ors and the buglike satellites passrnthrough it as the Big Dipper slippedrnslowly northward over the eastern horizon.rnWe rose a little past dawn, built uprnthe fire for coffee, and worked on thernsalmon some more. When we rode out,rnleaving the camp in place and travelingrnlight, with only a pair of saddlebags andrnthe canteen on the gelding, the sun wasrnwell above the land-line and the red clayrndamp around the edges of the snowfields.rnBeyond the pass the trail descendedrnfrom 10,000 feet into the first of a sequencernof steep basins, partially forestedrnand walled by cirques on their westernrnside. The cliffs were rimmed by snowcornicesrnand streaked by vertical colls,rnand snow to a depth of four and five feetrnlay in drifts across the forest floor, forcingrnus to dismount and lead downhillrnthrough the trees above Spring Creek tornthe bottom, where we mounted againrnand rode forward. Even Norma, who hasrnno more horse sense than a cat, observedrnthat Saab Star had behaved like a perfectrngentleman for nearly 24 hours now, as hernhad the previous summer. Beyond notrnshying, spooking, and showing his evernwhites, at age 16 he has developed arncalmness to replace the field of tensionrnthat had previously surrounded him likernan aura, without losing any of his Arabrnenthusiasm, strength, and stamina. Afterrnten years of hairtrigger horsemanship,rnoften in precarious terrain, the change isrna welcome one, possibl)’ even deserved.rn”Do you remember the first time I triedrnto pack an elk on him and he bolted overrnme when I was leading and threw himselfrnover a sidehill and ended up on hisrnfeet in the creek with the saddle and thernmeat under his belly?” “And you made arnbeautiful swandive over a log and got thernworst-looking black eye I ever saw.”rn”And the time he hung his hind legs uprnon a log and I let him have his head tornbuck loose and he bolted into a stand ofrnaspen so that I had to bail out of the saddlernwhen I couldn’t get rein back inrntime?” “And came within six inches ofrnbraining yourself on the same log, and afterwardrnyou couldn’t talk right for severalrnhours and stiffened up so you couldn’trnride and had to lead six miles out of elkrncamp, and when we got to the truck atrnsundown I had to lift you onto the truckrnseat.” “And the time I was camped withrnBill and Pat Wilson near Elbow Lake inrnthe Winds and he broke his picket linernand ran off with Larki, and we had tornload the gear we brought in with fivernhorses on three, and walk out 21 miles?”rn”I remember you were ready to shootrnhim when you picked him up three daysrnlater with the trailer at Lieberman’srnranch.” “Then in the Winds we got onrnbad footing below Lower Jean Lake andrnhe stepped on the gas pedal and tried tornbolt through a wet granite trough and Irnbarely stayed with him by hanging ontornhis neck.” “Bill Wilson kept looking atrnhim sideways and shaking his head, saying,rn’I don’t know… .'” “Yes. But he alsornsaid later, That little horse has a lot ofrnheart.’ Like his owner, of course.” “Yes.”rnWe rode up from the bottom andrnnorthward above Spring Creek where itrnbears east through the forested gap to thernGreys River, under battlements of rockrnformed by the outward curves of therncirques coming together, down and uprnacross the shoulders separating thernalpine basins filling with snowmelt fromrnthe cliffs and draining in steep small torrentsrninto the forest below the meadows.rnThe fresh track of elk and deer imprintedrnthe trail and the ground surrounding thernbasins, but wide areas of no green andrnlast year’s flattened grasses showed thatrnthe snow had been gone for only a fewrndays. Driftwood lay across the tails of thernlittle lakes, and yellow buttercups grew inrnthe shallow water. Hunting hawks tracedrncircles in the sky high above the rimrock,rnbut down here the songbirds had not arrivedrnyet, and scarcely any jays. Thernhorses flinched from a strong northerlyrnwind as we pushed on as far as the passrnoverlooking the wide basin where therntrail crosses west to join another comingrnin from Cottonwood Lake before switchingrneast, then north again to CorralrnCreek and up the creek to Corral CreekrnLake, surrounded on three sides by itsrnpalisade of rock. The alpine and subalpinerncountry has a strange formality, asrnif it had been designed by a multiculturalrnteam of English and Japanese gardeners.rnThe grass steeps in their fresh green,rnthe stands of darker pine, even the barernrock seemed diaphanous, suffused withrnsunlight, as if not rock and soil but lightrnitself were the mountains’ principal element.rn”Next time we’ll ride in from Cottonwood,rnand on up to Corral Lake.”rn”You wouldn’t guess you could take arnhorse along that trail, would you? Itrnlooks as if it’s slipping off the cliff face.”rn”But they’re never as awful as they look.”rnWe rested the horses and rode southrnagain with the wind at our backs and therncliff shadow leaning from the west. Atrnsix o’clock we reached Sheep Pass and arnquarter of an hour later we had crossedrnover the last snowfield and arrived inrncamp, where we staked out the horsesrnand brought what remained of thernsalmon from the snowdrift where it hadrnlain buried all day. The coals were stillrnalive at the bottom of the firepit andrnplenty of wood lay stacked for thernevening fire. While I checked the gelding’srnknots, Norma sat among the whitebarkrnpines fixing drinks. “What was itrnEaulkner used to say about bourbon?”rn”He said thank God for Jack Daniel, itrnnever lets you down.” “Did he ever tryrnJim Beam?” “I don’t know. Ed Abbeyrnliked it. But here’s to Jim Beam anyway.rnIt never lets you down, either.” “Andrnhere’s to Mr. Windsor.” “Oh, yes. Arntoast to Alton Windsor.” “Remember,rnyou’re not going to write about this.”rn”No, I’m not. Unless I don’t have anythingrnelse to write about.”rn”Look,” Norma said. “Something’srnmoving up there on the snow. Three ofrnthem.” “Where?” “On the coll, just belowrnthe ridgeline to the left of the trees.”rnI set my drink carefully on the grass,rntrained the field glasses on the west wallrnof Smith Fork canyon, and moved up tornthe coll, 800 vertical feet above camprnand just under a mile out. “They’re goingrnover the top now.” I elevated thernglasses slightly and found two cow elk onrnthe ridgeline, in silhouette against thernsky. “Therc’re more of them to the left,rnalong the top.”rnOnce you knew where to look, the elkrnwere plainly visible to the naked eye. Wernsat on a forked pine log we had braced tornmake a bench, drinking whiskey andrnwatching the elk graze south along thernridge through clumps of krummholzrnpine. Occasionally thev would turn atrnright angles to the cliff, taking the redrnlight of the vanished sun on their flanks.rnFrom where we sat they appeared veryrnsmall and delicate against the failing sky.rn”Will we be the last generation ofrnAmericans to know this?”rn”I don’t care.”rn”Yes, you do.”rn”If I do, I don’t want to thinkrnabout it.”rn”You care.”rn”Do you want to have anotherrndrink?”rn”If you do.”rn”All right, then. Let’s both havernanother drink.”rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn