How real life in this Canyon now begins to be. It is opening up its secrets to us as we thus come into it. We are learning to love it, therefore it shows its heart to us. It no longer is a "thing" to be looked at; it is a real something, an individuality to love, to listen to, to question, to honor.

On the Tonto Trail. 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.