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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/19475-8.txt b/19475-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..037add2 --- /dev/null +++ b/19475-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4156 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tenting To-night, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tenting To-night + A Chronicle of Sport and Adventure in Glacier Park and the + Cascade Mountains + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #19475] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + +TENTING +TO-NIGHT + + +_A Chronicle of Sport and Adventure in Glacier Park and the Cascade +Mountains by_ + +MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS + +[Illustration] + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + =The Riverside Press Cambridge= + 1918 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE + COMPANY (COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE) + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published April 1918_ + + +[Illustration: _Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake_] + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. THE TRAIL 1 + + II. THE BIG ADVENTURE 10 + + III. BRIDGE CREEK TO BOWMAN LAKE 24 + + IV. A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE 39 + + V. TO KINTLA LAKE 50 + + VI. RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD 63 + + VII. THE SECOND DAY ON THE FLATHEAD 71 + + VIII. THROUGH THE FLATHEAD CAÑON 80 + + IX. THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL 90 + + X. OFF FOR CASCADE PASS 100 + + XI. LAKE CHELAN TO LYMAN LAKE 111 + + XII. CLOUDY PASS AND THE AGNES CREEK VALLEY 129 + + XIII. CAÑON FISHING AND A TELEGRAM 142 + + XIV. DOING THE IMPOSSIBLE 150 + + XV. DOUBTFUL LAKE 158 + + XVI. OVER CASCADE PASS 167 + + XVII. OUT TO CIVILIZATION 180 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + CHIWAWA MOUNTAIN AND LYMAN LAKE _Frontispiece_ + + TRAIL OVER GUNSIGHT PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 2 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon_ + + THE AUTHOR, THE MIDDLE BOY, AND THE LITTLE BOY 6 + + LOOKING SOUTH FROM POLLOCK PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 14 + _Photograph by Kiser Photo Co._ + + LAKE ELIZABETH FROM PTARMIGAN PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 22 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker, Kalispell, Mont._ + + A MOUNTAIN LAKE IN GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 36 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + GETTING READY FOR THE DAY'S FISHING AT CAMP ON BOWMAN LAKE 40 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble, Glacier Park_ + + THE HORSES IN THE ROPE CORRAL 44 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + BEAR-GRASS 56 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + A GLACIER PARK LAKE 60 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + STILL-WATER FISHING 68 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + MOUNTAINS OF GLACIER NATIONAL PARK FROM THE NORTH FORK OF THE + FLATHEAD RIVER 74 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + THE BEGINNING OF THE CAÑON, MIDDLE FORK OF THE FLATHEAD RIVER 82 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + PI-TA-MAK-AN, OR RUNNING EAGLE (MRS. RINEHART), WITH TWO OTHER + MEMBERS OF THE BLACKFOOT TRIBE 96 + _Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul_ + + A HIGH MOUNTAIN MEADOW 100 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley, Lake Chelan_ + + SITTING BULL MOUNTAIN, LAKE CHELAN 112 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + LOOKING OUT OF ICE-CAVE, LYMAN GLACIER 126 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + LOOKING SOUTHEAST FROM CLOUDY PASS 132 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + STREAM FISHING 144 + _Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul_ + + MOUNTAIN MILES: THE TRAIL UP SWIFTCURRENT PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL + PARK 152 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + WHERE THE ROCK-SLIDES START (GLACIER NATIONAL PARK) 156 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + SWITCHBACKS ON THE TRAIL (GLACIER NATIONAL PARK) 160 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + WATCHING THE PACK-TRAIN COMING DOWN AT CASCADE PASS 174 + + A FIELD OF BEAR-GRASS 182 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + + + +TENTING TO-NIGHT + + + + +I + +THE TRAIL + + +The trail is narrow--often but the width of the pony's feet, a tiny path +that leads on and on. It is always ahead, sometimes bold and wide, as +when it leads the way through the forest; often narrow, as when it hugs +the sides of the precipice; sometimes even hiding for a time in river +bottom or swamp, or covered by the débris of last winter's avalanche. +Sometimes it picks its precarious way over snow-fields which hang at +dizzy heights, and again it flounders through mountain streams, where +the tired horses must struggle for footing, and do not even dare to +stoop and drink. + +It is dusty; it is wet. It climbs; it falls; it is beautiful and +terrible. But always it skirts the coast of adventure. Always it goes +on, and always it calls to those that follow it. Tiny path that it is, +worn by the feet of earth's wanderers, it is the thread which has knit +together the solid places of the earth. The path of feet in the +wilderness is the onward march of life itself. + +City-dwellers know nothing of the trail. Poor followers of the +pavements, what to them is this six-inch path of glory? Life for many of +them is but a thing of avenues and streets, fixed and unmysterious, a +matter of numbers and lights and post-boxes and people. They know +whither their streets lead. There is no surprise about them, no sudden +discovery of a river to be forded, no glimpse of deer in full flight or +of an eagle poised over a stream. No heights, no depths. To know if it +rains at night, they look down at shining pavements; they do not hold +their faces to the sky. + +[Illustration: _Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park_] + +Now, I am a near-city-dweller. For ten months in the year, I am +particular about mail-delivery, and eat an evening dinner, and +occasionally agitate the matter of having a telephone in every room in +the house. I run the usual gamut of dinners, dances, and bridge, with +the usual country-club setting as the spring goes on. And each May I +order a number of flimsy frocks, in the conviction that I have done all +the hard going I need to, and that this summer we shall go to the New +England coast. And then--about the first of June there comes a day when +I find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring +house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's +supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes, +trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats. Some of +the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon, +melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled Royal Coachmen, and here and there the +determined gayety of the Parmachene Belle. + +I look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes, +snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown +velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries. It has been +rained on in Flanders, slept on in France, and has carried many a +refreshing draft to my lips in my "ain countree." + +I put my fishing-rod together and give it a tentative flick across the +bed, and--I am lost. + +The family professes surprise, but it is acquiescent. And that night, or +the next day, we wire that we will not take the house in Maine, and I +discover that the family has never expected to go to Maine, but has been +buying more trout-flies right along. + +As a family, we are always buying trout-flies. We buy a great many. I do +not know what becomes of them. To those whose lives are limited to the +unexciting sport of buying golf-balls, which have endless names but no +variety, I will explain that the trout do not eat the flies, but merely +attempt to. So that one of the eternal mysteries is how our flies +disappear. I have seen a junior Rinehart start out with a boat, a rod, +six large cakes of chocolate, and four dollars' worth of flies, and +return a few hours later with one fish, one Professor, one Doctor, and +one Black Moth minus the hook. And the boat had not upset. + +June, after the decision, becomes a time of subdued excitement. For +fear we shall forget to pack them, things are set out early. Stringers +hang from chandeliers, quirts from doorknobs. Shoe-polish and disgorgers +and adhesive plaster litter the dressing-tables. Rows of boots line the +walls. And, in the evenings, those of us who are at home pore over maps +and lists. + +This last year, our plans were ambitious. They took in two complete +expeditions, each with our own pack-outfit. The first was to take +ourselves, some eight packers, guides, and cooks, and enough horses to +carry our outfit--thirty-one in all--through the western and practically +unknown side of Glacier National Park, in northwestern Montana, to the +Canadian border. If we survived that, we intended to go by rail to the +Chelan country in northern Washington and there, again with a +pack-train, cross the Cascades over totally unknown country to Puget +Sound. + +We did both, to the eternal credit of our guides and horses. + +The family, luckily for those of us who have the _Wanderlust_, is four +fifths masculine. I am the odd fifth--unlike the story of King George +the Fifth and Queen Mary the other four fifths. It consists of the head +of the family, to be known hereafter as the Head, the Big Boy, the +Middle Boy, the Little Boy, and myself. As the Big Boy is very, very +big, and the Little Boy is not really very little, being on the verge of +long trousers, we make a comfortable traveling unit. And, because we +were leaving the beaten path and going a-gypsying, with a new camp each +night no one knew exactly where, the party gradually augmented. + +First, we added an optimist named Bob. Then we added a "movie"-man, +called Joe for short and because it was his name, and a "still" +photographer, who was literally still most of the time. Some of these +pictures are his. He did some beautiful work, but he really needed a +mouth only to eat with. + +(The "movie"-man is unpopular with the junior members of the family just +now, because he hid his camera in the bushes and took the Little Boy +in a state of goose flesh on the bank of Bowman Lake.) + +[Illustration: _The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy_] + +But, of course, we have not got to Bowman Lake yet. + +During the year before, I had ridden over the better-known trails of +Glacier Park with Howard Eaton's riding party, and when I had crossed +the Gunsight Pass, we had looked north and west to a great country of +mountains capped with snow, with dense forests on the lower slopes and +in the valleys. + +"What is it?" I had asked the ranger who had accompanied us across the +pass. + +"It is the west side of Glacier Park," he explained. "It is not yet +opened up for tourist travel. Once or twice in a year, a camping party +goes up through this part of the park. That is all." + +"What is it like?" I asked. + +"Wonderful!" + +So, sitting there on my horse, I made up my mind that sometime _I_ would +go up the west side of Glacier Park to the Canadian border. + +Roughly speaking, there are at least six hundred square miles of +Glacier Park on the west side that are easily accessible, but that are +practically unknown. Probably the area is more nearly a thousand square +miles. And this does not include the fastnesses of the range itself. It +comprehends only the slopes on the west side to the border-line of the +Flathead River. + +The reason for the isolation of the west side of Glacier Park is easily +understood. The park is divided into two halves by the Rocky Mountain +range, which traverses it from northwest to southeast. Over it there is +no single wagon-road of any sort between the Canadian border and Helena, +perhaps two hundred and fifty miles. A railroad crosses at the Marias +Pass. But from that to the Canadian line, one hundred miles, travel from +the east is cut off over the range, except by trail. + +To reach the west side of Glacier Park at the present time, the tourist, +having seen the wonders of the east side, must return to Glacier Park +Station, take a train over the Marias Pass, and get out at Belton. Even +then, he can only go by boat up to Lewis's Hotel on Lake McDonald, a +trifling distance. There are no hotels beyond Lewis's, and no roads. + +Naturally, this tremendous area is unknown and unvisited. + +It is being planned, however, by the new Department of National Parks to +build a road this coming year along Lake McDonald. Eventually, this +much-needed highway will connect with the Canadian roads, and thus +indirectly with Banff and Lake Louise. The opening-up of the west side +of Glacier Park will make it perhaps the most unique of all our parks, +as it is undoubtedly the most magnificent. The grandeur of the east side +will be tempered by the more smiling and equally lovely western slopes. +And when, between the east and the west sides, there is constructed the +great motor-highway which will lead across the range, we shall have, +perhaps, the most scenic motor-road in the United States--until, in the +fullness of time, we build another road across Cascade Pass in +Washington. + + + + +II + +THE BIG ADVENTURE + + +Came at last the day to start west. In spite of warnings, we found that +our irreducible minimum of luggage filled five wardrobe-trunks. In vain +we went over our lists and cast out such bulky things as extra +handkerchiefs and silk socks and fancy neckties and toilet-silver. We +started with all five. It was boiling hot; the sun beat in at the +windows of the transcontinental train and stifled us. Over the prairies, +dust blew in great clouds, covering the window-sills with white. The Big +Boy and the Middle Boy and the Little Boy referred scornfully to the +flannels and sweaters on which I had been so insistent. The Head slept +across the continent. The Little Boy counted prairie-dogs. + +Then, almost suddenly, we were in the mountains--for the Rockies seem to +rise out of a great plain. The air was stimulating. There had been a +great deal of snow last winter, and the wind from the ice-capped peaks +overhead blew down and chilled us. We threw back our heads and breathed. + +Before going to Belton for our trip with the pack-outfit, we rode again +for two weeks with the Howard Eaton party through the east side of the +park, crossing again those great passes, for each one of which, like the +Indians, the traveler counts a _coup_--Mount Morgan, a mile high and the +width of an army-mule on top; old Piegan, under the shadow of the Garden +Wall; Mount Henry, where the wind blows always a steady gale. We had +scaled Dawson with the aid of ropes, since snowslides covered the trail, +and crossed the Cut Bank in a hailstorm. Like the noble Duke of York, +Howard Eaton had led us "up a hill one day and led us down again." Only, +he did it every day. + +Once, in my notebook, I wrote on top of a mountain my definition of a +mountain pass. I have used it before, but because it was written with +shaking fingers and was torn from my very soul, I cannot better it. This +is what I wrote:-- + + A pass is a blood-curdling spot up which one's + horse climbs like a goat and down the other side + of which it slides as you lead it, trampling ever + and anon on a tender part of your foot. A pass is + the highest place between two peaks. A pass is not + an opening, but a barrier which you climb with + chills and descend with prayer. A pass is a thing + which you try to forget at the time, and which you + boast about when you get back home. + +At last came the day when we crossed the Gunsight Pass and, under Sperry +Glacier, looked down and across to the north and west. It was sunset and +cold. The day had been a long and trying one. We had ridden across an +ice-field which sloped gently off--into China, I dare say. I did not +look over. Our horses were weary, and we were saddle-sore and hungry. + +Pete, our big guide, whose name is really not Pete at all, waved an airy +hand toward the massed peaks beyond--the land of our dreams. + +"Well," he said, "there it is!" + +And there it was. + + * * * * * + +Getting a pack-outfit ready for a long trip into the wilderness is a +serious matter. We were taking thirty-one horses, guides, packers, and +a cook. But we were doing more than that--we were taking two boats! This +was Bob's idea. Any highly original idea, such as taking boats where not +even tourists had gone before, or putting eggs on a bucking horse, or +carrying grapefruit for breakfast into the wilderness, was Bob's idea. + +"You see, I figure it out like this," he said, when, on our arrival at +Belton, we found the boats among our equipment: "If we can get those +boats up to the Canadian line and come down the Flathead rapids all the +way, it will only take about four days on the river. It's a stunt that's +never been pulled off." + +"Do you mean," I said, "that we are going to run four days of rapids +that have never been run?" + +"That's it." + +I looked around. There, in a group, were the Head and the Big Boy and +the Middle Boy and the Little Boy. And a fortune-teller at Atlantic City +had told me to beware of water! + +"At the worst places," the Optimist continued, "we can send Joe ahead +in one boat with the 'movie' outfit, and get you as you come along." + +"I dare say," I observed, with some bitterness. "Of course we may upset. +But if we do, I'll try to go down for the third time in front of the +camera." + +But even then the boats were being hoisted into a wagon-bed filled with +hay. And I knew that I was going to run four days of rapids. It was +written. + +It was a bright morning. In a corral, the horses were waiting to be +packed. Rolls of blankets, crates of food, and camping-utensils lay +everywhere. The Big Boy marshaled the fishing-tackle. Bill, the cook, +was searching the town for the top of an old stove to bake on. We had +provided two reflector ovens, but he regarded them with suspicion. They +would, he suspected, not do justice to his specialty, the corn-meal +saddle-bag, a sort of sublimated hot cake. + +I strolled to the corral and cast a horsewoman's eye on my mount. