Indeed, the next time I am overcome by one of my mad desires to see a
bear, I shall go to the zoo.
It was fifteen years, I believe, since Dan Devore had seen the Agnes
Creek Valley. From the condition of the trail, I am inclined to think
that Dan was the last man who had ever used it. And such a wonderland
as it is! Such marvels of flowers as we descended, such wild
tiger-lilies and columbines and Mariposa lilies! What berries and
queen's-cup and chalice-cup and bird's-bill! There was trillium, too,
although it was not in bloom, and devil's-club, a plant which stings and
sets up a painful swelling. There were yew trees, those trees which the
Indians use for making their bows, wild white rhododendron and spirea,
cottonwood, white pine, hemlock, Douglas spruce, and white fir.
Everywhere there was mountain-ash, the berries beloved of bears. And
high up on the mountain there was always heather, beautiful to look at
but slippery, uncertain footing for horse and man.
Twenty-five miles, broken with canter and trot, is not more than I have
frequently taken on a brisk sunny morning at home.
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