BIG HORN 49

It was the 7th of September, and our first hunting
day. The morning was brilliantly clear and cold when
Dennis and I walked up the valley along our littlestream.
Billy, the cook, and the horse wrangler were in the mean-
time to move the camp over into another valley further
on, where we should be closer to our hunting grounds.

A piercing wind was blowing and I had to walk
quickly to keep warm. A walk of an hour and a half
brought us to the end of the valley, which was joined
by another valley running at right angles to it. We
crossed the latter and ascended the mountain slope
beyond. High up on the ridge we found the tracks
of Big Horn, but for the moment this was forgotten
for the magnificent view we had from here. I suppose
we must have been somewhere about six thousand
feet up, and the mountain fell abruptly down to the
forest below us. Deep gulches and clefts ran in all
directions, and the mountain sides consisted of loose
screes with here and there an occasional small patch
of grass—typical Big Horn ground.

Far to the south the whole chain of the coast range
stood out distinctly with its countless saw-toothed
peaks and green-blue glaciers between them. In the
low country far below us the rivers wound like silver
threads, and I saw no less than three of them on their
way towards the coast and the sea, and I glimpsed
the gaps where they forced their way through the
mountain barriers.

More to the east the large valley of the Stickine
stood out boldly, and Dennis pointed out to me the
ranges where our friend the English Colonel was
hunting, and Icould not help wondering whether he
had already got his Big Horns.

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