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY KISER PHOTO CO. + _Looking south from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park_] + +"He looks like a very nice horse," I said. "He's quite handsome." + +Pete tightened up the cinch. + +"Yes," he observed; "he's all right. He's a pretty good mare." + +The Head was wandering around with lists in his hand. His conversation +ran something like this:-- + +"Pocket-flashes, chocolate, jam, medicine-case, reels, landing-nets, +cigarettes, tooth-powder, slickers, matches." + +He was always accumulating matches. One moment, a box of matches would +be in plain sight and the next it had disappeared. He became a sort of +match-magazine, so that if anybody had struck him violently, in almost +any spot, he would have exploded. + +Hours went by. The sun was getting high and hot. The crowd which had +been watching gradually disappeared about its business. The two +boats--big, sturdy river-boats they were--had rumbled along toward the +wilderness, one on top of the other, with George Locke and Mike Shannon +as pilots, watching for breakers ahead. In the corral, our supplies +were being packed on the horses, Bill Shea and Pete, Tom Sullivan and +Tom Farmer and their assistants working against time. In crates were our +cooking-utensils, ham, bacon, canned salmon, jam, flour, corn-meal, +eggs, baking-powder, flies, rods, and reels, reflector ovens, sunburn +lotion, coffee, cocoa, and so on. Cocoa is the cowboy's friend. +Innumerable blankets, "tarp" beds, and war-sacks lay rolled ready for +the pack-saddles. The cook was declaiming loudly that some one had +opened his pack and taken out his cleaver. + +For a pack-outfit, the west side of Glacier Park is ideal. The east side +is much the best so far for those who wish to make short trips along the +trails into the mountains, although as yet only a small part, +comparatively, of the eastern wonderland is open. There, one may spend a +day, or several days, in the midst of the wildest possible country and +yet return at night to excellent hotels. + +On the west side, however, a pack-outfit is necessary. There is but one +hotel, Lewis's, on Lake McDonald. To get to the Canadian line, there +must be camping facilities for at least eight days if there are no +stop-overs. And not to stop over is to lose the joy of the trip. It is +an ideal two to three weeks' jaunt with a pack-train. A woman who can +sit a horse--and every one can ride in a Western saddle--a woman can +make the land trip not only with comfort but with joy. That is, a woman +who likes the outdoors. + +What did we wear, that bright morning when, all ready at last, the cook +on the chuck-wagon, the boats ambling ahead, with Bill Hossick, the +teamster, driving the long line of heavily packed horses and our own +saddlers lined up for the adventure, we moved out on to the trail? + +Well, the men wore khaki riding-trousers and flannel shirts, +broad-brimmed felt hats, army socks drawn up over the cuff of the +breeches, and pack-shoes. A pack-shoe is one in which the leather of the +upper part makes the sole also, without a seam. On to this soft sole is +sewed a heavy leather one. The pack-shoe has a fastened tongue and is +waterproof. + +And I? I had not counted on the "movie"-man, and I was dressed for +comfort in the woods. I had buckskin riding-breeches and high boots, and +over my thin riding-shirt I wore a cloth coat. I had packed in my warbag +a divided skirt also, and a linen suit, for hot days, of breeches and +coat. But of this latter the least said the better. It betrayed me and, +in portions, deserted me. + +All of us carried tin drinking-cups, which vied with the bells on the +pack-animals for jingle. Most of us had sweaters or leather +wind-jammers. The guides wore "chaps" of many colors, boots with high +heels, which put our practical packs in the shade, and gay silk +handkerchiefs. + +Joe was to be a detachable unit. As a matter of fact, he became detached +rather early in the game, having been accidentally given a bucker. It +was on the second day, I think, that his horse buried his head between +his fore legs, and dramatized one of the best bits of the trip when Joe +was totally unable to photograph it. + +He had his own guide and extra horse for the camera. It had been our +expectation that, at the most hazardous parts of the journey, he would +perch on some crag and show us courageously risking our necks to have a +good time. But on the really bad places he had his own life to save, and +he never fully trusted Maud, I think, after the first day. Maud was his +horse. + +Besides, when he did climb to some aerie, and photographed me, for +instance, in a sort of Napoleon-crossing-the-Alps attitude, sitting my +horse on the brink of eternity and being reassured from safety by the +Optimist--outside the picture, of course--the developed film flattened +out the landscape. So that, although I was on the edge of a cañon a mile +deep, I might as well have been posing on the bank of the Ohio River. + +On the east side of the Park I had ridden Highball. It is not +particularly significant that I started the summer on Highball and ended +it on Budweiser. Now I had Angel, a huge white mare with a pink nose, a +loving disposition, and a gait that kept me swallowing my tongue for +fear I would bite the end off it. The Little Boy had Prince, a small +pony which ran exactly like an Airedale dog, and in every canter beat +out the entire string. The Head had H----, and considered him well +indicated. One bronco was called "Bronchitis." The top horse of the +string was Bill Shea's Dynamite, according to Bill Shea. There were +Dusty, Shorty, Sally Goodwin, Buffalo Tom, Chalk-Eye, Comet, and +Swapping Tater--Swapping Tater being a pacer who, when he hit the +ground, swapped feet. Bob had Sister Sarah. + +At last, everything was ready. The pack-train got slowly under way. We +leaped into our saddles--"leaped" being a figurative term which grew +more and more figurative as time went on and we grew saddle-weary and +stiff--and, passing the pack-train on a canter, led off for the +wilderness. + +All that first day we rode, now in the sun, now in deep forest. +Luncheon-time came, but the pack-train was far behind. We waited, but +we could not hear so much as the tinkle of its bells. So we munched +cakes of chocolate from the pockets of our riding-coats and went grimly +on. + +The wagon with the boats had made good time. It was several miles along +the wagon-trail before we caught up with it. It had found a quiet harbor +beside the road, and the boatmen were demanding food. We tossed them +what was left of the chocolate and went on. + +The presence of a wagon-trail in that empty land, unvisited and unknown, +requires explanation. In the first place, it was not really a road. It +was a trail, and in places barely that. But, sixteen years before, a +road had been cleared through the forest by some people who believed +there was oil near the Canadian line. They cut down trees and built +corduroy bridges. But in sixteen years it has not been used. No wheels +have worn it smooth. It takes its leisurely way, now through wilderness, +now through burnt country where the trees stand stark and dead, now +through prairie or creek-bottom, now up, now down, always with the +range rising abruptly to the east, and with the Flathead River somewhere +to the west. + +It will not take much expenditure to make that old wagon-trail into a +good road. It has its faults. It goes down steep slopes--on the second +day out, the chuck-wagon got away, and, fetching up at the bottom, threw +out Bill the cook and nearly broke his neck. It climbs like a cat after +a young robin. It is rocky or muddy or both. But it is, potentially, a +road. + +The Rocky Mountains run northwest and southeast, and in numerous basins, +fed by melting glaciers and snow-fields, are deep and quiet lakes. These +lakes, on the west side, discharge their overflow through roaring and +precipitous streams to the Flathead, which flows south and east. While +our general direction was north, it was our intention to turn off east +and camp at the different lakes, coming back again to the wagon-trail to +resume our journey. + +[Illustration: _Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National +Park_] + +Therefore, it became necessary, day after day, to take our boats off the +wagon-road and haul them along foot-trails none too good. The log of the +two boats is in itself a thrilling story. There were days and days +when the wagon was mired, when it stuck in the fords of streams or in +soft places on the trail. It was a land flotilla by day, and, with its +straw, a couch at night. And there came, toward the end of the journey, +that one nerve-racking day when, over a sixty-foot cliff down a +foot-trail, it was necessary to rope wagon, boats, and all, to get the +boats into the Flathead River. + +But all this was before us then. We only knew it was summer, that the +days were warm and the nights cool, that the streams were full of trout, +that such things as telegraphs and telephones were falling far in our +rear, and that before us was the Big Adventure. + + + + +III + +BRIDGE CREEK TO BOWMAN LAKE + + +The first night we camped at Bridge Creek on a river-flat. Beside us, +the creek rolled and foamed. The horses, in their rope corral, lay down +and rolled in sheer ecstasy when their heavy packs were removed. The +cook set up his sheet-iron stove beside the creek, built a wood fire, +lifted the stove over it, fried meat, boiled potatoes, heated beans, and +made coffee while the tents were going up. From a thicket near by came +the thud of an axe as branches were cut for bough beds. + +I have slept on all kinds of bough beds. They may be divided into three +classes. There is the one which is high in the middle and slopes down at +the side--there is nothing so slippery as pine-needles--so that by +morning you are quite likely to be not only off the bed but out of the +tent. And there is the bough bed made by the guide when he is in a great +hurry, which consists of large branches and not very many needles. So +that in the morning, on rising, one is as furrowed as a waffle off the +iron. And there is the third kind, which is the real bough bed, but +which cannot be tossed off in a moment, like a poem, but must be the +result of calculation, time, and much labor. It is to this bough bed +that I shall some day indite an ode. + +This is the way you go about it: First, you take a large and healthy +woodsman with an axe, who cuts down a tree--a substantial tree. Because +this is the frame of your bed. But on no account do this yourself. One +of the joys of a bough bed is seeing somebody else build it. + +The tree is an essential. It is cut into six-foot lengths--unless one is +more than six feet long. If the bed is intended for one, two side pieces +with one at the head and one at the foot are enough, laid flat on a +level place, making a sort of boxed-in rectangle. If the bed is intended +for two, another log down the center divides it into two bunks and +prevents quarreling. + +Now begins the real work of constructing the bough bed. If one is a good +manager, while the frame is being made, the younger members of the +family have been performing the loving task of getting the branches +together. When a sufficient number of small branches has been +accumulated, this number varying from one ton to three, judging by size +and labor, the bough bed is built by the simple expedient of sticking +the branches into the enclosed space like flowers into a vase. They must +be packed very closely, stem down. This is a slow and not particularly +agreeable task for one's loving family and friends, owing to the +tendency of pine-and balsam-needles to jag. Indeed, I have known it to +happen that, after a try or two, some one in the outfit is delegated to +the task of official bed-maker, and a slight coldness is noticeable when +one refers to dusk and bedtime. + +Over these soft and feathery plumes of balsam--soft and feathery only +through six blankets--is laid the bedding, and on this couch the wearied +and saddle-sore tourist may sleep as comfortably as in his grandaunt's +feather bed. + +But, dear traveler, it is much simpler to take an air-mattress and a +foot-pump. True, even this has its disadvantages. It is not safe to +stick pins into it while disrobing at night. Occasionally, a faulty +valve lets go, and the sleeper dreams he is falling from the Woolworth +Tower. But lacking a sturdy woodsman and a loving family to collect +branches, I advise the air-bed. + +Fishing at Bridge Creek, that first evening, was poor. We caught dozens +of small trout. But it would have taken hundreds to satisfy us after our +lunchless day, and there were other reasons. + +One casts for trout. There is no sitting on a mossy stone and watching a +worm guilefully struggling to attract a fish to the hooks. No; one +casts. + +Now, I have learned to cast fairly well. On the lawn at home, or in the +middle of a ten-acre lot, cleared, or the center of a lake, I can put +out quite a lot of line. In one cast out of three, I can drop a fly so +that it appears to be committing suicide--which is the correct way. But +in a thicket I am lost. I hold the woman's record for getting the hook +in my hair or the lobe of the Little Boy's ear. I have hung fish high in +trees more times than phonographs have hanged Danny Deever. I can, under +such circumstances (i.e., the thicket), leave camp with a rod, four +six-foot leaders, an expensive English line, and a smile, and return an +hour later with a six-inch trout, a bandaged hand, a hundred and eighty +mosquito bites, no leaders, and no smile. + +So we fished little that first evening, and, on the discovery that +candles had been left out of the cook's outfit, we retired early to our +bough beds, which were, as it happened that night, of class A. + +There was a deer-lick on our camp-ground there at Bridge Creek, and +during the night deer came down and strayed through the camp. One of the +guides saw a black bear also. We saw nothing. Some day I shall write an +article called: "Wild Animals I Have Missed." + +We had made fourteen miles the first day, with a late start. It was not +bad, but the next day we determined to do better. At five o'clock we +were up, and at five-thirty tents were down and breakfast under way. We +had had a visitor the night before--that curious anomaly, a young +hermit. He had been a very well-known pugilist in the light-weight class +and, his health failing, he had sought the wilderness. There he had +lived for seven years alone. + +We asked him if he never cared to see people. But he replied that trees +were all the company he wanted. Deer came and browsed around his tiny +shack there in the woods. All the trout he could use played in his front +garden. He had a dog and a horse, and he wanted nothing else. He came to +see us off the next morning, and I think we amused him. We seemed to +need so much. He stared at our thirty-one horses, sixteen of them packed +with things he had learned to live without. But I think he rather hated +to see us go. We had brought a little excitement into his quiet life. + +The first bough bed had been a failure. For--note you--I had not then +learned of the bough bed _de luxe_. This information, which I have given +you so freely, dear reader, what has it not cost me in sleepless nights +and family coldness and aching muscles! + +So I find this note in my daily journal, written that day on horseback, +and therefore not very legible:-- + + Mem: After this, must lie over the camp-ground + until I find a place that fits me to sleep on. + Then have the tent erected over it. + +There was a little dissension in the party that morning, Joe having +wakened in the night while being violently shoved out under the edge of +his tent by his companion, who was a restless sleeper. But ill-temper +cannot live long in the open. We settled to the swinging walk of the +trail. In the mountain meadows there were carpets of flowers. They +furnished highly esthetic if not very substantial food for our horses +during our brief rests. They were very brief, those rests. All too soon, +Pete would bring Angel to me, and I would vault into the +saddle--extremely figurative, this--and we would fall into line, Pete +swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the Optimist bouncing +freely, Joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies +of the trip, the Big Boy with long legs that almost touched the ground, +the Middle Boy with eyes roving for adventure, the Little Boy deadly +serious and hoping for a bear. And somewhere in the rear, where he could +watch all responsibilities and supply the smokers with matches, the +Head. + +That second day, we crossed Dutch Ridge and approached the Flathead. +What I have called here the Flathead is known locally as the North Fork. +The pack-outfit had started first. Long before we caught up with them, +we heard the bells on the lead horses ringing faintly. + +Passing a pack-outfit on the trail is a difficult matter. The wise +little horses, traveling free and looked after only by a wrangler or +two, do not like to be passed. One of two things happens when the +saddle-outfit tries to pass the pack. Either the pack starts on a smart +canter ahead, or it turns wildly off into the forest to the +accompaniment of much complaint by the drivers. A pack-horse loose on a +narrow trail is a dangerous matter. With its bulging pack, it worms its +way past anything on the trail, and bad accidents have followed. Here, +however, there was room for us to pass. + +Tiny gophers sat up beside the trail and squeaked at us. A coyote +yelped. Bumping over fallen trees, creaking and groaning and swaying, +came the boat-wagon. Mike had found a fishing-line somewhere, and +pretended to cast from the bow. + +"Ship ahoy!" he cried, when he saw us, and his instructions to the +driver were purely nautical. "Hard astern!" he yelled, going down a +hill, and instead of "Gee" or "Haw" he shouted "Port" or "Starboard." + +An acquaintance of George and Mike has built a boat which is intended to +go up-stream by the force of the water rushing against it and turning a +propeller. We had a spirited discussion about it. + +"Because," as one of the men objected, "it's all right until you get to +the head of the stream. Then what are you going to do?" he asked. +"She'll only go up--she won't go down." + +Pete, the chief guide, was a German. He was rather uneasy for fear we +intended to cross the Canadian line. But we reassured him. A big blond +in a wide-flapping Stetson, black Angora chaps, and flannel shirt with a +bandana, he led our little procession into the wilderness and sang as he +rode. The Head frequently sang with him. And because the only song the +Head knew very well in German was the "Lorelei," we had it hour after +hour. Being translated to one of the boatmen, he observed: "I have known +girls like that. I guess I'd leave most any boat for them. But I'd leave +this boat for most any girl." + +We were approaching the mountains, climbing slowly but steadily. We +passed through Lone Tree Prairie, where one great pine dominated the +country for miles around, and stopped by a small river for luncheon. + +Of all the meals that we took in the open, perhaps luncheon was the most +delightful. Condensed milk makes marvelous cocoa. We opened tins of +things, consulted maps, eased the horses' cinches, rested our own tired +bodies for an hour or so. For the going, while much better than we had +expected, was still slow. It was rare, indeed, to be able to get the +horses out of a walk. And there is no more muscle-racking occupation +than riding a walking horse hour after hour through a long day. + +By the end of the second day we were well away from even that remote +part of civilization from which we had started, and a terrible fact was +dawning on us. The cook did not like us! + +Now, we all have our small vanities, and mine has always been my success +with cooks. I like cooks. As time goes on, I am increasingly dependent +on cooks. I never fuss a cook, or ask how many eggs a cake requires, or +remark that we must be using the lard on the hardwood floors. I never +make any of the small jests on that order, with which most housewives +try to reduce the cost of living. + +No; I really go out of my way to ignore the left-overs, and not once on +this trip had I so much as mentioned dish-towels or anything unpleasant. +I had seen my digestion slowly going with a course of delicious but +indigestible saddle-bags, which were all we had for bread. + +But--I was failing. Bill unpacked and cooked and packed up again and +rode on the chuck-wagon. But there was something wrong. Perhaps it was +the fall out of the wagon. Perhaps we were too hungry. We were that, I +know. Perhaps he looked ahead through the vista of days and saw that +formidable equipment of fishing-tackle, and mentally he was counting the +fish to clean and cook and clean and cook and clean and-- + +The center of a camping-trip is the cook. If, in the spring, men's +hearts turn to love, in the woods they turn to food. And cooking is a +temperamental art. No unhappy cook can make a soufflé. Not, of course, +that we had soufflé. + +A camp cook should be of a calm and placid disposition. He has the +hardest job that I know of. He cooks with inadequate equipment on a +tiny stove in the open, where the air blows smoke into his face and +cinders into his food. He must cook either on his knees or bending over +to within a foot or so of the ground. And he must cook moving, as it +were. Worse than that, he must cook not only for the party but for a +hungry crowd of guides and packers that sits around in a circle and +watches him, and urges him, and gets under his feet, and, if he is +unpleasant, takes his food fairly out of the frying-pan under his eyes +if he is not on guard. He is the first up in the morning and the last in +bed. He has to dry his dishes on anything that comes handy, and then +pack all of his grub on an unreliable horse and start off for the next +eating-ground. + +So, knowing all this, and also that we were about a thousand miles from +the nearest employment-office and several days' hard riding from a +settlement, we went to Bill with tribute. We praised his specialties. We +gave him a college lad, turned guide for the summer, to assist him. We +gathered up our own dishes. We inquired for his bruise. But gloom +hung over him like a cloud. