the ocean, while far to
the right old Grizzly stands majestically above the others, its top
crowned with waving verdure, like the gaudy headdress of some mighty
warrior.

We descend into the cañon by a well-marked trail, and the shade of the
trees is most grateful after our walk in the sun. We follow
downstream, where the speckled trout lie hid in the deep pools, and
the song sparrows sing their sweetest, and at last find ourselves at
the object of our quest, opposite the caves.

There are three or four of these, large and small, which were used in
former times by the Indians. We had fully intended to climb the face
of this almost perpendicular cliff, to explore the caves, and
photograph the interiors with the aid of flashlights, but decided that
the climb was too hard, and the ground too wet and slippery for
safety. As a false step or an insecure foothold would send us to the
bottom with broken bones, if not broken necks, we contented ourselves
with photographing the face of the cliff from a safe distance.

Retracing our steps, crossing the stream, and making a long detour, we
tried to reach the caves from above. It was a hard, tedious climb,
over rough and jagged rocks, but after nearly an hour's struggle,
slipping and sliding, holding on to every shrub that offered the
semblance of a grip, we reached the top. Then by a more tedious and