We breakfasted under the highest peak of all, at the little Fish Creek inn. Here the scenery resembled the landscapes of impressive grandeur our grandmothers received for wedding presents, with crags and waterfalls, jungles, mountains and valleys gloomily heaped together in a three foot canvas. Our breakfast was a simple affair of stewed fruit, oatmeal, fried ham, fried eggs, bacon, hot biscuits, coffee and griddle cakes. Thus securely ballasted, our chance of being toppled off a cliff’s edge was materially lessened. Now came the climax of the drive,--the climb to Lookout Point. Two thousand vertical feet of rock would seem a sufficient barrier to turn humanity back into the fastnesses whence it came. But moccasined feet had won to the summit, and motor cars with the power of many cayuses now roar over the same trail, a tortuous mile upward to Lookout Point. Whether this spot was named for its scenic beauty or for a warning, matters not: the name fits. We looked our fill. I cannot describe what we saw. Go and see it for yourself, even at the risk of breaking a neck. The safety of one’s neck is always inversely as the beauty of the view. Miles on jagged miles of mountain tops lay below us. It was not long before we became aware of the extreme unimportance of ourselves and our tiny affairs. The mountains shouted to each other, “GOD IS!” With a suggestion of Bunyan, we reached Superstition Mountain next, and left it behind. Then the scenery, having had its last triumphant fling of grandeur, settled down to levels of gray and brown. The world which a moment since had stood on its head for joy tumbled flat, and became content with mediocrity. Five miles more, and the reason for Roosevelt Dam lay before our eyes. Five miles of blistering country, so dry, as a guide said, that “when you spit you can’t see where it lands”; a country burnt to a crisp by withering sunshine so intense that shadows, sharp-edged as razor blades, look vermilion purple. Only horned reptiles, poisonous and thorny-backed, can exist here, and plants as ungracious, compelled to hoard their modicum of moisture in iron-clad, spiny armament. And then, a line of demarcation the width of a street, and the Water-God has turned this colorless ache of heat to emerald green. Thwarted cactus gives way to long rows of poplars and leopard-spotted eucalyptus bordering blue canals. We saw a corner of Southern France where the hills of Provençe edge the fertile plains of Avignon. We were in the famous Salt River Valley, the boast of parched Arizona.