We are now ready to go over the old Tonto Trail the
trail made centuries ago by mountain sheep,
Small bands of which are still
to be found in the remoter corners of the Canyon - then followed by the
Indians, whose moccasined feet made less impression upon it than did the
hoofs of the sheep. And in the two or three decades just passed, a few
white men trod it. Perhaps Powell, or some of his men, or Stanton, walked
where we now walk, or ride, and surely some of those early mining
prospectors of the Canyon - Ashurst, McClure, Marshall, Hance, Boucher,
Berry, Brashear, - once went this way.
In and out of the recesses of the much carved walls, up and down the wavy
ridges of the plateaus, sometimes descending into deep side gorges, we
ride, our guide leading the way to the Grand View Trail, and our pack-mules
and burros following, while we occupy the rear of the procession. We stop
for noon lunch in one of the side canyons where is a spring of clear water.
We take off the packs from the animals, and let them nibble away at the
rich grama and gallinas grasses that flourish here after the summer rains.
Comfortable and contented after our meal, we lie on our backs under the
shelter of a juniper or a friendly cottonwood, or in the shade of an
immense block fallen from some cracked wall above. Already we are becoming
familiar with the strata, and can call each one by name.
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