Success Quote by William Henry Ashley

A businessman’s eye can make even wilderness sound like an inventory, and that’s the quiet force in Ashley’s sentence. The mountains aren’t romantic backdrops; they’re described as layered materials, coded by color and species. “Stratas of rock of various colours (mostly red)” reads like a field note with a ledger’s precision: classification first, wonder second. Red rock isn’t just scenery in the early 19th-century West; it’s a navigational marker, a signal of mineral country, a promise (or warning) about what lies underfoot.

The phrasing “appear to be almost entirely composed” matters. It’s cautious, observational, practical - the language of someone surveying unfamiliar terrain for routes, resources, and risk. Ashley, tied to the fur trade and western expansion, is writing from a world where description is strategy. Naming the timber as “dwarfish” isn’t mere botany; it’s an economic verdict. Stunted pines and cedars imply thin soil, harsh elevation, limited building material, and constrained fuel supply. In one clause, the landscape is rendered inhospitable to settlement as most Americans imagined it: no tall forests, no obvious agricultural promise, no easy infrastructure.

The kicker is “the only species of timber to be seen.” That line narrows the environment to what can be used, and what can’t. The subtext is scarcity - not of beauty, but of commodities. Ashley’s West is a place to be read, not revered: a terrain whose colors and trees are clues in a larger commercial map.