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _A mountain lake in Glacier National Park_] + +And he _could_ cook. Well-- + +We had made a forced trip that day, and the last five miles were +agonizing. In vain we sat sideways on our horses, threw a leg over the +pommel, got off, and walked and led them. Bowman Lake, our objective +point, seemed to recede. + +Very few people have ever seen Bowman Lake. Yet I believe it is one of +the most beautiful lakes in this country. It is not large, perhaps only +twelve miles long and from a mile to two miles in width. Save for the +lower end, it lies entirely surrounded by precipitous and inaccessible +peaks--old Rainbow, on whose mist-cap the setting sun paints a true +rainbow day after day, Square Peak, Reuter Peak, and Peabody, named with +the usual poetic instinct of the Geological Survey. They form a natural +wall, round the upper end of the lake, of solid-granite slopes which +rise over a mile in height above it. Perpetual snow covers the tops of +these mountains, and, melting in innumerable waterfalls, feeds the lake +below. + +So far as I can discover, we were taking the first boat, with the +possible exception of an Indian canoe long ago, to Bowman Lake. Not the +first boat, either, for the Geological Survey had nailed a few boards +together, and the ruin of this venture was still decaying on the shore. + +There was a report that Bowman Lake was full of trout. That was one of +the things we had come to find out. It was for Bowman Lake primarily +that all the reels and flies and other lure had been arranged. If it was +true, then twenty-four square miles of virgin lake were ours to fish +from. + + + + +IV + +A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE + + +After our first view of the lake, the instant decision was to make a +permanent camp there for a few days. And this we did. Tents were put up +for the luxurious-minded, three of them. Mine was erected over me, when, +as I had pre-determined, I had found a place where I could lie +comfortably. The men belonging to the outfit, of course, slept under the +stars. A packer, a guide, or the cook with an outfit like ours has, +outside of such clothing as he wears or carries rolled in his blankets, +but one possession--and that is his tarp bed. With such a bed, a can of +tomatoes, and a gun, it is said that a cow-puncher can go anywhere. + +Once or twice I was awake in the morning before the cook's loud call of +"Come and get it!" brought us from our tents. I never ceased to view +with interest this line of tarp beds, each with its sleeping occupant, +his hat on the ground beside him, ready, when the call came, to sit up +blinking in the sunlight, put on his hat, crawl out, and be ready for +the day. + +The boats had traveled well. The next morning, after a breakfast of ham +and eggs, fried potatoes, coffee, and saddle-bags, we were ready to try +them out. + +And here I shall be generous. For this means that next year we shall go +there and find other outfits there before us, and people in the latest +thing in riding-clothes, and fancy trout-creels and probably +sixty-dollar reels. + +Bowman Lake is a fisherman's paradise. The first day on the lake we +caught sixty-nine cut-throat trout averaging a pound each, and this +without knowing where to look. + +[Illustration: _Getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on Bowman +Lake_] + +In the morning, we could see them lying luxuriously on shelving banks in +the sunlight, only three to six feet below the surface. They rose, like +a shot, to the flies. For some reason, George Locke, our fisherman, +resented their taking the Parmachene Belle. Perhaps because the trout of +his acquaintance had not cared for this fly. Or maybe he considered +the Belle not sportsmanly. The Brown Hackle and Royal Coachman did +well, however, and, in later fishing on this lake, we found them more +reliable than the gayer flies. In the afternoon, the shallows failed us. +But in deep holes where the brilliant walls shelved down to incredible +depths, they rose again in numbers. + +It was perfectly silent. Doubtless, countless curious wild eyes watched +us from the mountain-slopes and the lake-borders. But we heard not even +the cracking of brushwood under cautious feet. The tracks of deer, where +they had come down to drink, a dead mountain-lion floating in a pool, +the slow flight of an eagle across the face of old Rainbow, and no sound +but the soft hiss of a line as it left the reel--that was Bowman Lake, +that day, as it lay among its mountains. So precipitous are the slopes, +so rank the vegetation where the forest encroaches, that we were put to +it to find a ridge large enough along the shore to serve as a foothold +for luncheon. At last we found a tiny spot, perhaps ten feet long by +three feet wide, and on that we landed. The sun went down; the rainbow +clouds gathered about the peaks above, and still the trout were rising. +When at last we turned for our ten-mile row back to camp, it was almost +dusk. + +Now and then, when I am tired and the things of this world press close +and hard, I think of those long days on that lonely lake, and the +home-coming at nightfall. Toward the pin-point of glow--the distant +camp-fire which was our beacon light--the boat moved to the long, tired +sweep of the oars; around us the black forest, the mountains overhead +glowing and pink, as if lighted from within. And then, at last, the +grating of our little boat on the sand--and night. + +During the day, our horses were kept in a rope corral. Sometimes they +were quiet; sometimes a spirit of mutiny seemed to possess the entire +thirty-one. There is in such a string always one bad horse that, with +ears back and teeth showing, keeps the entire bunch milling. When such a +horse begins to stir up trouble, the wrangler tries to rope him and get +him out. Mad excitement follows as the noose whips through the air. But +they stay in the corral. So curious is the equine mind that it seldom +realizes that it could duck and go under the rope, or chew it through, +or, for that matter, strain against it and break it. + +At night, we turned the horses loose. Almost always in the morning, some +were missing, and had to be rounded up. The greater part, however, +stayed close to the bell-mare. It was our first night at Bowman Lake, I +think, that we heard a mountain-lion screaming. The herd immediately +stampeded. It was far away, so that we could not hear the horses +running. But we could hear the agitated and rapid ringing of the bell, +and, not long after, the great cat went whining by the camp. In the +morning, the horses were far up the mountain-side. + +Sometime I shall write that article on "Wild Animals I Have Missed." We +were in a great game-country. But we had little chance to creep up on +anything but deer. The bells of the pack-outfit, our own jingling spurs, +the accouterments, the very tinkle of the tin cups on our saddles must +have made our presence known to all the wilderness-dwellers long before +we appeared. + +After we had been at Bowman Lake a day or two, while at breakfast one +morning, we saw two of the guides racing their horses in a mad rush +toward the camp. Just outside, one of the ponies struck a log, turned a +somersault, and threw his rider, who, nothing daunted, came hurrying up +on foot. They had seen a bull moose not far away. Instantly all was +confusion. The horses were not saddled. One of the guides gave me his +and flung me on it. The Little Boy made his first essay at bareback +riding. In a wild scamper we were off, leaping logs and dodging trees. +The Little Boy fell off with a terrific thud, and sat up, looking +extremely surprised. And when we had got there, as clandestinely as a +steam calliope in a circus procession, the moose was gone. I sometimes +wonder, looking back, whether there really was a moose there or not. Did +I or did I not see a twinkle in Bill Shea's eye as he described the +sweep of the moose's horns? I wonder. + +[Illustration: _The horses in the rope corral_] + +Birds there were in plenty; wild ducks that swam across the lake at +terrific speed as we approached; plover-snipe, tiny gray birds with long +bills and white breasts, feeding along the edge of the lake peacefully +at our very feet; an eagle carrying a trout to her nest. Brown squirrels +came into the tents and ate our chocolate and wandered over us +fearlessly at night. Bears left tracks around the camp. But we saw none +after we left the Lake McDonald country. + +Yet this is a great game-country. The warden reports a herd of +thirty-six moose in the neighborhood of Bowman Lake; mountain-lion, +lynx, marten, bear, and deer abound. A trapper built long ago a +substantial log shack on the north shore of the lake, and although it is +many years since it was abandoned, it is still almost weather-proof. All +of us have our dreams. Some day I should like to go back and live for a +little time in that forest cabin. In the long snow-bound days after he +set his traps, the trapper had busied himself fitting it up. A tin can +made his candle-bracket on the wall, axe-hewn planks formed a table and +a bench, and diagonally across a corner he had built his fireplace of +stones from the lakeside. + +He had a simple method of constructing a chimney; he merely left without +a roof that corner of the cabin and placed slanting boards in it. He had +made a crane, too, which swung out over the fireplace. All of the Rocky +Mountains were in his back garden, and his front yard was Bowman Lake. + +We had had fair weather so far. But now rain set in. Hail came first; +then a steady rain. The tents were cold. We got out our slickers and +stood out around the beach fire in the driving storm, and ate our +breakfast of hot cakes, fried ham, potatoes and onions cooked together, +and hot coffee. The cook rigged up a tarpaulin over his little stove and +stood there muttering and frying. He had refused to don a slicker, and +his red sweater, soaking up the rain, grew heavy with moisture and began +to stretch. Down it crept, down and down. + +The cook straightened up from his frying-pan and looked at it. Then he +said:-- + + "There, little sweater, don't you cry; + You'll be a blanket by and by." + +This little touch of humor on his part cheered us. Perhaps, seeing how +sporting we were about the weather, he was going to like us after all. +Well-- + +Our new tents leaked--disheartening little drips that came in and +wandered idly over our blankets, to lodge in little pools here and +there. A cold wind blew. I resorted to that camper's delight--a stone +heated in the camp-fire--to warm my chilled body. We found one or two +magazines, torn and dejected, and read them, advertisements and all. And +still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon. + +By afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. We ate supper after +dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in +our hands. The firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers. +The horses stood with their heads low against the storm. The men of the +outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their +faces. + +The next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. At eight +o'clock, the clouds began to lift. Their solidity broke. The lower edge +of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and +ominous, grew ragged. Shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off, +grew smaller, disappeared. Overhead, the pall was thinner. Finally it +broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. And, at last, old +Rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through +its vapory sheathings. Angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and +then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her +way out. The rain was over. + +The horses provided endless excitement. Whether at night being driven +off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into +the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. Getting +them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. As soon as a few +were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives escaped and +shot through the camp. There were times when the air seemed full of +flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language. + +On the last day at Bowman Lake, we realized that although the weather +had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. He was polite enough--he had +always been polite to the party. But he packed in a dejected manner. +There was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry +jam in sacking. + +The breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. The tents are taken +down at dawn almost over one's head. Blankets are rolled and strapped; +the pack-ponies groan and try to roll their packs off. + +Bill Shea quotes a friend of his as contending that the way to keep a +pack-pony cinched is to put his pack on him, throw the diamond hitch, +cinch him as tight as possible, and then take him to a drinking-place +and fill him up with water. However, we did not resort to this. + + + + +V + +TO KINTLA LAKE + + +We had washed at dawn in the cold lake. The rain had turned to snow in +the night, and the mountains were covered with a fresh white coating. +And then, at last, we were off, the wagons first, although we were soon +to pass them. We had lifted the boats out of the water and put them +lovingly in their straw again. And Mike and George formed the crew. The +guides were ready with facetious comments. + +"Put up a sail!" they called. "Never give up the ship!" was another +favorite. The Head, who has a secret conviction that he should have had +his voice trained, warbled joyously:-- + + "I'll stick to the ship, lads; + You save your lives. + I've no one to love me; + You've children and wives." + +And so, still in the cool of the morning, our long procession mounted +the rise which some great glacier deposited ages ago at the foot of +what is now Bowman Lake. We turned longing eyes back as we left the lake +to its winter ice and quiet. For never again, probably, will it be ours. +We have given its secret to the world. + +At two o'clock we found a ranger's cabin and rode into its enclosure for +luncheon. Breakfast had been early, and we were very hungry. We had gone +long miles through the thick and silent forest, and now we wanted food. +We wanted food more than we wanted anything else in the world. We sat in +a circle on the ground and talked about food. + +And, at last, the chuck-wagon drove in. It had had a long, slow trip. We +stood up and gave a hungry cheer, and then--_Bill was gone!_ Some miles +back he had halted the wagon, got out, taken his bed on his back, and +started toward civilization afoot. We stared blankly at the teamster. + +"Well," we said; "what did he say?" + +"All he said to me was, 'So long,'" said the teamster. + +And that was all there was to it. So there we were in the wilderness, +far, far from a cook. The hub of our universe had departed. Or, to make +the figure modern, we had blown out a tire. And we had no spare one. + +I made my declaration of independence at once. I could cook; but I would +not cook for that outfit. There were too many; they were too hungry. +Besides, I had come on a pleasure-trip, and the idea of cooking for +fifteen men and thirty-one horses was too much for me. I made some cocoa +and grumbled while I made it. We lunched out of tins and in savage +silence. When we spoke, it was to impose horrible punishments on the +defaulting cook. We hoped he would enjoy his long walk back to +civilization without food. + +"Food!" answered one of the boys. "He's got plenty cached in that bed of +his, all right. What you should have done," he said to the teamster, +"was to take his bed from him and let him starve." + +In silence we finished our luncheon; in silence, mounted our horses. In +black and hopeless silence we rode on north, farther and farther from +cooks and hotels and tables-d'hôte. + +We rode for an hour--two hours. And, at last, sitting in a cleared spot, +we saw a man beside the trail. He was the first man we had seen in days. +He was sitting there quite idly. Probably that man to-day thinks that he +took himself there on his own feet, of his own volition. We know better. +He was directed there for our happiness. It was a direct act of +Providence. For we rode up to him and said:-- + +"Do you know of any place where we can find a cook?" + +And this man, who had dropped from heaven, replied: + +"_I am a cook._" + +So we put him on our extra saddle-horse and took him with us. He cooked +for us with might and main, day and night, until the trip was over. And +if you don't believe this story, write to Norman Lee, Kintla, Montana, +and ask him if it is true. What is more, Norman Lee could cook. He could +cook on his knees, bending over, and backward. He had been in Cuba, in +the Philippines, in the Boxer Rebellion in China, and was now a trapper; +is now a trapper, for, as I write this, Norman Lee is trapping marten +and lynx on the upper left-hand corner of Montana, in one of the empty +spaces of the world. + +We were very happy. We caracoled--whatever that may be. We sang and +whistled, and we rode. How we rode! We rode, and rode, and rode, and +rode, and rode, and rode, and rode. And, at last, just when the end of +endurance had come, we reached our night camp. + +Here and there upon the west side of Glacier Park are curious, sharply +defined treeless places, surrounded by a border of forest. On Round +Prairie, that night, we pitched our tents and slept the sleep of the +weary, our heads pillowed on war-bags in which the heel of a slipper, +the edge of a razor-case, a bottle of sunburn lotion, and the tooth-end +of a comb made sleeping an adventure. + +It was cold. It was always cold at night. But, in the morning, we +wakened to brilliant sunlight, to the new cook's breakfast, and to +another day in the saddle. We were roused at dawn by a shrill yell. + +Startled, every one leaped to the opening of his tent and stared out. It +proved, however, not to be a mountain-lion, and was, indeed, nothing +more than one of the packers struggling to get into a wet pair of socks, +and giving vent to his irritation in a wild fury of wrath. + +As Pete and Bill Shea and Tom Farmer threw the diamond hitch over the +packs that morning, they explained to me that all camp cooks are of two +kinds--the good cooks, who are evil of disposition, and the tin-can +cooks, who only need a can-opener to be happy. But I lived to be able to +refute that. Norman Lee was a cook, and he was also amiable. + +But that morning, in spite of the bright sunlight, started ill. For +seven horses were missing, and before they were rounded up, the guides +had ridden a good forty miles of forest and trail. But, at last, the +wanderers were brought in and we were ready to pack. + +On a pack-horse there are two sets of rope. There is a sling-rope, +twenty or twenty-five feet long, and a lash-rope, which should be +thirty-five feet long. The sling-rope holds the side pack; the top pack +is held by the lash-rope and the diamond hitch. When a cow-puncher on a +bronco yells for a diamond, he does not refer to a jewel. He means a +lash-rope. When the diamond is finally thrown, the packer puts his foot +against the horse's face and pulls. The packer pulls, and the horse +grunts. If the packer pulls a shade too much, the horse bucks, and there +is an exciting time in which everybody clears and the horse has the +field--every one, that is, but Joe, whose duty it was to be on the spot +in dangerous moments. Generally, however, by the time he got his camera +set up and everything ready, the bucker was feeding placidly and the +excitement was over. + +We rather stole away from Round Prairie that morning. A settler had +taken advantage of a clearing some miles away to sow a little grain. +When our seven truants were found that brilliant morning, they had eaten +up practically the grain-field and were lying gorged in the center of +it. + +[Illustration: _Bear-grass_] + +So "we folded our tents like the Arabs, and as silently stole away." +(This has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good +place for it.) + +We had come out on to the foothills again on our way to Kintla Lake. +Again we were near the Flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple +of the Kootenai Hills. The Kootenais on the left, the Rockies on the +right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin. + +The meadow-lands were full of flowers. There was rather less Indian +paint-brush than on the east side of the park. We were too low for much +bear-grass. But there were masses everywhere of June roses, true +forget-me-nots, and larkspur. And everywhere in the burnt areas was the +fireweed, that phoenix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead +trees. + +There were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish--everything but fresh +meat. We had had no fresh meat since the first day out. And now my soul +revolted at the sight of bacon. I loathed all ham with a deadly +loathing. I had eaten canned salmon until I never wanted to see it +again. And our provisions were getting low. + +Just to the north, where we intended to camp, was Starvation Ridge. It +seemed to be an ominous name. + +Norman Lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred +miles--they have no idea of distance there--who would kill a forty-pound +calf if we would send him word. But it seemed rather too much veal. We +passed it up. + +On and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. No little +rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the +mountains. We were tanned a blackish purple. We were saddle-sore. One of +the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested +rubbing it on the saddle. Packs slipped and were tightened. The mountain +panorama unrolled slowly to our right. And all day long the boatmen +struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now +hardly good enough for horses. + +Where the trail turned off toward the mountains and Kintla Lake, we met +a solitary horseman. He had ridden sixty miles down and sixty miles back +to get his mail. There is a sort of R.F.D. in this corner of the world, +but it is not what I should call in active operation. It was then +August, and there had been just two mails