Ahead of us the pack horses jogged reluctantly, as if they knew they were in for it. The trail we were to make has the reputation of being difficult if not dangerous in its rough footing, widely separated camps and lack of water. Yet the beginning was uneventful enough. For a dozen miles we wound through Marsh Pass, with the typical desert scenery of hot, burnt plains, rolling hills and low cliffs, and dry river beds. Then we turned at right angles into Segi, or Lake Canyon, winding east to west between bright pink sandstone bluffs, outlined in whimsical shapes against a clear gold sky. The green, grassy valley abounded in the sweet flowers of the desert, a strange contrast to the bare, stark and forbidding rocks hemming it in. We persuaded our horses to a trot, for we still had miles to go. At twilight, when the heat suddenly changed to a frosty cool, we turned into a side canyon whose narrow walls rose higher as we progressed. The horses slipped and tumbled in the dark. Unexpectedly, Toby and I found ourselves struggling alone up a path which became more precarious every minute. Our horses finally refused to advance, and dismounting, we saw that we had mistaken for a trail a blind shelf of the bank high above the stream. The ledge narrowed till there was scarcely room to turn around; the horses’ feet slipped among the loose boulders. We could see little but the blazing stars overhead. We could hear nothing; our party had ridden far ahead without missing us. At last a faint call drifted to us, and soon a guide appeared to our rescue. Turning down the stream-bed we made our way after him to camp, a mile further, where the others were already dismounted, and the pack unloaded. Tired and ravenous, we rested on our saddles while the horses strayed off, munching the fine, sweet grass. If Mr. Wetherell was tired he showed no sign, though since morning he had been busy. While the other men unpacked bedding and arranged camp, he dug a deep pit, placing burning logs within. The pit finished, he buried the mutton that a few hours ago was a happy sheep, and covered it lightly. Before we could believe it possible, it was cooked. Steaming and crisp it was sliced and distributed, and the mutton which had been a sheep became as rapidly a remnant. The day had been sultry, but we were glad now of the roaring fire. It sent a glare on the face of the red cliffs on the opposite bank, not unlike El Capitan of Yosemite in contour. We looked and forgot them again, to look again and be surprised to see them in place of the sky. Not till we threw our heads far back could we see their edge. The pleasant sound of the little stream came incessantly from below. His silver glittering in the firelight, Hostein Chee sat smoking a cigarette, like a Buddha breathing incense. I went to him, and tried to bargain my Ingersoll wrist-watch for his armlet. I let him hear it tick.