"I think a lot of the agitation we have out here comes from the same thing. Take our passionate political quarreling, or our newspapers and the way they abuse each other. Or look at Judge Lindsey. I think the altitude is partly accountable for him, as well as for a lot of things the rest of us do. Of course it's a good thing in one way: it makes us energetic; but on the other hand, we are likely to have less balance than people who don't live a mile up in the air." As we talked, our car breezed toward the foothills. Presently we entered the mouth of a narrow cañon and, after winding along rocky slopes, emerged upon the town of Golden. Golden, now known principally as the seat of the State School of Mines, used to be the capital of Colorado. Spread out upon a prairie the place might assume an air of some importance, but stationed as it is upon a slope, surrounded by gigantic peaks, it seems a trifling town clinging to the mountainside as a fly clings to a horse's back. The slope upon which Golden is situated is a comparatively gentle one, but directly back of the city the angle changes and the surface of the world mounts abruptly toward the heavens, which seem to rest like a great coverlet upon the upland snows. Rivulets from the melting white above, were running through the streets of Golden, turning them to a sea of mud, through which we plowed powerfully on "third." As we passed into the backyard of Golden, the mountain seemed to lean out over us. "That's our road, up there," remarked the Denver gentleman who sat in the tonneau, between my companion and myself. He pointed upward, zig-zagging with his finger. We gazed at the mountainside. "You don't mean that little dark slanting streak like a wire running back and forth, do you?" asked my companion. "Yes, that's it. You see they've cut a little nick into the slope all the way up and made a shelf for the road to run on." "Is there any wall at the edge?" I asked. "No," he said. "There's no wall yet. We may have that later, but you see we have just built this road." "Isn't there even a fence?" "No. But it's all right. The road is wide enough." Presently we reached the bottom of the road, and began the actual ascent. "Is this it?" asked my companion. "Yes, this is it. You see the pavement is good." "But I thought you said the road was wide?" "Well, it is wide--that is, for a mountain road. You can't expect a mountain road to be as wide as a city boulevard, you know." "But suppose we should meet somebody," I put in. "How would we pass?" "There's room enough to pass," said the Denver gentleman. "You've only got to be a little careful. But there is no chance of our meeting any one. Most people wouldn't think of trying this road in winter because of the snow." "Do you mean that the snow makes it dangerous?" asked my companion. "Some people seem to think so," said the Denver gentleman.