since the previous Christmas! + +Aside from the Geological Survey, very few people, except an occasional +trapper, have ever seen Kintla Lake. It lies, like Bowman Lake, in a +recess in the mountains. We took some photographs of Kintla Peak, taking +our boats to the upper end of the lake for the work. They are, so far as +I can discover, the only photographs ever taken of this great mountain +which towers, like Rainbow, a mile or so above the lake. + +Across from Kintla, there is a magnificent range of peaks without any +name whatever. The imagination of the Geological Survey seemed to die +after Starvation Ridge; at least, they stopped there. Kintla is a +curious lemon-yellow color, a great, flat wall tapering to a point and +frequently hidden under a cap of clouds. + +But Kintla Lake is a disappointment to the fisherman. With the exception +of one of the guides, who caught a four-pound bull-trout there, repeated +whippings of the lake with the united rods and energies of the entire +party failed to bring a single rise. No fish leaped of an evening; none +lay in the shallows along the bank. It appeared to be a dead lake. I +have a strong suspicion that that guide took away Kintla's only fish, +and left it without hope of posterity. + +We rested at Kintla,--for a strenuous time was before us,--rested and +fasted. For supplies were now very low. Starvation Ridge loomed over us, +and starvation stared us in the face. We had counted on trout, and there +were no trout. That night, we supped off our last potatoes and off cakes +made of canned salmon browned in butter. Breakfast would have to be a +repetition minus the potatoes. We were just a little low in our minds. + +[Illustration: _A Glacier Park lake_] + +The last thing I saw that night was the cook's shadowy figure as he +crouched working over his camp-fire. + +And we wakened in the morning to catastrophe. In spite of the fact that +we had starved our horses the day before, in order to keep them grazing +near camp that night, they had wandered. Eleven were missing, and eleven +remained missing. Up the mountain-slopes and through the woods the +wranglers rode like madmen, only to come in on dejected horses with +failure written large all over them. One half of the saddlers were gone; +my Angel had taken wings and flown away. + +We sat dejectedly on the bank and fished those dead waters. We wrangled +among ourselves. Around us was the forest, thick and close save for the +tiny clearing, perhaps forty feet by forty feet. There was no open +space, no place to walk, nothing to do but sit and wait. + +At last, some of us in the saddle and some afoot, we started. It looked +as though the walkers might have a long hike. But sometime about midday +there was a sound of wild cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up +with the truants. They had been far up on the mountain-side. + +It is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out +about such a trip as this. Of Kintla itself, I have no very vivid +memories. But standing out very sharply is that figure of the cook +crouched over his dying fire, with the black forest all about him. There +is a picture, too, of a wild deer that came down to the edge of the lake +to drink as we sat in the first boat that had ever been on Kintla Lake, +whipping a quiet pool. And there is a clear memory of the assistant +cook, the college boy who was taking his vacation in the wilds, +whistling the Dvo[vr]ák "Humoresque" as he dried the dishes on a piece +of clean sacking. + + + + +VI + +RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD + + +It was now approaching time for Bob's great idea to materialize. For +this, and to this end, had he brought the boats on their strange +land-journey--such a journey as, I fancy, very few boats have ever had +before. + +The project was, as I have said, to run the unknown reaches of the North +Fork of the Flathead from the Canadian border to the town of Columbia +Falls. + +"The idea is this," Bob had said: "It's never been done before, do you +see? It makes the trip unusual and all that." + +"Makes it unusually risky," I had observed. + +"Well, there's a risk in pretty nearly everything," he had replied +blithely. "There's a risk in crossing a city street, for that matter. +Riding these horses is a risk, if you come to that. Anyhow, it would +make a good story." + +So that is why I did it. And this is the story: + +We were headed now for the Flathead just south of the Canadian line. To +reach the river, it was necessary to take the boats through a burnt +forest, without a trail of any sort. They leaped and plunged as the +wagon scrambled, jerked, careened, stuck, détoured, and finally got +through. There were miles of such going--heart-breaking miles--and at +the end we paused at the top of a sixty-foot bluff and looked down at +the river. + +Now, I like water in a tub or drinking-glass or under a bridge. I am +very keen about it. But I like still water--quiet, well-behaved, +stay-at-home water. The North Fork of the Flathead River is a riotous, +debauched, and highly erratic stream. It staggers in a series of wild +zigzags for a hundred miles of waterway from the Canadian border to +Columbia Falls, our destination. And that hundred miles of whirlpools, +jagged rocks, and swift and deadly cañons we were to travel. I turned +around and looked at the Family. It was my ambition that had brought +them to this. We might never again meet, as a whole. We were sure to +get to Columbia Falls, but not at all sure to get there in the boats. I +looked at the boats; they were, I believe, stout river-boats. But they +were small. Undeniably, they were very small. + +The river appeared to be going about ninety miles an hour. There was one +hope, however. Perhaps they could not get the boats down over the bluff. +It seemed a foolhardy thing even to try. I suggested this to Bob. But he +replied, rather tartly, that he had not brought those boats at the risk +of his life through all those miles of wilderness to have me fail him +now. + +He painted the joys of the trip. He expressed so strong a belief in them +that he said that he himself would ride with the outfit, thus permitting +most of the Family in the boats that first day. He said the river was +full of trout. I expressed a strong doubt that any trout could live in +that stream and hold their own. I felt that they had all been washed +down years ago. And again I looked at the Family. + +Because I knew what would happen. The Family would insist on going +along. It was not going to let mother take this risk alone; it was +going to drown with her if necessary. + +The Family jaws were set. _They were going._ + +The entire outfit lowered the wagon by roping it down. There was one +delicious moment when I thought boats and all were going over the edge. +But the ropes held. Nothing happened. + +_They put the boats in the water._ + +I had one last rather pitiful thought as I took my seat in the stern of +one of them. + +"This is my birthday," I said wistfully. "It's rather a queer way to +spend a birthday, I think." + +But this was met with stern silence. I was to have my story whether I +wanted it or not. + +Yet once in the river, the excitement got me. I had run brief spells of +rapids before. There had been a gasp or two and it was over. But this +was to be a prolonged four days' gasp, with intervals only to sleep at +night. + +Fortunately for all of us, it began rather quietly. The current was +swift, so that, once out into the stream, we shot ahead as if we had +been fired out of a gun. But, for all that, the upper reaches were +comparatively free of great rocks. Friendly little sandy shoals beckoned +to us. The water was shallow. But, even then, I noticed what afterward I +found was to be a delusion of the entire trip. + +This was the impression of riding downhill. I do not remember now how +much the Flathead falls per mile. I have an impression that it is ninety +feet, but as that would mean a drop of nine thousand feet, or almost two +miles, during the trip, I must be wrong somewhere. It was sixteen feet, +perhaps. + +But hour after hour, on the straight stretches, there was that +sensation, on looking ahead, of staring down a toboggan-slide. It never +grew less. And always I had the impression that just beyond that glassy +slope the roaring meant uncharted falls--and destruction. It never did. + +The outfit, following along the trail, was to meet us at night and have +camp ready when we appeared--if we appeared. Only a few of us could use +the boats. George Locke in one, Mike Shannon in the other, could carry +two passengers each. For the sake of my story, I was to take the entire +trip; the others were to alternate. + +I do not know, but I am very confident that no other woman has ever +taken this trip. I am fairly confident that no other men have ever taken +it. We could find no one who had heard of it being taken. All that we +knew was that it was the North Fork of the Flathead River, and that if +we stayed afloat long enough, we would come out at Columbia Falls. The +boatmen knew the lower part of the river, but not the upper two thirds +of it. + +[Illustration: _Still-water fishing_] + +Now that it is over, I would not give up my memory of that long run for +anything. It was one of the most unique experiences in a not uneventful +career. It was beautiful always, terrible occasionally. There were +dozens of places each day where the boatmen stood up, staring ahead for +the channel, while the boats dodged wildly ahead. But always these +skillful pilots of ours found a way through. And so fast did we go that +the worst places were always behind us before we had time to be +really terrified. + +The Flathead River in these upper reaches is fairly alive with trout. On +the second day, I think it was, I landed a bull-trout that weighed nine +pounds, and got it with a six-ounce rod. I am very proud of that. I have +eleven different pictures of myself holding the fish up. There were +trout everywhere. The difficulty was to stop the boat long enough to get +them. In fact, we did not stop, save in an occasional eddy in the midst +of the torrent. We whipped the stream as we flew along. Under great +boulders, where the water seethed and roared, under deep cliffs where it +flew like a mill-race, there were always fish. + +It was frightful work for the boatmen. It required skill every moment. +There was not a second in the day when they could relax. Only men +trained to river rapids could have done it, and few, even, of these. To +the eternal credit of George and Mike, we got through. It was nothing +else. + +On the evening of the first day, in the dusk which made the river +doubly treacherous, we saw our camp-fire far ahead. + +With the going-down of the sun, the river had grown cold. We were wet +with spray, cramped from sitting still and holding on. But friendly +hands drew our boats to shore and helped us out. + + + + +VII + +THE SECOND DAY ON THE FLATHEAD + + +In a way, this is a fairy-story. Because a good fairy had been busy +during our absence. Days before, at the ranger's cabin, unknown to most +of us, an order had gone down to civilization for food. During all those +days under Starvation Ridge, food had been on the way by +pack-horse--food and an extra cook. + +So we went up to camp, expecting more canned salmon and fried trout and +little else, and beheld-- + +A festive board set with candles--the board, however, in this case is +figurative; it was the ground covered with a tarpaulin--fried chicken, +fresh green beans, real bread, jam, potatoes, cheese, cake, candy, +cigars, and cigarettes. And--champagne! + +That champagne had traveled a hundred miles on horseback. It had been +cooled in the icy water of the river. We drank it out of tin cups. We +toasted each other. We toasted the Flathead flowing just beside us. We +toasted the full moon rising over the Kootenais. We toasted the good +fairy. The candles burned low in their sockets--this, also, is +figurative; they were stuck on pieces of wood. With due formality I was +presented with a birthday gift, a fishing-reel purchased by the Big and +the Middle and the Little Boy. + +Of all the birthdays that I can remember--and I remember quite a +few--this one was the most wonderful. Over mountain-tops, glowing deep +pink as they rose above masses of white clouds, came slowly a great +yellow moon. It turned the Flathead beside us to golden glory, and +transformed the evergreen thickets into fairy glades of light and +shadow. Flickering candles inside the tents made them glow in luminous +triangles against their background of forest. + +Behind us, in the valley lands at the foot of the Rockies, the horses +rested and grazed, and eased their tired backs. The men lay out in the +open and looked at the stars. The air was fragrant with pine and +balsam. Night creatures called and answered. + +And, at last, we went to our tents and slept. For the morning was a new +day, and I had not got all my story. + +That first day's run of the river we got fifty trout, ranging from one +half-pound to four pounds. We should have caught more, but they could +not keep up with the boat. We caught, also, the most terrific sunburn +that I have ever known anything about. We had thought that we were +thoroughly leathered, but we had not passed the primary stage, +apparently. In vain I dosed my face with cold-cream and talcum powder, +and with a liquid warranted to restore the bloom of youth to an aged +skin (mine, however, is not aged). + +My journal for the second day starts something like this:-- + + Cold and gray. Stood in the water fifteen minutes + in hip-boots for a moving picture. River looks + savage. + +Of that second day, one beautiful picture stands out with distinctness. + +The river is lovely; it winds and twists through deep forests with +always that marvelous background of purple mountains capped with snow. +Here and there, at long intervals, would come a quiet half-mile where, +although the current was incredibly swift, there were, at least, no +rocks. It was on coming round one of these bends that we saw, out from +shore and drinking quietly, a deer. He was incredulous at first, and +then uncertain whether to be frightened or not. He threw his head up and +watched us, and then, turning, leaped up the bank and into the forest. + +Except for fish, there was surprisingly little life to be seen. Bald +eagles sat by the river, as intent on their fishing as we were on ours. +Wild ducks paddled painfully up against the current. Kingfishers fished +in quiet pools. But the real interest of the river, its real life, lay +in its fish. What piscine tragedies it conceals, with those murderous, +greedy, and powerful assassins, the bull-trout, pursuing fish, as I have +seen them, almost into the landing-net! What joyous interludes where, in +a sunny shallow, tiny baby trout played tag while we sat and watched +them! + +[Illustration: _Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork +of the Flathead River_] + +The danger of the river is not all in the current. There are quicksands +along the Flathead, sands underlain with water, apparently secure but +reaching up clutching hands to the unwary. Our noonday luncheon, taken +along the shore, was always on some safe and gravelly bank or tiny +island. + +Our second camp on the Flathead was less fortunate than the first. +Always, in such an outfit as ours, the first responsibility is the +horses. Camp must be made within reach of grazing-grounds for them, and +in these mountain and forest regions this is almost always a difficult +matter. Here and there are meadows where horses may eat their fill; but, +generally, pasture must be hunted. Often, long after we were settled for +the night, our horses were still ranging far, hunting for grass. + +So, on this second night, we made an uncomfortable camp for the sake of +the horses, a camp on a steep bluff sloping into the water in a dead +forest. It had been the intention, as the river was comparatively quiet +here, to swim the animals across and graze them on the other side. But, +although generally a horse can swim when put to it, we discovered too +late that several horses in our string could not swim at all. In the +attempt to get them across, one horse with a rider was almost drowned. +So we gave that up, and they were driven back five miles into the +country to pasture. + +There is something ominous and most depressing about a burnt forest. +There is no life, nothing green. It is a ghost-forest, filled with tall +tree skeletons and the mouldering bones of those that have fallen, and +draped with dry gray moss that swings in the wind. Moving through such a +forest is almost impossible. Fallen and rotten trees, black and charred +stumps cover every foot of ground. It required two hours' work with an +axe to clear a path that I might get to the little ridge on which my +tent was placed. The day had been gray, and, to add to our discomfort, +there was a soft, fine rain. The Middle Boy had developed an inflamed +knee and was badly crippled. Sitting in the drizzle beside the +camp-fire, I heated water in a tin pail and applied hot compresses +consisting of woolen socks. + +It was all in the game. Eggs tasted none the worse for being fried in a +skillet into which the rain was pattering. Skins were weather-proof, if +clothes were not. And heavy tarpaulins on the ground protected our +bedding from dampness. + +The outfit, coming down by trail, had passed a small store in a +clearing. They had bought a whole cheese weighing eleven pounds, a +difficult thing to transport on horseback, a wooden pail containing +nineteen pounds of chocolate chips, and six dozen eggs--our first eggs +in many days. + +In the shop, while making the purchase, the Head had pulled out a box of +cigarettes. The woman who kept the little store had never seen +machine-made cigarettes before, and examined them with the greatest +interest. For in that country every man is his own cigarette-maker. The +Middle Boy later reported with wide eyes that at her elbow she kept a +loaded revolver lying, in plain view. She is alone a great deal of the +time there in the wilderness, and probably she has many strange +visitors. + +It was at the shop that a terrible discovery was made. We had been in +the wilderness on the east side and then on the west side of the park +for four weeks. And days in the woods are much alike. No one had had a +calendar. The discovery was that we had celebrated my birthday on the +wrong day! + +That night, in the dead forest, we gathered round the camp-fire. I made +hot compresses. The packers and guides told stories of the West, and we +matched them with ones of the East. From across the river, above the +roaring, we could hear the sharp stroke of the axe as branches were +being cut for our beds. There was nothing living, nothing green about us +where we sat. + +I am aware that the camp-fire is considered one of the things about +which the camper should rave. My own experience of camp-fires is that +they come too late in the day to be more than a warming-time before +going to bed. We were generally too tired to talk. A little desultory +conversation, a cigarette or two, an outline of the next day's work, and +all were off to bed. Yet, in that evergreen forest, our fires were +always rarely beautiful. The boughs burned with a crackling white flame, +and when we threw on needles, they burst into stars and sailed far up +into the night. As the glare died down, each of us took his hot stone +from its bed of ashes and, carrying it carefully, retired with it. + + + + +VIII + +THROUGH THE FLATHEAD CAÑON + + +The next morning we wakened to sunshine, and fried trout and bacon and +eggs for breakfast. The cook tossed his flapjacks skillfully. As the +only woman in the party, I sometimes found an air of festivity about my +breakfast-table. Whereas the others ate from a tarpaulin laid on the +ground, I was favored with a small box for a table and a smaller one for +a seat. On the table-box was set my graniteware plate, knife, fork, and +spoon, a paper napkin, the Prince Albert and the St. Charles. Lest this +sound strange to the uninitiated, the St. Charles was the condensed milk +and the Prince Albert was an old tin can which had once contained +tobacco but which now contained the sugar. Thus, in our camp-etiquette, +one never asked for the sugar, but always for the Prince Albert; not for +the milk, but always for the St. Charles, sometimes corrupted to the +Charlie. + +I was late that morning. The men had gone about the business of +preparing the boats for the day. The packers and guides were out after +the horses. The cook, hot and weary, was packing up for the daily +exodus. He turned and surveyed that ghost-forest with a scowl. + +"Another camping-place like this, and I'll be braying like a blooming +burro." + +On the third day, we went through the Flathead River cañon. We had +looked forward to this, both because of its beauty and its danger. +Bitterly complaining, the junior members of the family were exiled to +the trail with the exception of the Big Boy. + +It had been Joe's plan to photograph the boat