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Haunted Canyon was aptly named as was the RS pasture, an abbreviation for rough son of a bitch. That pasture stood on end. Except at droughty times it was a range where both cattle and horses thrived....

The wild ones ran in bands, each stud having his own band of mares. It depended on how much of a fighter he was as to how many mares he held....

Some of these fights for supremacy were deadly affairs. But usually the stud simply quit the band and quit it quick after he was whipped. Hunting saddle horses on Mescal, I witnessed one affair. I had the wind on the bunch, it brought me all the sounds of battle, and through the glasses it was like a ringside seat.

The old stud was a bay with a sizable bunch of mares and colts. The challenger was a buckskin with four mares and two little colts in his band, and the buckskin meant business. Tossing his dark mane and tail, he trumpeted his challenge as he moved up the mesa, and the old bay answered in kind. Quitting his band, he moved out to meet the buckskin and answer the young stud's challenge. Both studs trotted in half-circles, arching their necks and tossing their manes, squealing and trumpeting as the distance narrowed between them. Then the old bay struck, and the buckskin went to his knees, but he was on his feet in a flash. They feinted and blocked like boxers as they snapped at each other's throat, then wheeled away and planted well placed kicks....

As the battle wore on, the studs no longer trumpeted, there were only squeals of rage. As they snapped and struck for each other's throat, their popping teeth cracked like pistol shots. While the old bay knew every trick, it was obvious that he was tiring, as the buckskin, the younger and stronger stud, kept pressing the attack. Then suddenly it was over. The old bay stud broke and ran. While the buckskin did not follow, he trumpeted long and loud; then rounding up both bands, he headed them towards the water, nipping the flank of any mare he thought was a trifle too slow. At intervals he wheeled and tossed his head, and the wind brought me his challenge.

No writer of worth has ever seriously attempted to describe Grand Canyon; no artist has ever adequately portrayed it. None ever will. For while it is the most compelling single area on the Earth's surface, it is not a landscape. The regal ermine-cloaked Rockies; the somber moss-hung swamps and bayous of Florida and Louisiana... the rugged grasslands of the Far West all these and a hundred others offer true landscapes. Each has a distinctive tone, key spirit, and character which hold true and unique despite their infinite variations. They can be known, loved, and partially expressed.

The Grand Canyon is beyond comprehension. No one could possibly love it. It is not distinguished by any one dominant quality. It is not unique in the individual sense. It is universal.

One cannot define humanity. One can only define the terms of humanity expressed by its many components: beauty, cruelty, tenderness, strength, awe, horror, serenity, sadness, joy. But to define life the blended summation of all its infinite aspects is impossible.

The Grand Canyon in nature is like the humanity of man. It is the sum total of all the aspects of nature combined in one integrated whole. It is at once the smile and the frown upon the face of Nature. In its heart is the savage, uncontrollable fury of all the inanimate universe, and at the same time the immeasurable serenity that succeeds. It is creation.

Certainly I do not know yet what it is that this land, together with the plants and animals who find its strangenesses normal, has been trying to say to me for twelve years, what kinship with me it is that they all so insistently claim. I know that many besides myself have felt its charm, but I know also that not all who visit it do, that there are, indeed, some in whom it inspires at first sight not love but fear, or even hatred. Its appeal is not the appeal of things universally attractive, like smiling fields, bubbling springs, and murmuring brooks. To some it seems merely stricken, and even those of us who love it merely recognize that its beauty is no easy one. It suggests patience and struggle and endurance. It is courageous and happy, not easy or luxurious. Even in the brightest colors of its brief spring flowers, there is something austere.