Where in confusion canyons and mountains and swift running rivers with painted banks abound, and elk and deer, buffalo and bear range through the wilds unterrified by man and gun, and tall, straight pines in almost unbroken forests plant their feet in a tangle of down-timber that centuries were required to produce; where in the earth there are vents through which roar and rush at exact intervals columns of boiling water, sometimes more than two hundred feet high, or in which painted mud blubbers and spurts; where pools by thousands at scalding heat boil and murmur; where under one's feet is felt the hollow of the earth and through hundreds of holes of unfathomable depth come deep growls of Nature in her confinement; where dyes have been daubed in delirium on hillsides and river's brink; where a canyon gashes the earth thousands of feet through colors so vivid and varied that no record can write them down; where one of the highest navigable lakes in the world washes the feet of mountains that hold aloft the snows through every month of the year; where the supernal and the infernal are blended in a harmony that only Infinitude can produce, and every miracle of Creation has been worked; where one can be lost in a wilderness as long as he will and come face to face with almost every form of creative eccentricity—there is Geyserland.