with the moving-picture +camera as we came down the cañon. He meant, I am sure, to be on hand if +anything exciting happened. But impenetrable wilderness separated the +trail from the edge of the gorge, and that evening we reached the camp +unphotographed, unrecorded, to find Joe sulking in a corner and inclined +to blame the forest on us. + +In one of the very greatest stretches of the rapids, a long +straightaway, we saw a pigmy figure, far ahead, hailing us from the +bank. "Pigmy" is a word I use generally with much caution, since a +friend of mine, in the excitement of a first baby, once published a poem +entitled "My Pigmy Counterpart," which a type-setter made, in the +magazine version, "My Pig, My Counterpart." + +Nevertheless, we will use it here. Behind this pigmy figure stretched a +cliff, more than one hundred feet in height, of sheer rock overgrown +with bushes. The figure had apparently but room on which to stand. +George stood up and surveyed the prospect. + +"Well," he said, in his slow drawl, "if that's lunch, I don't think we +can hit it." + +The river was racing at mad speed. Great rocks caught the current, +formed whirlpools and eddies, turned us round again and again, and sent +us spinning on, drenched with spray. That part of the river the boatmen +knew--at least by reputation. It had been the scene, a few years before, +of the tragic drowning of a man they knew. For now we were getting down +into the better known portions. + +[Illustration: _The beginning of the cañon, Middle Fork of the Flathead +River_] + +To check a boat in such a current seemed impossible. But we needed food. +We were tired and cold, and we had a long afternoon's work still before +us. + +At last, by tremendous effort and great skill, the boatmen made the +landing. It was the college boy who had clambered down the cliff and +brought the lunch, and it was he who caught the boats as they were +whirling by. We had to cling like limpets--whatever a limpet is--to the +edge, and work our way over to where there was room to sit down. + +It reminded the Head of Roosevelt's expression about peace raging in +Mexico. He considered that enjoyment was raging here. + +Nevertheless, we ate. We made the inevitable cocoa, warmed beans, ate a +part of the great cheese purchased the day before, and, with gingersnaps +and canned fruit, managed to eke out a frugal repast. And shrieked our +words over the roar of the river. + +It was here that the boats were roped down. Critical examination and +long debate with the boatmen showed no way through. On the far side, +under the towering cliff, was an opening in the rocks through which the +river boiled in a drop of twenty feet. + +So it was fortunate, after all, that we had been hailed from the shore +and had stopped, dangerous as it had been. For not one of us would have +lived had we essayed that passage under the cliff. The Flathead River is +not a deep river; but the force of its flow is so great, its drop so +rapid, that the most powerful swimmer is hopeless in such a current. +Light as our flies were, again and again they were swept under and held +as though by a powerful hand. + +Another year, the Flathead may be a much simpler proposition to +negotiate. Owing to the unusually heavy snows of last winter, which had +not commenced to melt on the mountain-tops until July, the river was +high. In a normal summer, I believe that this trip could be +taken--although always the boatmen must be expert in river rapids--with +comparative safety and enormous pleasure. + +There is a thrill and exultation about running rapids--not for minutes, +not for an hour or two, but for days--that gets into the blood. And +when to that exultation is added the most beautiful scenery in America, +the trip becomes well worth while. However, I am not at all sure that it +is a trip for a woman to take. I can swim, but that would not have +helped at all had the boat, at any time in those four days, struck a +rock and turned over. Nor would the men of the party, all powerful +swimmers, have had any more chance than I. + +We were a little nervous that afternoon. The cañon grew wilder; the +current, if possible, more rapid. But there were fewer rocks; the +river-bed was clearer. + +We were rapidly nearing the Middle Fork. Another day would see us there, +and from that point, the river, although swift, would lose much of its +danger. + +Late the afternoon of the third day we saw our camp well ahead, on a +ledge above the river. Everything was in order when we arrived. We +unloaded ourselves solemnly out of the boats, took our fish, our poles, +our graft-hooks and landing-nets, our fly-books, my sunburn lotion, and +our weary selves up the bank. Then we solemnly shook hands all round. We +had come through; the rest was easy. + +On the last day, the river became almost a smiling stream. Once again, +instead of between cliffs, we were traveling between great forests of +spruce, tamarack, white and yellow pine, fir, and cedar. A great golden +eagle flew over the water just ahead of our boat. And in the morning we +came across our first sign of civilization--a wire trolley with a cage, +extending across the river in lieu of a bridge. High up in the air at +each end, it sagged in the middle until the little car must almost have +touched the water. We had a fancy to try it, and landed to make the +experiment. But some ungenerous soul had padlocked it and had gone away +with the key. + +For the first time that day, it was possible to use the trolling-lines. +We had tried them before, but the current had carried them out far ahead +of the boat. Cut-throat trout now and then take a spoon. But it is the +bull-trout which falls victim, as a rule, to the troll. + +I am not gifted with the trolling-line. Sometime I shall write an +article on the humors of using it--on the soft and sibilant hiss with +which it goes out over the stern; on the rasping with which it grates on +the edge of the boat as it holds on, stanch and true, to water-weeds and +floating branches; on the low moan with which it buries itself under a +rock and dies; on the inextricable confusion into which it twists and +knots itself when, hand over hand, it is brought in for inspection. + +I have spent hours over a trolling-line, hours which, otherwise, I +should have wasted in idleness. There are thirty-seven kinds of knots +which, so far, I have discovered in a trolling-line, and I am but at the +beginning of my fishing career. + +"What are you doing," the Head said to me that last day, as I sat in the +stern busily working at the line. "Knitting?" + +We got few fish that day, but nobody cared. The river was wide and +smooth; the mountains had receded somewhat; the forest was there to the +right and left of us. But it was an open, smiling forest. Still far +enough away, but slipping toward us with the hours, were settlements, +towns, the fertile valley of the lower river. + +We lunched that night where, just a year before, I had eaten my first +lunch on the Flathead, on a shelving, sandy beach. But this time the +meal was somewhat shadowed by the fact that some one had forgotten to +put in butter and coffee and condensed milk. + +However, we were now in that part of the river which our boatmen knew +well. From a secret cache back in the willows, George and Mike produced +coffee and condensed milk and even butter. So we lunched, and far away +we heard a sound which showed us how completely our wilderness days were +over--the screech of a railway locomotive. + +Late that afternoon, tired, sunburned, and unkempt, we drew in at the +little wharf near Columbia Falls. It was weeks since we had seen a +mirror larger than an inch or so across. Our clothes were wrinkled from +being used to augment our bedding on cold nights. The whites of our eyes +were bloodshot with the sun. My old felt hat was battered and torn with +the fish-hooks that had been hung round the band. Each of us looked at +the other, and prayed to Heaven that he looked a little better himself. + + + + +IX + +THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL + + +Columbia Falls had heard of our adventure, and was prepared to do us +honor. Automobiles awaited us on the river-bank. In a moment we were +snatched from the jaws of the river and seated in the lap of luxury. If +this is a mixed metaphor, it is due to the excitement of the change. +With one of those swift transitions of the Northwest, we were out of the +wilderness and surrounded by great yellow fields of wheat. + +Cleared land or natural prairie, these valleys of the Northwest are +marvelously fertile. Wheat grows an incredible number of bushels to the +acre. Everything thrives. And on the very borders of the fields stands +still the wilderness to be conquered, the forest to be cleared. Untold +wealth is there for the man who will work and wait, land rich beyond the +dreams of fertilizer. But it costs about eighty dollars an acre, I am +told, to clear forest-land after it has been cut over. It is not a +project, this Northwestern farming, to be undertaken on a shoestring. +The wilderness must be conquered. It cannot be coaxed. And a good many +hearts have been broken in making that discovery. A little money--not +too little--infinite patience, cheerfulness, and red-blooded +effort--these are the factors which are conquering the Northwest. + +I like the Northwest. In spite of its pretensions, its large cities, its +wealth, it is still peopled by essential frontiersmen. They are still +pioneers--because the wilderness encroaches still so close to them. I +like their downrightness, their pride in what they have achieved, their +hatred of sham and affectation. + +And if there is to be real progress among us in this present generation, +the growth of a political and national spirit, that sturdy insistence on +better things on which our pioneer forefathers founded this nation, it +is likely to come, as a beginning, from these newer parts of our +country. These people have built for themselves. What we in the East +have inherited, they have made. They know its exact cost in blood and +sweat. They value it. And they will do their best by it. + +Perhaps, after all, this is the end of this particular adventure. And +yet, what Western story is complete without a round-up? + +There was to be a round-up the next day at Kalispell, farther south in +that wonderful valley. + +But there was a difficulty in the way. Our horses were Glacier Park +horses. Columbia Falls was outside of Glacier Park. Kalispell was even +farther outside of Glacier Park, and horses were needed badly in the +Park. For last year Glacier Park had the greatest boom in its history +and found the concessionnaires unprepared to take care of all the +tourists. What we should do, we knew, was to deadhead our horses back +into the Park as soon as they had had a little rest. + +But, on the other hand, there was Kalispell and the round-up. It would +make a difference of just one day. True, we could have gone to the +round-up on the train. But, for two reasons, this was out of the +question. First, it would not make a good story. Second, we had nothing +but riding-clothes, and ours were only good to ride in and not at all to +walk about in. + +After a long and serious conclave, it was decided that Glacier Park +would not suffer by the absence of our string for twenty-four hours +more. + +On the following morning, then, we set off down the white and dusty +road, a gay procession, albeit somewhat ragged. Sixteen miles in the +heat we rode that morning. It was when we were halfway there that one of +the party--it does not matter which one--revealed that he had received a +telegram from the Government demanding the immediate return of our +outfit. We halted in the road and conferred. + +It is notorious of Governments that they are short-sighted, detached, +impersonal, aloof, and haughty. We gathered in the road, a gayly +bandanaed, dusty, and highly indignant crowd, and conferred. + +The telegram had been imperative. It did not request. It commanded. It +unhorsed us violently at a time when it did not suit either ourselves or +our riding-clothes to be unhorsed. + +We conferred. We were, we said, paying two dollars and a half a day for +each of those horses. Besides, we were out of adhesive tape, which is +useful for holding on patches. Besides, also, we had the horses. If they +wanted them, let them come and get them. Besides, this was +discrimination. Ever since the Park was opened, horses had been taken +out of it, either on to the Reservation or into Canada, to get about to +other parts of the Park. Why should the Government pick on us? + +We were very bitter and abusive, and the rest of the way I wrote +mentally a dozen sarcastic telegrams. Yes; the rest of the way. Because +we went on. With a round-up ahead and the Department of the Interior in +the rear, we rode forward to our stolen holiday, now and then pausing, +an eye back to see if we were pursued. But nothing happened; no sheriff +in a buckboard drove up with a shotgun across his knees. The Government, +or its representative in Glacier Park, was contenting itself with +foaming at the mouth. We rode on through the sunlight, and sang as we +rode. + +Kalispell is a flourishing and attractive town of northwestern Montana. +It is notable for many other things besides its annual round-up. But it +remains dear to me for one particular reason. + +My hat was done. It had no longer the spring and elasticity of youth. It +was scarred with many rains and many fish-hooks. It had ceased to add +its necessary jaunty touch to my costume. It detracted. In its age, I +loved it, but the Family insisted cruelly on a change. So, sitting on +Angel, a new one was brought me, a chirky young thing, a cowgirl affair +of high felt crown and broad rim. + +And, at this moment, a gentleman I had never seen before, but who is +green in my memory, stepped forward and presented me with his own +hat-band. It was of leather, and it bore this vigorous and inspiriting +inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck." + +To-day, when I am low in my mind, I take that cowgirl hat from its +retreat and read its inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck." It is +a whole creed. + +Somewhere among my papers I have the programme of that round-up at +Kalispell. It was a very fine round-up. There was a herd of buffalo; +there were wild horses and long-horned Mexican steers. There was a +cheering crowd. There was roping, and marvelous riding. + +But my eyes were fixed on the grand-stand with a stony stare. + +I am an adopted Blackfoot Indian, known in the tribe as "Pi-ta-mak-an," +and only a few weeks before I had had a long conference with the chiefs +of the tribe, Two Guns, White Calf (the son of old White Calf, the great +chief who dropped dead in the White House during President Cleveland's +administration), Medicine Owl and Curly Bear and Big Spring and Bird +Plume and Wolf Plume and Bird Rattler and Bill Shute and +Stabs-by-Mistake and Eagle Child and Many Tail-Feathers--and many more. + +[Illustration: _Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), with two +other members of the Blackfoot Tribe_] + +And these Indians had all promised me that, as soon as our conference +was over, they were going back to the Reservation to get in their hay +and work hard for the great herd which the Government had promised to +give them. They were going to be good Indians. + +So I stared at the grand-stand with a cold and fixed eye. For there, +very many miles from where they should have been, off the Reservation +without permission of the Indian agent, painted and bedecked in all the +glory of their forefathers--paint, feathers, beads, strings of thimbles +and little mirrors--handsome, bland, and enjoying every instant to the +full in their childish hearts, were my chiefs. + +During the first lull in the proceedings, a delegation came to visit me +and to explain. This is what they said: First of all, they desired me to +make peace with the Indian agent. He was, they considered, most +unreasonable. There were many times when one could labor, and there was +but one round-up. They petitioned, then, that I intercede and see that +their ration-tickets were not taken away. + +And even as the interpreter told me their plea, one old brave caught my +hand and pointed across to the enclosure, where a few captive buffalo +were grazing. I knew what it meant. These, my Blackfeet, had been the +great buffalo-hunters. With bow and arrow they had followed the herds +from Canada to the Far South. These chiefs had been mighty hunters. But +for many years not a single buffalo had their eyes beheld. They who had +lived by the buffalo were now dying with them. A few full-bloods shut +away on a reservation, a few buffalo penned in a corral--children of the +open spaces and of freedom, both of them, and now dying and imprisoned. +For the Blackfeet are a dying people. + +They had come to see the buffalo. + +But they did not say so. An Indian is a stoic. He has both imagination +and sentiment, but the latter he conceals. And this was the explanation +they gave me for the Indian agent:-- + +I knew that, back in my home, when a friend asked me to come to an +entertainment, I must go or that friend would be offended with me. And +so it was with the Blackfeet Indians--they had been invited to this +round-up, and they felt that they should come or they would hurt the +feelings of those who had asked them. Therefore, would I, Pi-ta-mak-an, +go to the Indian agent and make their peace for them? For, after all, +summer was short and winter was coming. The old would need their +ration-tickets again. And they, the braves, would promise to go back to +the Reservation and get in the hay, and be all that good Indians should +be. + +And I, too, was as good an Indian as I knew how to be, for I scolded +them all roundly and then sat down at the first possible opportunity and +wrote to the agent. + +And the agent? He is a very wise and kindly man, facing one of the +biggest problems in our country. He gave them back their ration-tickets +and wiped the slate clean, to the eternal credit of a Government that +has not often to the Indian tempered justice with mercy. + + + + +X + +OFF FOR CASCADE PASS + + +How many secrets the mountains hold! They have forgotten things we shall +never know. And they are cruel, savagely cruel. What they want, they +take. They reach out a thousand clutching hands. They attack with +avalanche, starvation, loneliness, precipice. They lure on with green +valleys and high flowering meadows where mountain-sheep move sedately, +with sunlit peaks and hidden lakes, with silence for tired ears and +peace for weary souls. And then--they kill. + +Because man is a fighting animal, he obeys their call, his wit against +their wisdom of the ages, his strength against their solidity, his +courage against their cunning. And too often he loses. