“Wah-Wah-Tay-See, Little Firefly,” I said, in the Indian language of the poet, pointing out the radium hands. “Light me with your little candle. I give you this?” Hostein Chee accepted it with a child-like smile. “And you give me this?” I said, touching his armlet. “No good,” said Hostein Chee, drawing back in alarm. But I had difficulty in getting my watch back. Each night of the trip thereafter, we went through the same game, the Red Man accepting my watch with gratification, but showing the same surprised obstinacy when I tried to take the armlet, and polite regret at having to return my watch. In the end, he lost the name bestowed on him by a derisive community, and became Wah-Wah-Tay-See for the rest of the trip. Sleep that night was more romantically staged than under ordinary circumstances. The cold, glacial tang of high altitude nipped us pleasantly. The cliffs shut us in, not forbiddingly but protectingly. The firelight was cozy and homelike. We made a little oasis of human companionship in this wide primeval solitude, but our spirits were high enough not to feel our isolation. Rather, we had an increased elation and sense of freedom. What myriads of people, jostling each other every day, never get more than a few feet away from their kind! We had a sense of courage toward life new to us all. The mere fact of our remoteness helped us shake off layers and layers of other people’s personality, which we had falsely regarded as our own and showed us new selves undreamed of. We laugh, at the movies, at the frequency with which the hero goes “out there, away from all this” to “find himself.” Yet I think everyone should, once in a while, leave routine and safety behind, with water that runs from faucets, beds under roofs, and food coming daily from baker and grocer, and policemen on every corner. Too much security stales the best in us. It seemed the middle of the night when we were wakened by the sound of galloping hoofs. From our tent window, we saw the morning sky painting an orange band against the cliffs, and Hostein Chee driving the outfit up the ravine. On his pony’s saddle hung the carcass of a second sheep, for from today we were to leave fresh meat behind us. Even the Navajos and Piutes seldom wander far into this hinterland of nowhere. We snatched a few minutes more of sleep, guiltily, while through our door came sounds of preparation for breakfast. We shivered and piled on more coats. At last the crackle of the fire promised warmth; we crawled out, washed in the stream, and found breakfast ready and the packers impatiently waiting for tents and gunnysacks.