hats, army socks drawn up over the cuff of the
breeches, and pack-shoes. A pack-shoe is one in which the leather of the
upper part makes the sole also, without a seam. On to this soft sole is
sewed a heavy leather one. The pack-shoe has a fastened tongue and is
waterproof.

And I? I had not counted on the "movie"-man, and I was dressed for
comfort in the woods. I had buckskin riding-breeches and high boots, and
over my thin riding-shirt I wore a cloth coat. I had packed in my warbag
a divided skirt also, and a linen suit, for hot days, of breeches and
coat. But of this latter the least said the better. It betrayed me and,
in portions, deserted me.

All of us carried tin drinking-cups, which vied with the bells on the
pack-animals for jingle. Most of us had sweaters or leather
wind-jammers. The guides wore "chaps" of many colors, boots with high
heels, which put our practical packs in the shade, and gay silk
handkerchiefs.

Joe was to be a detachable unit. As a matter of fact, he became detached
rather early in the game, having been accidentally given a bucker. It
was on the second day, I think, that his horse buried his head between
his fore legs, and dramatized one of the best bits of the trip when Joe
was totally unable to photograph it.

He had his own guide and extra horse for the camera. It had been our
expectation that, at the most hazardous parts of the journey, he would
perch on some crag and show us courageously risking our necks to have a
good time. But on the really bad places he had his own life to save, and
he never fully trusted Maud, I think, after the first day. Maud was his
horse.

Besides, when he did climb to some aerie, and photographed me, for
instance, in a sort of Napoleon-crossing-the-Alps attitude, sitting my
horse on the brink of eternity and being reassured from safety by the
Optimist--outside the picture, of course--the developed film flattened
out the landscape. So that, although I was on the edge of a canon a mile
deep, I might as well have been posing on the bank of the Ohio River.

On the east side of the Park I had ridden Highball. It is not
particularly significant that I started the summer on Highball and ended
it on Budweiser. Now I had Angel, a huge white mare with a pink nose, a
loving disposition, and a gait that kept me swallowing my tongue for
fear I would bite the end off it. The Little Boy had Prince, a small
pony which ran exactly like an Airedale dog, and in every cant