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _A high mountain meadow_] + +I am afraid of the mountains. I have always the feeling that they are +lying in wait. At night, their very silence is ominous. The crack of ice +as a bit of slow-moving glacier is dislodged, lightning, and the roar +of thunder somewhere below where I lie--these are the artillery of the +range, and from them I am safe. I am too small for their heavy guns. But +a shelving trail on the verge of a chasm, a slip on an ice-field, a +rolling stone under a horse's foot--these are the weapons I fear above +the timber-line. + +Even below there is danger--swamps and rushing rivers, but above all the +forest. In mountain valleys it grows thick on the bodies of dead forests +beneath. It crowds. There is barely room for a tent. And all through the +night the trees protest. They creak and groan and sigh, and sometimes +they burn. In a _cul-de-sac_, with only frowning cliffs about, the +forest becomes ominous, a thing of dreadful beauty. On nights when, +through the crevices of the green roof, there are stars hung in the sky, +the weight lifts. But there are other nights when the trees close in +like ranks of hostile men and take the spirit prisoner. + +The peace of the wilderness is not peace. It is waiting. + +On the Glacier Park trip, there had been one subject which came up for +discussion night after night round the camp-fire. It resolved itself, +briefly, into this: Should we or should we not get out in time to go +over to the State of Washington and there perform the thrilling feat +which Bob, the Optimist, had in mind? + +This was nothing more nor less than the organization of a second +pack-outfit and the crossing of the Cascade Mountains on horseback by a +virgin route. The Head, Bob, and Joe had many discussions about it. I do +not recall that my advice was ever asked. It is generally taken for +granted in these wilderness-trips of ours that I will be there, ready to +get a story when the opportunity presents itself. + +Owing to the speed with which the North Fork of the Flathead River +descends from the Canadian border to civilization, we had made very good +time. And, at last, the decision was made to try this new adventure. + +"It will be a bully story," said the Optimist, "and you can be dead sure +of this: it's never been done before." + +So, at last, it was determined, and we set out on that wonderful +harebrain excursion of which the very memory gives me a thrill. Yet, now +that I know it can be done, I may try it again some day. It paid for +itself over and over in scenery, in health, and in thrills. But there +were several times when it seemed to me impossible that we could all get +over the range alive. + +We took through thirty-one horses and nineteen people. When we got out, +our horses had had nothing to eat, not a blade of grass or a handful of +grain, for thirty-six hours, and they had had very little for five days. + +On the last morning, the Head gave his horse for breakfast one +rain-soaked biscuit, an apple, two lumps of sugar, and a raw egg. The +other horses had nothing. + +We dropped three pack-horses over cliffs in two days, but got them +again, cut and bruised, and we took out our outfit complete, after two +weeks of the most arduous going I have ever known anything about. When +the news that we had got over the pass penetrated to the settlements, a +pack-outfit started over Cascade Pass in our footsteps to take supplies +to a miner. They killed three horses on that same trail, and I believe +gave it up in the end. + +Doubtless, by next year, a passable trail will have been built up to +Doubtful Lake and another one up that eight-hundred-foot mountain-wall +above the lake, where, when one reaches the top, there is but room to +look down again on the other side. Perhaps, too, there will be a trail +down the Agnes Creek Valley, so that parties can get through easily. +When that is done,--and it is promised by the Forest Supervisor,--one of +the most magnificent horseback trips in the country will be opened for +the first time to the traveler. + +Most emphatically, the trip across the Cascades at Doubtful Lake and +Cascade Pass is not a trip for a woman in the present condition of +things, although any woman who can ride can cross Cloudy Pass and get +down Agnes Creek way. But perhaps before this is published, the Chelan +National Forest will have been made a National Park. It ought to be. It +is superb. There is no other word for it. And it ought not to be called +a forest, because it seems to have everything but trees. Rocks and +rivers and glaciers--more in one county than in all Switzerland, they +claim--and granite peaks and hair-raising precipices and lakes filled +with ice in midsummer. But not many trees, until, at Cascade Pass, one +reaches the boundaries of the Washington National Forest and begins to +descend the Pacific slope. + +The personnel of our party was slightly changed. Of the original one, +there remained the Head, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, Joe, +Bob, and myself. To these we added at the beginning six persons besides +our guides and packers. Two of them did not cross the pass, however--the +Forest Pathologist from Washington, who travels all over the country +watching for tree-diseases and tree-epidemics and who left us after a +few days, and the Supervisor of Chelan Forest, who had but just come +from Oregon and was making his first trip over his new territory. + +We were fortunate, indeed, in having four forest-men with us, men whose +lives are spent in the big timber, who know the every mood and tense of +the wilderness. For besides these two, the Pathologist and the Forest +Supervisor, there was "Silent Lawrie" Lindsley, naturalist, +photographer, and lover of all that is wild, a young man who has spent +years wandering through the mountains around Chelan, camera and gun at +hand, the gun never raised against the wild creatures, but used to shoot +away tree-branches that interfere with pictures, or, more frequently, to +trim a tree into such outlines as fit it into the photograph. + +And then there was the Man Who Went Ahead. For forty years this man, Mr. +Hilligoss, has lived in the forest. Hardly a big timber-deal in the +Northwest but was passed by him. Hardly a tree in that vast wilderness +but he knew it. He knew everything about the forest but fear--fear and +fatigue. And, with an axe and a gun, he went ahead, clearing trail, +blazing trees, and marking the détours to camp-sites by an arrow made of +bark and thrust through a slash in a tree. + +Hour after hour we would struggle on, seeing everywhere evidences of his +skill on the trail, to find, just as endurance had reached its limit, +the arrow that meant camp and rest. + +And--there was Dan Devore and his dog, Whiskers. Dan Devore was our +chief guide and outfitter, a soft voiced, bearded, big souled man, +neither very large nor very young. All soul and courage was Dan Devore, +and one of the proud moments of my life was when it was all over and he +told me I had done well. I wanted most awfully to have Dan Devore think +I had done well. + +He was sitting on a stone at the time, I remember, and Whiskers, his old +Airedale, had his head on Dan's knee. All of his thirteen years, +Whiskers had wandered through the mountains with Dan Devore, always +within call. To see Dan was to see Whiskers; to see Whiskers was to see +Dan. + +He slept on Dan's tarp bed at night, and in the daytime led our long and +winding procession. Indomitable spirit that he was, he traveled three +miles to our one, saved us from the furious onslaughts of many a marmot +and mountain-squirrel, and, in the absence of fresh meat, ate his salt +pork and scraps with the zest of a hungry traveler. + +Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Fred. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Fred, +because, like Joe, that was a part of their name. I will be frank about +Mrs. Fred. I was worried about her before I knew her. I was accustomed +to roughing it; but how about another woman? Would she be putting up her +hair in curlers every night, and whimpering when, as sometimes happens, +the slow gait of her horse became intolerable? Little did I know Mrs. +Fred. She was a natural wanderer, a follower of the trail, a fine and +sound and sporting traveling companion. And I like to think that she is +typical of the women of that Western country which bred her, feminine to +the core, but strong and sweet still. + +Both the Freds were great additions. Was it not after Mr. Fred that we +trailed on that famous game-hunt of ours, of which a spirited account is +coming later? Was it not Mr. Fred who, night after night, took the +junior Rineharts away from an anxious mother into the depths of the +forest or the bleakness of mountain-slopes, there to lie, armed to the +teeth, and wait for the first bears to start out for breakfast? + +Now you have us, I think, except the men of the outfit, and they deserve +space I cannot give them. They were a splendid lot, and it was by their +incessant labor that we got over. + +Try to see us, then, filing along through deep valleys, climbing cliffs, +stumbling, struggling, not talking much, a long line of horses and +riders. First, far ahead, Mr. Hilligoss. Then the riders, led by "Silent +Lawrie," with me just behind him, because of photographs. Then, at the +head of the pack-horses, Dan Devore. Then the long line of pack-ponies, +sturdy and willing, and piled high with our food, our bedding, and our +tents. And here, there, and everywhere, Joe, with the moving-picture +camera. + +We were determined, this time, to have no repetition of the Glacier Park +fiasco, where Bill, our cook, had deserted us at a bad time--although it +is always a bad time when the cook leaves. So now we had two cooks. +Much as I love the mountains and the woods, the purple of evening +valleys, the faint pink of sunrise on snow-covered peaks, the most +really thrilling sight of a camping-trip is two cooks bending over an +iron grating above a fire, one frying trout and the other turning +flapjacks. + +Our trail led us through one of the few remaining unknown portions of +the United States. It cannot long remain unknown. It is too superb, too +wonderful. And it has mineral in it, silver and copper and probably +coal. The Middle Boy, who is by way of being a chemist and has +systematically blown himself up with home-made explosives for years--the +Middle Boy found at least a dozen silver mines of fabulous value, +although the men in the party insisted that his specimens were iron +pyrites and other unromantic minerals. + + + + +XI + +LAKE CHELAN TO LYMAN LAKE + + +Now, as to where we were--those long days of fording rivers and beating +our way through jungle or of dizzy climbs up to the snow, those short +nights, so cold that six blankets hardly kept us warm, while our tired +horses wandered far, searching for such bits of grass as grew among the +shale. + +In the north-central part of the State of Washington, Nature has done a +curious thing. She has built a great lake in the eastern shoulders of +the Cascade Mountains. Lake Chelan, more than fifty miles long and +averaging a mile and a half in width, is ten hundred and seventy-five +feet above sea-level, while its bottom is four hundred feet below the +level of the ocean. It is almost completely surrounded by granite walls +and peaks which reach more than a mile and a half into the air. + +The region back from the lake is practically unknown. A small part of it +has never been touched by the Geological Survey, and, in one or two +instances, we were able to check up errors on our maps. Thus, a lake +shown on our map as belonging at the head of McAllister Creek really +belongs at the head of Rainbow Creek, while McAllister Lake is not shown +at all. Mr. Coulter, a forester who was with us for a time, last year +discovered three lakes at the head of Rainbow Creek which have never +been mapped, and, so far as could be learned, had never been seen by a +white man before. Yet Lake Chelan itself is well known in the Northwest. +It is easily reached, its gateway being the famous Wenatchee Valley, +celebrated for its apples. + +It was from Chelan that we were to make our start. Long before we +arrived, Dan Devore and the packers were getting the outfit ready. + +[Illustration: _Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan_] + +Yet the first glimpse of Chelan was not attractive. We had motored half +a day through that curious, semi-arid country, which, when irrigated, +proves the greatest of all soils in the world for fruit-raising. The +August sun had baked the soil into yellow dust which covered +everything. Arid hillsides without a leaf of green but dotted thickly +with gray sagebrush, eroded valleys, rocks and gullies--all shone a +dusty yellow in the heat. The dust penetrated everything. Wherever water +could be utilized were orchards, little trees planted in geometrical +rows and only waiting the touch of irrigation to make their owners +wealthy beyond dreams. + +The lower end of Lake Chelan was surrounded by these bleak hillsides, +desert without the great spaces of the desert. Yet unquestionably, in a +few years from now, these bleak hillsides will be orchard land. Only the +lower part, however, is bleak--only an end, indeed. There is nothing +more beautiful and impressive than the upper part of that strangely deep +and quiet lake lying at the foot of its enormous cliffs. + +By devious stages we reached the head of Lake Chelan, and there for four +days the outfitting went on. Horses were being brought in, saddles +fitted; provisions in great cases were arriving. To outfit a party of +our size for two weeks means labor and generous outlay. And we were +going to be comfortable. We were willing to travel hard and sleep hard. +But we meant to have plenty of food. I think we may claim the unique +distinction of being the only people who ever had grapefruit regularly +for breakfast on the top of that portion of the Cascade Range. + +While we waited, we learned something about the country. It is volcanic +ash, disintegrated basalt, this great fruit-country to the right of the +range. And three things, apparently, are responsible for its marvelous +fruit-growing properties. First, the soil itself, which needs only water +to prove marvelously fertile; second, the length of the growing-season, +which around Lake Chelan is one hundred and ninety-two days in the year. +And this just south of the Canadian border! There is a third reason, +too: the valleys are sheltered from frost. Even if a frost comes,--and I +believe it is almost unknown,--the high mountains surrounding these +valleys protect the blossoms so that the frost has evaporated before the +sun strikes the trees. There is no such thing known as a killing frost. + +But it is irrigation on a virgin and fertile soil that is primarily +responsible. They run the water to the orchards in conduits, and then +dig little trenches, running parallel among the trees. Then they turn it +on, and the tree-roots are bathed, soaked. And out of the desert spring +such trees of laden fruit that each branch must be supported by wires! + +So we ate such apples as I had never dreamed of, and waited. Joe got his +films together. The boys practiced shooting. I rested and sharpened +lead-pencils. Bob had found a way to fold his soft hat into what he +fondly called the "Jennings do," which means a plait in the crown to +shed the rain, and which turned an amiable _ensemble_ into something +savage and extremely flat on top. The Head played croquet. + +And then into our complacency came, one night, a bit of tragedy. + +A man staggered into the little hotel at the head of the lake, carrying +another man on his back. He had carried him for forty hours, lowering +him down, bit by bit, from that mountain highland where he had been +hurt--forty hours of superhuman effort and heart-breaking going, over +cliffs and through wilderness. + +The injured man was a sheep-herder. He had cut his leg with his +wood-axe, and blood-poisoning had set in. I do not know the rest of that +story. The sheep-herder was taken to a hospital the next day, traveling +a very long way. But whether he traveled still farther, to the land of +the Great Shepherd, I do not know. Only this I do know: that this +Western country I love is full of such stories, and of such men as the +hero of this one. + +At last we were ready. Some of the horses were sent by boat the day +before, for this strange lake has little or no shore-line. Granite +mountains slope stark and sheer to the water's edge, and drop from there +to frightful depths below. There are, at the upper end, no roads, no +trails or paths that border it. So the horses and all of us went by boat +to the mouth of Railroad Creek,--so called, I suppose, because the +nearest railroad is more than forty miles away,--up which led the trail +to the great unknown. All around and above us were the cliffs, towering +seven thousand feet over the lake. And beyond those cliffs lay +adventure. + +For it _was_ adventure. Even Dan Devore, experienced mountaineer and +guide that he was, had only been to Cascade Pass once, and that was +sixteen years before. He had never been across the divide. "Silent +Lawrie" Lindsley, the naturalist, had been only part-way down the Agnes +Creek Valley, which we intended to follow. Only in a general way had we +any itinerary at all. + +Now a National Forest is a happy hunting-ground. Whereas in the National +Parks game is faithfully preserved, hunting is permitted in the forests. +To this end, we took with us a complete arsenal. The naturalist carried +a Colt's revolver; the Big Boy had a twelve-gauge hammerless, called a +"howitzer." We had two twenty-four-gauge shotguns in case we met an +elephant or anything similarly large and heavy, and the Little Boy +proudly carried, strapped to his saddle, a twenty-two high-power rifle, +shooting a steel-jacketed, soft-nose bullet, an express-rifle of high +velocity and great alarm to mothers. In addition to this, we had a +Savage repeater and two Winchester thirties, and the Forest Supervisor +carried his own Winchester thirty-eight. We were entirely prepared to +meet the whole German army. + +It is rather sad to relate that, with all this preparation, we killed +nothing whatever. Although it is not true that, on the day we +encountered a large bear, and the three junior members of the family +were allowed to turn the artillery loose on him, at the end of the +firing the bear pulled out a flag and waved it, thinking it was the +Fourth of July. + +As we started, that August midday, for the long, dusty ride up the +Railroad Creek Trail, I am sure that the three junior Rineharts had +nothing less in mind than two or three bearskins apiece for school +bedrooms. They deserved better luck than they had. Night after night, +sitting in the comparative safety of the camp-fire, I have seen my three +sons, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, starting off, armed to +the teeth with deadly weapons, to sleep out under the stars and catch +the first unwary bear on his way to breakfast in the morning. + +Morning after morning, I have sat breakfastless and shaken until the +weary procession of young America toiled into camp, hungry and bearless, +but, thank Heaven, whole of skin save where mosquitoes and black flies +had taken their toll of them. They would trudge five miles, sleep three +hours, hunt, walk five miles back, and then ride all day. + + * * * * * + +The first day was the least pleasant. We were still in the Railroad +Creek Valley; the trail was dusty; packs slipped on the sweating horses +and had to be replaced. The bucking horse of the outfit had, as usual, +been given the eggs, and, burying his head between his fore legs, threw +off about a million dollars' worth before he had been on the trail an +hour. + +On that first part of the trip, we had three dogs with us--Chubb and +Doc, as well as Whiskers. They ran in the dust with their tongues out, +and lay panting under bushes at each stop. Here and there we found the +track of sheep driven into the mountain to graze. For a hundred or two +hundred feet in width, it was eaten completely clean, for sheep have a +way of tearing up even the roots of the grass so that nothing green +lives behind them. They carry blight into a country like this. + +Then, at last, we found the first arrow of the journey, and turned off +the trail to camp. + +On that first evening, the arrow landed us in a great spruce grove where +the trees averaged a hundred and twenty-five feet in height. Below, the +ground was cleared and level and covered with fine moss. The great gray +trunks rose to Gothic arches of green. It was a churchly place. And +running through it were little streams living with trout. + +And in this saintly spot, quiet and peaceful, its only noise the +babbling of little rivers, dwelt billions on billions of mosquitoes that +were for the first time learning the delights of the human frame as +food. + +There was no getting away from them. Open our mouths and we inhaled +them. They hung in dense clouds about us and fought over the best +locations. They held loud and noisy conversations about us, and got in +our ears and up our nostrils and into our coffee. They went +trout-fishing with us and put up the tents with us; dined with us and on +us. But they let us alone at night. + +It is a curious thing about the mountain mosquito as I know him. He is a +lazy insect. He retires at sundown and does not begin to get in any +active work until eight o'clock the following morning. He keeps union +hours. + +Something of this we had anticipated, and I had ordered +mosquito-netting, to be worn as veils. When it was unrolled, it proved +to be a brilliant scarlet, a scarlet which faded in hot weather on to +necks and faces and turned us suddenly red and hideous. + +Although it was late in the afternoon when we reached that first camp, +Camp Romany, two or three of us caught more than a hundred trout before +sundown. We should have done better had it not been necessary to stop +and scratch every thirty seconds. + +That night, the Woodsman built a great bonfire. We huddled about it, +glad of its warmth, for although the days were hot, the nights, with the +wind from the snow-covered peaks overhead, were very cold. The tall, +unbranching gray spruce-trunks rose round it like the pillars of a +colonnade. The forester blew up his air bed. In front of the +supper-fire, the shadowy figures of the cooks moved back and forward. +From a near-by glacier came an occasional crack, followed by a roar +which told of ice dropping into cavernous depths below. The Little Boy +cleaned his gun and dreamed of mighty exploits. + +We rested all the next day at Camp Romany--rested and fished, while +three of the more adventurous spirits climbed a near-by mountain. Late +in the afternoon they rode in, bringing in their midst Joe, who had, at +the risk of his life, slid a distance which varied in the reports from +one hundred yards to a mile and a half down a snow-field, and had hung +fastened on the brink of eternity until he was rescued. + +Very white was Joe that evening, white and bruised. It was twenty-four +hours before he began to regret that the camera had not been turned on +him at the time. + +Not until we left Camp Romany did we feel