The hammer of a woodpecker, the scur of a
rasping blue jay, the twitter of some red bills, the soft _thug_ of the
unshod broncho over the trail of forest mold, no other sound unless the
soul of the sea from the wind harping in the trees. Better than the
jangle of city cars in that stuffy hotel room of the germ-infested
town, isn't it?

If there is snow on the peaks above, you feel it in the cool sting of
the air. You hear it in the trebling laughter, in the trills and rills
of the brook babbling down, sound softened by the moss as all sounds are
hushed and low keyed in this woodland world. And all the time, you have
the most absurd sense of being set free from something. By-and-by when
eye and ear are attuned, you will see the light reflected from the pine
needles glistening like metal, and hear the click of the same needles
like fairy castanets of joy. Meantime, take a long, deep, full breath of
these condensed sunbeams spiced with the incense of the primeval woods;
for you are entering a temple, the temple where our forefathers made
offerings to the gods of old, the temple which our modern churches
imitate in Gothic spire and arch and architrave and nave. Drink deep in
open, full lungs; for you are drinking of an elixir of life which no
apothecary can mix. Most of us are a bit ill mentally and physically
from breathing the dusty street sweepings of filth and germs which
permeate the hived towns. They will not stay with you here! Other dust
is in this air, the gold dust of sunlight and resin and ozone. They will
make you over, will these forest gods, if you will let them, if you will
lave in their sunlight, and breathe their healing, and laugh with the
chitter and laughter of the squirrels and streams.

And what if your spirit does not go out to meet the spirit of the woods
halfway? Then, the woods will close round you with a chill loneliness
unutterable. You are an alien and an exile. They will have none of you
and will reveal to you none of their joyous, dauntless life secrets.

CHAPTER II

AMONG THE NATIONAL FORESTS OF THE SOUTHWEST

You have not ridden far towards the ranger's house in the Forest before
you become aware that clothing for town is not clothing for the wilds.
No matter how hot it may be at midday, in this high, rare air a chill
comes soon as the sun begins to sink. To be comfortable, light flannels
must be worn next the skin, with an extra heavy coat available--never
farther away from you