_June 23_ (Wednesday). We marched seventeen miles to the highest of the Black Hills, and then encamped. This has been the most interesting march we have yet had; the road ran through rich, luxurious valleys, over high hills, through cuts, in deep, dark ravines, winding among immense rocks and boulders or burying itself in the shady depths of dense pine woods. In the valleys we saw, long, rich grass, decorated by countless millions of flowers and wild rose bushes in full bloom. And upon the hills we beheld curious specimens of nature's skill in carving, many fantastic figures among the large sandstone rocks furnishing ample proof of it. Here, too, might be seen the unusual sight of wild flowers, in all the glory of summer, elevating their gorgeous heads above a bed of pure snow. The snow we considered such a novelty, it being the latter part of June, that we indulged in a set-to with snowballs. From our camp upon the summit a most magnificent view can be had. On one side there is a steep descent for about a quarter of a mile, then, by crossing a stream, one ascends a very steep mountain, thickly covered with pines. As many of the giants of the forest lie upon the ground, in decay, as are standing, and the ground is covered by decomposed vegetable matter to a depth of three or four feet. On the side from which we came the hills may be seen, one below the other, some red with sandstone, some white with clay, some green with grass and shrubbery, and others black with pines. On the third side rough, ragged, toppling crags are piled, one upon the other, in the wildest and most picturesque confusion. The fourth side is more charming, if possible, even than the others; the whole immense valley stretching far, far away to the Medicine Bow Mountains, the Laramie River winding across it like a silver thread. This was our advent among the mountain scenery, and with it we were delighted.