that we were really off for +the trip. And yet that first day out from Romany was not agreeable +going. The trail was poor, although there came a time when we looked +back on it as superlative. The sun was hot, and there was no shade. +Years ago, prospectors hunting for minerals had started forest-fires to +level the ridges. The result was the burning-over of perhaps a hundred +square miles of magnificent forest. The second growth which has come up +is scrubby, a wilderness of young trees and chaparral, through which +progress was difficult and uninteresting. + +Up the bottom of the great glacier-basin toward the mountain at its +head, we made our slow and painful way. More dust, more mosquitoes. Even +the beauty of the snow-capped peaks overhead could not atone for the +ugliness of that destroyed region. Yet, although it was not lovely, it +was vastly impressive. Literally, hundreds of waterfalls cascaded down +the mountain wall from hidden lakes and glaciers above, and towering +before us was the mountain wall which we were to climb later that day. + +We had seen no human creature since leaving the lake, but as we halted +for luncheon by a steep little river, we suddenly found that we were not +alone. Standing beside the trail was an Italian bandit with a knife two +feet long in his hands. + +Ha! Come adventure! Come romance! Come rifles and pistols and all the +arsenal, including the Little Boy, with pure joy writ large over him! A +bandit, armed to the teeth! + +But this is a disappointing world. He was the cook from a mine--strange, +the way we met cooks, floating around loose in a world that seems to be +growing gradually cookless. And he carried with him his knife and his +bread-pan, which was, even then, hanging to a branch of a tree. + +We fed him, and he offered to sing. The Optimist nudged me. + +"Now, listen," he said; "these fellows can _sing_. Be quiet, everybody!" + +The bandit twisted up his mustachios, smiled beatifically, and took up a +position in the trail, feet apart, eyes upturned. + +And then--he stopped. + +"I start a leetle high," he said; "I start again." + +So he started again, and the woods receded from around us, and the +rushing of the river died away, and nothing was heard in that lonely +valley but the most hideous sounds that ever broke a primeval silence +into rags and tatters. + +When, at last, he stopped, we got on our horses and rode on, a bitter +and disillusioned party of adventurers whose first bubble of enthusiasm +had been pricked. + +It was four o'clock when we began the ascent of the switchback at the +top of the valley. Up and up we went, dismounting here and there, going +slowly but eagerly. For, once over the wall, we were beyond the reach +of civilization. So strange a thing is the human mind! We who were for +most of the year most civilized, most dependent on our kind and the +comforts it has wrought out of a primitive world, now we were savagely +resentful of it. We wanted neither men nor houses. Stirring in us had +commenced that primeval call that comes to all now and then, the longing +to be alone with Mother Earth, savage, tender, calm old Mother Earth. + +And yet we were still in touch with the world. For even here man had +intruded. Hanging to the cliff were the few buildings of a small mine +which sends out its ore by pack-pony. I had already begun to feel the +aloofness of the quiet places, so it was rather disconcerting to have a +miner with a patch over one eye come to the doorway of one of the +buildings and remark that he had read some of my political articles and +agreed with them most thoroughly. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _Looking out of ice-cave, Lyman Glacier_] + +That was a long day. We traveled from early morning until long after +late sundown. Up the switchback to a green plateau we went, meeting +our first ice there, and here again that miracle of the mountains, +meadow flowers and snow side by side. + +Far behind us strung the pack-outfit, plodding doggedly along. From the +rim we could look back down that fire-swept valley toward Heart Lake and +the camp we had left. But there was little time for looking back. +Somewhere ahead was a brawling river descending in great leaps from +Lyman Lake, which lay in a basin above and beyond. Our camp, that night, +was to be on the shore of Lyman Lake, at the foot of Lyman Glacier. And +we had still far to go. + +Mr. Hilligoss met us on the trail. He had found a camp-site by the lake +and had seen a bear and a deer. There were wild ducks also. + +Now and then there are scenes in the mountains that defy the written +word. The view from Cloudy Pass is one; the outlook from Cascade Pass is +another. But for sheer loveliness there are few things that surpass +Lyman Lake at sunset, its great glacier turned to pink, the towering +granite cliffs which surround it dark purple below, bright rose at the +summits. And lying there, still with the stillness of the ages, the +quiet lake. + +There was, as a matter of fact, nothing to disturb its quiet. Not a +fish, so far as we could discover, lived in its opalescent water, cloudy +as is all glacial water. It is only good to look at, is Lyman Lake, and +there are no people to look at it. + +Set in its encircling, snow-covered mountains, it lies fifty-five +hundred feet above sea-level. We had come up in two days from eleven +hundred feet, a considerable climb. That night, for the first time, we +saw the northern lights--at first, one band like a cold finger set +across the sky, then others, shooting ribbons of cold fire, now bright, +now dim, covering the northern horizon and throwing into silhouette the +peaks over our heads. + + + + +XII + +CLOUDY PASS AND THE AGNES CREEK VALLEY + + +I think I have said that one of the purposes of our expedition was to +hunt. We were to spend a day or two at Lyman Lake, and the sportsmen +were busy by the camp-fire that evening, getting rifles and shotguns in +order and preparing fishing-tackle. + +At dawn the next morning, which was at four o'clock, one of the packers +roused the Big Boy with the information that there were wild ducks on +the lake. He was wakened with extreme difficulty, put on his bedroom +slippers, picked up his shotgun, and, still in his sleeping-garments, +walked some ten feet from the mouth of his tent. There he yawned, +discharged both barrels of his gun in the general direction of the +ducks, yawned again, and went back to bed. + +I myself went on a hunting-excursion on the second day at Lyman Lake. +Now, theoretically, I am a mighty hunter. I have always expected to +shoot something worth while and be photographed with my foot on it, and +a "bearer"--whatever that may be--holding my gun in the background. So +when Mr. Fred proposed an early start and a search along the side of +Chiwawa Mountain for anything from sheep to goats, including a grizzly +if possible, my imagination was roused. So jealous were we that the +first game should be ours that the party was kept a profound secret. Mr. +Fred and Mrs. Fred, the Head, and I planned it ourselves. + +We would rise early, and, armed to the teeth, would stalk the skulking +bear to his den. + +Rising early is also a theory of mine. I approve of it. But I do not +consider it rising early to get up at three o'clock in the morning. +Three o'clock in the morning is late at night. The moon was still up. It +was frightfully cold. My shoes were damp and refused to go on. I could +not find any hairpins. And I recalled a number of stories of the extreme +disagreeableness of bears when not shot in a vital spot. + +With all our hurry, it was four o'clock when we were ready to start. No +sun was in sight, but already a faint rose-colored tint was on the tops +of the mountains. Whiskers raised a sleepy head and looked at us from +Dan's bed. We tiptoed through the camp and started. + +We climbed. Then we climbed some more. Then we kept on climbing. Mr. +Fred led the way. He had the energy of a high-powered car and the +hopefulness of a pacifist. From ledge to ledge he scrambled, turning now +and then to wave an encouraging hand. It was not long before I ceased to +have strength to wave back. Hours went on. Five hundred feet, one +thousand feet, fifteen hundred feet above the lake. I confided to the +Head, between gasps, that I was dying. We had seen no living thing; we +continued to see no living thing. Two thousand feet, twenty-five hundred +feet. There was not enough air in the world to fill my collapsed lungs. + +Once Mr. Fred found a track, and scurried off in a new direction. Still +no result. The sun was up by that time, and I judged that it was about +noon. It was only six-thirty. + +A sort of desperation took possession of us all. We would keep up with +Mr. Fred or die trying. And then, suddenly, we were on the very roof of +the world, on the top of Cloudy Pass. All the kingdoms of the earth lay +stretched out around us, and all the kingdoms of the earth were empty. + +Now, the usual way to climb Cloudy Pass is to take a good businesslike +horse and sit on his back. Then, by devious and circuitous routes, with +frequent rests, the horse takes you up. When there is a place the horse +cannot manage, you get off and hold his tail, and he pulls you. Even at +that, it is a long business and a painful one. But it is better--oh, +far, far better!--than the way we had taken. + +Have you ever reached a point where you fix your starting eyes on a +shrub or a rock ten feet ahead and struggle for it? And, having achieved +it, fix on another five feet farther on, and almost fail to get it? +Because, if you have not, you know nothing of this agony of tearing +lungs and hammering heart and throbbing muscles that is the +mountain-climber's price for achievement. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _Looking southeast from Cloudy Pass_] + +And then, after all, while resting on the top of the world with our feet +hanging over, discussing dilated hearts, because I knew mine would never +go back to normal, to see a ptarmigan, and have Mr. Fred miss it because +he wanted to shoot its head neatly off! + +Strange birds, those ptarmigan. Quite fearless of man, because they know +him not or his evil works, on alarm they have the faculty of almost +instantly obliterating themselves. I have seen a mother bird and her +babies, on an alarm, so hide themselves on a bare mountain-side that not +so much as a bit of feather could be seen. But unless frightened, they +will wander almost under the hunter's feet. + +I dare say they do not know how very delicious they are, especially +after a diet of salt meat. + +As we sat panting on Cloudy Pass, the sun rose over the cliff of the +great granite bowl. The peaks turned from red to yellow. It was +absolutely silent. No trees rustled in the morning air. There were no +trees. Only, here and there, a few stunted evergreens, two or three feet +high, had rooted on the rock and clung there, gnarled and twisted from +their winter struggles. + +Ears that had grown tired of the noises of cities grew rested. But our +ears were more rested than our bodies. + +I have always believed that it is easier to go downhill than to go up. +This is not true. I say it with the deepest earnestness. After the first +five hundred feet of descent, progress down became agonizing. The +something that had gone wrong with my knees became terribly wrong; they +showed a tendency to bend backward; they shook and quivered. + +The last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful +experiences of my life. A broken thing, I crept into camp and tendered +mute apologies to Budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "Buddy." +(Although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.) + +The remainder of that day, Mrs. Fred and I lay under a mosquito-canopy, +played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. The Forest Supervisor +climbed Lyman Glacier. The Head and the Little Boy made the circuit of +the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its +outlet. And the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which +was about to commence. + +One thing should be a part of the equipment of every one who intends to +camp in the mountains near the snow-fields. This is a mosquito-tent. +Ours was brought by that experienced woodsman and mountaineer, Mr. +Hilligoss, and was made with a light-muslin top three feet long by the +width of double-width muslin. To this was sewed sides of cheese-cloth, +with double seams and reinforced corners. At the bottom it had an extra +piece of netting two feet wide, to prevent the insects from crawling +under. + +Erecting such a shelter is very simple. Four stakes, five feet high, +were driven into the ground and the mosquito-canopy simply hung over +them. + +We had no face-masks, except the red netting, but, for such a trip, a +mask is simple to make and occasionally most acceptable. The best one I +know--and it, too, is the Woodsman's invention--consists of a four-inch +band of wire netting; above it, whipped on, a foot of light muslin to be +tied round the hat, and, below, a border of cheese-cloth two feet deep, +with a rubber band. Such a mask does not stick to the face. Through the +wire netting, it is possible to shoot with accuracy. The rubber band +round the neck allows it to be lifted with ease. + +I do not wish to give the impression that there were mosquitoes +everywhere. But when there were mosquitoes, there was nothing +clandestine about it. + +The next day we crossed Cloudy Pass and started down the Agnes Creek +Valley. It was to be a forced march of twenty-five miles over a trail +which no one was sure existed. There had, at one time, been a trail, but +avalanches have a way, in these mountain valleys, of destroying all +landmarks, and rock-slides come down from the great cliffs, fill +creek-beds, and form swamps. Whether we could get down at all or not was +a question. To the eternal credit of our guides, we made it. For the +upper five miles below Cloudy Pass it was touch and go. Even with the +sharp hatchet of the Woodsman ahead, with his blazes on the trees where +the trail had been obliterated, it was the hardest kind of going. + +Here were ditches that the horses leaped; here were rushing streams +where they could hardly keep their footing. Again, a long mile or two of +swamp and almost impenetrable jungle, where only the Woodsman's +axe-marks gave us courage to go on. We were mired at times, and again +there were long stretches over rock-slides, where the horses scrambled +like cats. + +But with every mile there came a sense of exhilaration. We were making +progress. + +There was little or no life to be seen. The Woodsman, going ahead of us, +encountered a brown bear reaching up for a cluster of salmon-berries. He +ambled away, quite unconcerned, and happily ignorant of that desperate +trio of junior Rineharts, bearing down on him with almost the entire +contents of the best gun shop in Spokane. + +It should have been a great place for bears, that Agnes Creek Valley. +There were ripe huckleberries, service-berries, salmon-and +manzanita-berries. There were plenty of places where, if I had been a +bear, I should have been entirely happy--caves and great rocks, and +good, cold water. And I believe they were there. But thirty-one horses +and a sort of family tendency to see if there is an echo anywhere about, +and such loud inquiries as, "Are you all right, mother?" and "Who the +dickens has any matches?"--these things are fatal to seeing wild life. + +Indeed, the next time I am overcome by one of my mad desires to see a +bear, I shall go to the zoo. + +It was fifteen years, I believe, since Dan Devore had seen the Agnes +Creek Valley. From the condition of the trail, I am inclined to think +that Dan was the last man who had ever used it. And such a wonderland +as it is! Such marvels of flowers as we descended, such wild +tiger-lilies and columbines and Mariposa lilies! What berries and +queen's-cup and chalice-cup and bird's-bill! There was trillium, too, +although it was not in bloom, and devil's-club, a plant which stings and +sets up a painful swelling. There were yew trees, those trees which the +Indians use for making their bows, wild white rhododendron and spirea, +cottonwood, white pine, hemlock, Douglas spruce, and white fir. +Everywhere there was mountain-ash, the berries beloved of bears. And +high up on the mountain there was always heather, beautiful to look at +but slippery, uncertain footing for horse and man. + +Twenty-five miles, broken with canter and trot, is not more than I have +frequently taken on a brisk sunny morning at home. But twenty-five miles +at a slow walk, now in a creek-bed, now on the edge of a cliff, is a +different matter. The last five miles of the Agnes Creek trip were a +long despair. We found and located new muscles that the anatomists have +overlooked.--A really first-class anatomist ought never to make a chart +without first climbing a high mountain and riding all day on the +creature alluded to in this song of Bob's, which gained a certain +popularity among the male members of the party. + + "A sailor's life is bold and free. + He lives upon the bright blue sea. + He has to work like h----, of course, + But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." + +It was dark when we reached our camp-ground at the foot of the valley. A +hundred feet below, in a gorge, ran the Stehekin River, a noisy and +turbulent stream full of trout. We groped through the darkness for our +tents that night and fell into bed more dead than alive. But at three +o'clock the next morning, the junior Rineharts, following Mr. Fred, were +off for bear, reappearing at ten, after breakfast was over, with an +excited story of having seen one very close but having unaccountably +missed it. + +There was no water for the horses at camp that night, and none for them +in the morning. There was no way to get them down to the river, and the +poor animals were almost desperate with thirst. They were having little +enough to eat even then, at the beginning of the trip, and it was hard +to see them without water, too. + + + + +XIII + +CAÑON FISHING AND A TELEGRAM + + +It was eleven o'clock the next morning before I led Buddy--I had +abandoned "Budweiser" in view of the drought--into a mountain stream and +let him drink. He would have rolled in it, too, but I was on his back +and I fiercely restrained him. + +The next day was a comparatively short trip. There was a trapper's cabin +at the fork of Bridge Creek in the Stehekin River. There we were to +spend the night before starting on our way to Cascade Pass. As it turned +out, we spent two days there. There was a little grass for the horses, +and we learned of a cañon, some five or six miles off our trail, which +was reported as full of fish. + +The most ardent of us went there the next day--Mr. Hilligoss, Weaver, +and "Silent Lawrie" and the Freds and Bob and the Big Boy and the Little +Boy and Joe. And, without expecting it, we happened on adventure. + +Have you ever climbed down a cañon with rocky sides, a straight and +precipitous five hundred feet, clinging with your finger nails to any +bit of green that grows from the cliff, and to footholds made by an axe, +and carrying a fly-book and a trout-rod which is an infinitely precious +trout-rod? Also, a share of the midday lunch and twenty pounds more +weight than you ought to have by the beauty-scale? Because, unless you +have, you will never understand that trip. + +It was a series of wild drops, of blood-curdling escapes, of slips and +recoveries, of bruises and abrasions. But at last we made it, and there +was the river! + +I have still in mind a deep pool where the water, rushing at tremendous +speed over a rocky ledge, fell perhaps fifteen feet. I had fixed my eyes +on that pool early in the day, but it seemed impossible of access. To +reach it it was necessary again to scale a part of the cliff, and, +clinging to its face, to work one's way round along a ledge perhaps +three inches wide. When I had once made it, with the aid of friendly +hands and a leather belt, by which I was lowered, I knew one thing--knew +it inevitably. I was there for life. Nothing would ever take me back +over that ledge. + +However, I was there, and there was no use wasting time. For there were +fish there. Now and then they jumped. But they did not take the fly. The +water seethed and boiled, and I stood still and fished, because a slip +on that spray-covered ledge and I was gone, to be washed down to Lake +Chelan, and lie below sea-level in the Cascade Mountains. Which might be +a glorious sort of tomb, but it did not appeal to me. + +I tried different flies with no result. At last, with a weighted line +and a fish's eye, I got my first fish--the best of the day, and from +that time on I forgot the danger. + +Some day, armed with every enticement known to the fisherman, I am going +back to that river. For there, under a log, lurks the wiliest trout I +have ever encountered. In full view he stayed during the entire time of +my sojourn. He came up to the fly, leaped over it, made faces at it. +Then he would look up at me