The Professors House
just across the river from us, looked accessible by
way of the deep canyon that split the bulk in two,
from the top rim to the river, then wound back
into the solid cube so that it was invisible at a
distance, like a mouse track winding into a big
cheese.
This canyon didn’t break the solid outline
of the mesa, and you had to be close to see that it
was there at all.
We faced the mesa on its shortest
side; it was only about three miles long from north
to south, but east and west it measured nearly twice
that distance.
Whether the top was wooded we
couldn’t see—it was too high above us; but the cliffs
and canyon on the river side were fringed with
beautiful growth, groves of quaking asps and pinons
and a few dark cedars, perched up in the air like
the hanging gardens of Babylon.
At certain hours
of the day, those cedars, growing so far up on the
rocks, took on the bluish tint of the cliffs themselves.
It was light up there long before it was with us. When I got up at daybreak and went down to the river to get water, our camp would be cold and grey, but the mesa top would be red with sunrise, and all the slim cedars along the rocks would be gold—metallic, like tarnished gold-foil. Some mornings it would loom up above the dark river like a blazing volcanic mountain. It shortened our days, too, considerably. The sun got behind it early in the afternoon, and then our camp would lie in its shadow. After a while the sunset colour would begin to
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