The view on every side is magnificent.  Rising out of the canon, on the farther side, the rounded domes of the hills, clothed in velvet green, roll from one to another like huge waves of the ocean, while far to the right old Grizzly stands majestically above the others, its top crowned with waving verdure, like the gaudy headdress of some mighty warrior.

We descend into the canon by a well-marked trail, and the shade of the trees is most grateful after our walk in the sun.  We follow downstream, where the speckled trout lie hid in the deep pools, and the song sparrows sing their sweetest, and at last find ourselves at the object of our quest, opposite the caves.

There are three or four of these, large and small, which were used in former times by the Indians.  We had fully intended to climb the face of this almost perpendicular cliff, to explore the caves, and photograph the interiors with the aid of flashlights, but decided that the climb was too hard, and the ground too wet and slippery for safety.  As a false step or an insecure foothold would send us to the bottom with broken bones, if not broken necks, we contented ourselves with photographing the face of the cliff from a safe distance.

Retracing our steps, crossing the stream, and making a long detour, we tried to reach the caves from above.  It was a hard, tedious climb, over rough and jagged rocks, but after nearly an hour’s struggle, slipping and sliding, holding on to every shrub that offered the semblance of a grip, we reached the top.  Then by a more tedious and dangerous descent, we reached a large flat rock just above the caves.  Crawling out upon the rock, and venturing as near the edge as we dared, we found it almost as impossible to reach the caves from above as from below, and finally gave up the attempt.

[Illustration:  Wild-cat canon]

But we were well repaid for our rough climb, for a more magnificent panorama could hardly be found.  We looked for miles up and down the canon, in either direction, so far below us that the head grew dizzy.  The trees followed the tortuous course of the canon, and two men that we saw far below us looked like pigmies.

Far above us a sparrow hawk circled above the trees, and we were told that an owl had a nest somewhere among the rocks.  We did not look for it, but certainly nothing but an owl, or some other bird, could ever hope to scale the rocks successfully.  We rested a long time on the top of the rock, enjoying the view, and regaining our wind for the climb to the top.  This we accomplished without accident, save for the few scratches incident to such work.  It was the season when the flowering currant puts on its gala dress of pink blossoms, and the banks of the creek for a long distance were like a flower garden.  On the higher ground the beautiful Zygadene plant, with its pompon of white star-shaped flowers, and long graceful leaves, grew in profusion.  Maidenhair ferns, the only variety we saw, sent forth their delicate streamers from every nook and cranny, forming a carpet of exquisite texture.