Hostein Chee was finishing his last diamond hitch when we returned to camp. Our horses were changed; some who yesterday had been mere pack animals were promoted to the rank of saddle horses. The Golfer had drawn a powerful black mule, and had mounted him jauntily. The Golfer was new to horses, but anyone could ride a mule. Just then, as he bent to adjust a stirrup, the familiar jingle of the departing pack and the music of Hostein Chee’s alien profanity came to those long ears. Forgetting his recent rise in station, the mule leaped eagerly forward to join his mates. Briar and bush did not stop the pair; they tore downhill over boulders and through thickets. Young alders slapped the Golfer in the face, but he hung on until the mule, in despair at seeing demure Annie trot out of his vision, took the stream at a leap. At that moment, those who were ahead say that the black mule caught up with Annie. The Golfer had lost interest in the amorous pursuit, and was sitting up picking the cactus thorns out of himself when we arrived. “What happened?” we asked, in the way people will ask questions. “I’d thought I’d get off,” answered the Golfer. But thereafter, he and the black mule became firm, if not fast companions. The gorge we had passed through in the dark we retraced to find full of color. Great aspens bordered the heights, while the river bed was full of flowers. As we came to the opening the canyon broadened, and the reddish cliffs became higher and took on strange shapes of beasts and humans. A whole herd of elephants carved in the sandstone seemed guarding the entrance into Segi canyon, meticulously complete, even to white tusks, wrinkled trunks and little eyes, as if these had been the freehand plans the Creator of elephants had sketched on the wall before he began to work them out according to blue-print. We worked through and across Segi canyon until we stood on a ledge of rock, and looked over miles of rose, purple and stormy blue, toward corrugated walls high enough to fence in the world. And then began a descent of two hours, while the sun blazed up in this shadeless waste of rocks. We scrambled over boulders bigger than our horses, dragging the reluctant animals after us on the rein, ready to dodge quickly if they slipped. A few lizards glided under cover as we advanced, the only living creatures in sight, though from the heights came occasionally the melancholy story of a ring-dove or a hoot-owl. The trail clung to sheer walls, its switchbacks rougher and at times far steeper than the Grand Canyon trails. Since its discovery ten years ago, little has been done to improve it, necessarily, because of its extreme length and the fact that it is not situated in a national park. For these reasons, it will probably never lose its primitive wildness.