Climbing steadily, we passed Winkleman, a little, very German settlement. Nobody had suggested we should find the scenery anything out of the ordinary, though many had said the road was good,--an outright and prodigious mis-statement of fact. One temperate person had mentioned it might be “well worth our while.” If that same lady were to meet Christ she would probably describe him as “a very nice man.” The scenery was grand; it progressed from grand to majestic, and from majestic to tremendous. The raw wind, with its ensuing flurry of cold rain had died down, and the sun was out. Threading westward into one mountain pass after another, we soon were making our cautious way along a narrow shelf which constantly wound higher and higher above the rushing, muddy Gila River. We had come suddenly upon magnificence minus macadam where we had been led to expect macadam minus magnificence. Suddenly looking down, I decided the scenery was becoming altogether too grand. Far below, the Gila was a tiny thread, getting tinier every moment. On the very edge of the fast deepening canyon hung the road, with neither fence nor wall between us and eternity, _via_ the Gila River. As we climbed, the road narrowed till for a dozen miles no car could have passed us. Regularly it twisted in such hairpin curves that our front tires nearly pinched our back tires as we made the turn. Instead of being graded level, the road rose or fell so steeply in rounding corners that the car’s hood completely concealed which way the road twisted. If we went left while the road turned right we should collide with a cliff; if the road turned left and we right, we should be plunged through space, so it behooved us to get our bearings quickly. Once, fortunately at a wide place, we met a team of four mules. Ignorant of the Arizona law requiring motorists to give animals the inside of the road, we drew up close to the cliff, while the faithful mules went half over the crumbly edge, but kept the wagon safely on the trails. I began to notice a strange vacuum where once had been the pit of my stomach. Ordinarily I cannot step over a manhole without my knees crumpling to paper, and that thread of a stream a mile, or probably only about 500 feet below, gave me an acute attack of “horizontal fever.”