We did go down into the canon on mule-back,--down, down, over four
thousand feet,--and the jeering Scot went with us, sitting his
mule uncompromisingly, and indulging in many a jest at the expense
of the terrified women who felt, when too late to retreat, that
it would have been better to heed his advice. Still, after the
descent, and then the ascent, were safely accomplished, we were
glad we had not let him dissuade us. None of us can ever forget
that day, with its rich and varied experiences, the mingled fear
and awe and exultation, the overpowering emotions felt at each
new revelation of the stupendous spectacle, often relieved by
the lively sallies of Mr. Muir. We ate our luncheon on the old
Cambrian plateau, the mighty Colorado, still a thousand feet below
us, looking entirely inadequate to have accomplished the tremendous
results we were witnessing.
One day at the canon, feeling acutely aware of our incalculable
privilege, I said, "To think of having the Grand Canon, and John
Burroughs and John Muir thrown in!"
"I wish Muir /was/ thrown in, sometimes," retorted Mr. Burroughs,
with a twinkle in his eye, "when he gets between me and the canon."
In contrast to Mr. Muir, the Wanderer, is Mr. Burroughs, the
Home-lover, one who is under the spell of the near and the
familiar.
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