The sight of a man in a dinner-coat miles from a white man and leagues from a white woman was something to remember and marvel at.
Northward from Eldoma Ravine for days we marched, sometimes in dense forests so thick that a man could scarcely force himself through the undergrowth that flanked the trail, and sometimes through upland meadows so deep in tall yellow grass as to suggest a field of waving grain, then through miles of country studded with the gnarled thorn tree that looks so much like our apple trees at home.

It was as though we were traversing an endless orchard, clean, beautiful, and exhilarating in the cool winds of the African highlands.

And then, all suddenly, we came to the end of the trees, and before us, like a great, heaving yellow sea, lay the Guas Ngishu Plateau that stretches northward one hundred miles and always above seven thousand feet in altitude.
Far ahead, like a little knob of blue, was Sergoi Hill, forty miles away, and beyond, in a fainter blue, were the hills that mark the limit of white man's passport.

On the map that district is marked: "Natives probably treacherous." Off to the left, a hundred miles away, the dim outline of Mount Elgon rose in easy slopes from the horizon.

Elgon, with its elephants, was our goal, and in between were the black-maned lions that we hoped to meet.
It would be hard to exaggerate the charm of this climate.