scornfully. + +[Illustration: _Stream fishing_] + +"Old tricks," he seemed to say. "Old stuff--not good enough." I dare say +he is still there. + +Late in the day, we got out of that cañon. Got out at infinite peril and +fatigue, climbed, struggled, stumbled, held on, pulled. I slipped once +and had a bad knee for six weeks. Never once did I dare to look back and +down. It was always up, and the top was always receding. And when we +reached camp, the Head, who had been on an excursion of his own, refused +to be thrilled, and spent the evening telling how he had been climbing +over the top of the world on his hands and knees. In sheer scorn, we let +him babble. + +But my hat is off to him, after all, for he had ready for us, and swears +to this day to its truth, the best fish-story of the trip. + +Lying on the top of one of our packing-cases was a great bull-trout. Now +a bull-trout has teeth, and held in a vise-like grip in the teeth of +this one was a smaller trout. In the mouth of the small trout was a +gray-and-black fly. The Head maintained that he had hooked the small +fish and was about to draw it to shore when the bull-trout leaped out of +the water, caught the small fish, and held on grimly. The Head thereupon +had landed them both. + +In proof of this, as I have said, he had the two fish on top of a +packing-case. But it is not a difficult matter to place a small trout +cross-wise in the jaws of a bull-trout, and to this day we are not quite +certain. + +There _were_ tooth-marks on the little fish, but, as one of the guides +said, he wouldn't put it past the Head to have made them himself. + +That night we received a telegram. I remember it with great +distinctness, because the man who brought it in charged fifteen dollars +for delivering it. He came at midnight, and how he had reached us no one +will ever know. The telegram notified us that a railroad strike was +about to take place and that we should get out as soon as possible. + +Early the next morning we held a conference. It was about as far back as +it was to go ahead over the range. And before us still lay the Great +Adventure of the pass. + +We took a vote on it at last and the "ayes" carried. We would go ahead, +making the best time we could. If the railroads had stopped when we got +out, we would merely turn our pack-outfit toward the east and keep on +moving. We had been all summer in the saddle by that time, and a matter +of thirty-five hundred miles across the continent seemed a trifle. + +Dan Devore brought us other news that morning, however. Cascade Pass was +closed with snow. A miner who lived alone somewhere up the gorge had +brought in the information. It was a serious moment. We could get to +Doubtful Lake, but it was unlikely we could get any farther. The +comparatively simple matter thus became a complicated one, for Doubtful +Lake was not only a détour; it was almost inaccessible, especially for +horses. But we hated to acknowledge defeat. So again we voted to go +ahead. + +That day, while the pack-outfit was being got ready, I had a long talk +with the Forest Supervisor. He told me many things about our National +Forests, things which are worth knowing and which every American, whose +playgrounds the forests are, should know. + +In the first place, the Forestry Department welcomes the camper. He is +given his liberty, absolutely. He is allowed to hunt such game as is in +season, and but two restrictions are placed on him. He shall leave his +camp-ground clean, and he shall extinguish every spark of fire before he +leaves. Beyond that, it is the policy of the Government to let campers +alone. It is possible in a National Forest to secure a special permit to +put up buildings for permanent camps. An act passed on the 4th of March, +1915, gives the camper a permit for a definite period, although until +that time the Government could revoke the permit at will. + +The rental is so small that it is practically negligible. All roads and +trails are open to the public; no admission can be charged to a National +Forest, and no concession will be sold. The whole idea of the National +Forest as a playground is to administer it in the public interest. Good +lots on Lake Chelan can be obtained for from five to twenty-five dollars +a year, depending on their locality. It is the intention of the +Government to pipe water to these allotments. + +For the hunters, there is no protection for bear, cougar, coyotes, +bobcats, and lynx. No license is required to hunt them. And to the +persistent hunter who goes into the woods, not as we did, with an outfit +the size of a cavalry regiment, there is game to be had in abundance. We +saw goat-tracks in numbers at Cloudy Pass and the marks of Bruin +everywhere. + +The Chelan National Forest is well protected against fires. A +fire-launch patrols the lake and lookouts are stationed all the time on +Strong Mountain and Crow's Hill. They live there on the summits, where +provisions and water must be carried up to them. These lookouts now have +telephones, but until last summer they used the heliograph instead. + +So now we prepared, having made our decision to go on. That night, if +the trail was possible, we would camp at Doubtful Lake. + + + + +XIV + +DOING THE IMPOSSIBLE + + +The first part of that adventurous day was quiet. We moved sedately +along on an overgrown trail, mountain walls so close on each side that +the valley lay in shadow. I rode next to Dan Devore that day, and on the +trail he stopped his horse and showed me the place where Hughie McKeever +was found. + +Dan Devore and Hughie McKeever went out one November to go up to +Horseshoe Basin. Dan left before the heaviest snows came, leaving +McKeever alone. When McKeever had not appeared by February, Dan went in +for him. His cabin was empty. + +He had kept a diary up to the 24th of December, when it stopped +abruptly. There were a few marten skins in the cabin, and his outfit. +That was all. In some cottonwoods, not far from the camp, they found his +hatchet and his bag hanging to a tree. + +It looked for a time, as though the mystery of Hughie McKeever's +disappearance would be one of the unsolved tragedies of the mountains. +But a trapper, whose route took him along Thunder Creek that spring, +noticed that his dog made a side trip each time, away from the trail. At +last he investigated, and found the body of Hughie McKeever. He had +probably been caught in a snow-slide, for his leg was broken below the +knee. Unable to walk, he had put his snowshoes on his hands and, +dragging the broken leg, had crawled six miles through the snow and ice +of the mountain winter. When he was found, he was only a mile and a half +from his cabin and safety. + +There are many other tragedies of that valley. There was a man who went +up Bridge Creek to see a claim he had located there. He was to be out +four days. But in ten days he had not appeared, which was not +surprising, for there was twenty-five feet of snow, and when the snow +had frozen so that rescuers could travel over the crust, they went up +after him. He was lying in one of the bunks of his cabin with a +mattress over him, frozen to death. + +So, Dan said, they covered him in the snow with a mattress, and went +back in the spring to bury him. + +Every winter, in those mountain valleys, men who cannot get their +outfits out before the snow shoot their horses or cut their throats +rather than let them freeze or starve to death. It is a grim country, +the Cascade country. One man shot nine in this very valley last winter. + +Our naturalist had been caught the winter before in the first snowstorm +of the season. He was from daylight until eight o'clock at night making +two miles of trail. He had to break it, foot by foot, for the horses. + +As we rode up the gorge toward the pass, it was evident, from the amount +of snow in the mountains, that stories had not been exaggerated. The +packers looked dubious. Even if we could make the climb to Doubtful +Lake, it seemed impossible that we could get farther. But the monotony +of the long ride was broken that afternoon by our first sight, as a +party, of a bear. + +[Illustration: _Mountain miles: The trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, Glacier +National Park_] + +It came out on a ledge of the mountain, perhaps three hundred yards +away, and proceeded, with great deliberation, to walk across a +rock-slide. It paid no attention whatever to us and to the wild +excitement which followed its discovery. Instantly, the three junior +Rineharts were off their horses, and our artillery attack was being +prepared. At the first shot, the pack-ponies went crazy. They lunged and +jumped, and even Buddy showed signs of strain, leaping what I imagine to +be some eleven feet in the air and coming back on four rigid knees. +Followed such a peppering of that cliff as it had never had before. +Little clouds of rock-dust rose above the bear, in front of him, behind +him, and below him. He stopped, mildly astonished, and looked around. +More noise, more bucking on the trail, more dust. The bear walked on a +trifle faster. + +It had been arranged that the first bear was to be left for the juniors. +So the packers and the rest of the party watched and advised. + +But, as I have related elsewhere in this narrative, there were no +casualties. The bear, as far as I know, is living to-day, an honored +member of his community, and still telling how he survived the great +war. At last he disappeared into a cave, and we went on without so much +as a single skin to decorate a college room. + +We went on. + +What odds and ends of knowledge we picked up on those long days in the +saddle! That if lightning strikes a pine even lightly, it kills, but +that a fir will ordinarily survive; that mountain miles are measured +air-line, so that twenty-five miles may really be forty, and that, even +then, they are calculated on the level, so that one is credited with +only the base of the triangle while he is laboriously climbing up its +hypotenuse. I am personally acquainted with the hypotenuses of a good +many mountains, and there is no use trying to pretend that they are +bases. They are not. + +Then we learned that the purpose of the National Forests is not to +preserve timber but to conserve it. The idea is to sell and reseed. +About twenty-five per cent of the timber we saw was yellow pine. But +most of the timber we saw on the east side of the Cascades will be safe +for some time. I wouldn't undertake to carry out, from most of that +region, enough pine-needles to make a sofa-cushion. It is quite enough +to get oneself out. + +Up to now it had been hard going, but not impossible. Now we were to do +the impossible. + +It is a curious thing about mountains, but they have a hideous tendency +to fall down. Whole cliff-faces, a mile or so high, are suddenly seized +with a wandering disposition. Leaving the old folks at home and sliding +down into the valleys, they come awful croppers and sustain about eleven +million compound comminuted fractures. + +These family breaks are known as rock-slides. + +Now to travel twenty feet over a rock-slide is to twist an ankle, bruise +a shin-bone, utterly discourage a horse, and sour the most amiable +disposition. + +There is no flat side to these wandering rocks. With the diabolical +ingenuity that nature can show when she goes wrong, they lie edge up. Do +you remember the little mermaid who wished to lose her tail and gain +legs so she could follow the prince? And how her penalty was that every +step was like walking on the edges of swords? That is a mountain +rock-slide, but I do not recall that the little mermaid had to drag a +frightened and slipping horse, which stepped on her now and then. Or +wear riding-boots. Or stop every now and then to be photographed, and +try to persuade her horse to stop also. Or keep looking up to see if +another family jar threatened. Or look around to see if any of the party +or the pack was rolling down over the spareribs of that ghastly +skeleton. No; the little mermaid's problem was a simple and +uncomplicated one. + +We were climbing, too. Only one thing kept us going. The narrow valley +twisted, and around each cliff-face we expected the end--either death or +solid ground. But not so, or, at least, not for some hours. +Riding-boots peeled like a sunburnt face; stones dislodged and rolled +down; the sun beat down in early September fury, and still we went on. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY A. J. BAKER, KALISPELL, MONT. + _Where the rock-slides start_ (_Glacier National Park_)] + +Only three miles it was, but it was as bad a three miles as I have ever +covered. Then--the naturalist turned and smiled. + +"Now we are all right," he said. "_We start to climb soon!_" + + + + +XV + +DOUBTFUL LAKE + + +Of all the mountain-climbing I have ever done the switchback up to +Doubtful Lake is the worst. We were hours doing it. There were places +when it seemed no horse could possibly make the climb. Back and forth, +up and up, along that narrow rock-filled trail, which was lost here in a +snow-bank, there in a jungle of evergreen that hung out from the +mountain-side, we were obliged to go. There was no going back. We could +not have turned a horse around, nor could we have reversed the +pack-outfit without losing some of the horses. + +As a matter of fact, we dropped two horses on that switchback. With +infinite labor the packers got them back to the trail, rolling, +tumbling, and roping them down to the ledge below, and there salvaging +them. It was heart-breaking, nerve-racking work. Near the top was an +ice-patch across a brawling waterfall. To slip on that ice-patch meant a +drop of incredible distance. From broken places in the crust it was +possible to see the stream below. Yet over the ice it was necessary to +take ourselves and the pack. + +"Absolutely no riding here," was the order, given in strained tones. For +everybody's nerves were on edge. + +Somehow or other, we got over. I can still see one little pack-pony +wandering away from the others and traveling across that tiny ice-field +on the very brink of death at the top of the precipice. The sun had +softened the snow so that I fell flat into it. And there was a dreadful +moment when I thought I was going to slide. + +Even when I was safely over, my anxieties were just beginning. For the +Head and the Juniors were not yet over. And there was no space to stop +and see them come. It was necessary to move on up the switchback, that +the next horse behind might scramble up. Buddy went gallantly on, +leaping, slipping, his flanks heaving, his nostrils dilated. Then, at +last, the familiar call,-- + +"Are you all right, mother?" + +And I knew it was all right with them--so far. + +Three thousand feet that switchback went straight up in the air. How +many thousand feet we traveled back and forward, I do not know. + +But these things have a way of getting over somehow. The last of the +pack-horses was three hours behind us in reaching Doubtful Lake. The +weary little beasts, cut, bruised, and by this time very hungry, looked +dejected and forlorn. It was bitterly cold. Doubtful Lake was full of +floating ice, and a chilling wind blew on us from the snow all about. A +bear came out on the cliff-face across the valley. But no one attempted +to shoot at him. We were too tired, too bruised and sore. We gave him no +more than a passing glance. + +It had been a tremendous experience, but a most alarming one. From the +brink of that pocket on the mountain-top where we stood the earth fell +away to vast distances beneath. The little river which empties Doubtful +Lake slid greasily over a rock and disappeared without a sound into +the void. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _Switchbacks on the trail_ (_Glacier National Park_)] + +Until the pack-outfit arrived, we could have no food. We built a fire +and huddled round it, and now and then one of us would go to the edge of +the pit which lay below to listen. The summer evening was over and night +had fallen before we heard the horses coming near the top of the cliff. +We cheered them, as, one by one, they stumbled over the edge, dark +figures of horses and men, the animals with their bulging packs. They +had put up a gallant fight. + +And we had no food for the horses. The few oats we had been able to +carry were gone, and there was no grass on the little plateau. There was +heather, deceptively green, but nothing else. And here, for the benefit +of those who may follow us along the trail, let me say that oats should +be carried, if two additional horses are required for the +purpose--carried, and kept in reserve for the last hard days of the +trip. + +The two horses that had fallen were unpacked first. They were cut, and +on their cuts the Head poured iodine. But that was all we could do for +them. One little gray mare was trembling violently. She went over a +cliff again the next day, but I am glad to say that we took her out +finally, not much the worse except for a badly cut shoulder. The other +horse, a sorrel, had only a day or two before slid five hundred feet +down a snow-bank. He was still stiff from his previous accident, and if +ever I saw a horse whose nerve was gone, I saw one there--a poor, +tragic, shaken creature, trembling at a word. + +That night, while we lay wrapped in blankets round the fire while the +cooks prepared supper at another fire near by, the Optimist produced a +bottle of claret. We drank it out of tin cups, the only wine of the +journey, and not until long afterward did we know its history--that a +very great man to whose faith the Northwest owes so much of its +development had purchased it, twenty-five years before, for the visit to +this country of Albert, King of the Belgians. + +That claret, taken so casually from tin cups near the summit of the +Cascades, had been a part of the store of that great dreamer and most +abstemious of men, James J. Hill, laid in for the use of that other +great dreamer and idealist, Albert, when he was his guest. While we ate, +Weaver said suddenly,-- + +"Listen!" + +His keen ears had caught the sound of a bell. He got up. + +"Either Johnny or Buck," he said, "starting back home!" + +Then commenced again that heart-breaking task of rounding up the horses. +That is a part of such an expedition. And, even at that, one escaped and +was found the next morning high up the cliffside, in a basin. + +It was too late to put up all the tents that night. Mrs. Fred and I +slept in our clothes but under canvas, and the men lay out with their +faces to the sky. + +Toward dawn a thunder-storm came up. For we were on the crest of the +Cascades now, where the rain-clouds empty themselves before traveling +to the arid country to the east. Just over the mountain-wall above us +lay the Pacific Slope. + +The rain came down, and around the peaks overhead lightning flashed and +flamed. No one moved except Joe, who sat up in his blankets, put his hat +on, said, "Let 'er rain," and lay down to sleep again. Peanuts, the +naturalist's horse, sought human companionship in the storm, and +wandered into camp, where one of the young bear-hunters wakened to find +him stepping across his prostrate and blanketed form. + +Then all was still again, except for the solid beat of the rain on +canvas and blanket, horse and man. + +It cleared toward morning, and at dawn Dan was up and climbed the wall +on foot. At breakfast, on his return, we held a conference. He reported +that it was possible to reach the top--possible but difficult, and that +what lay on the other side we should have to discover later on. + +A night's sleep had made Joe all business again. On the previous day he +had been too busy saving his camera and his life--camera first, of +course--to try for pictures. But now he had a brilliant idea. + +"Now see here," he said to me; "I've got a great idea. How's Buddy about +water?" + +"He's partial to it," I admitted, "for drinking, or for lying down and +rolling in it, especially when I am on him. Why?" + +"Well, it's like this," he observed: "I'm set up on the bank of the +lake. See? And you ride him into the water and get him to scramble up on +one of those ice-cakes. Do you get it? It'll be a whale of a picture." + +"Joe," I said, in a stern voice, "did you ever try to make a horse go +into an icy lake and climb on to an ice-cake? Because if you have, you +can do it now. I can turn the camera all right. Anyhow," I added firmly, +"I've been photographed enough. This film is going to look as if I'd +crossed the Cascades alone. Some of you other people ought to have a +chance." + +But a moving-picture man after a picture is as determined as a cook who +does not like the suburbs. + +I rode Buddy to the brink of the lake, and there spoke to him in +friendly tones. I observed that this lake was like other lakes, only +colder, and that it ought to be mere play after the day before. I also +selected a large ice-cake, which looked fairly solid, and pointed Buddy +at it. + +Then I kicked him. He took a step and began to shake. Then he leaped six +feet to one side and reared, still shaking. Then he turned round and +headed for the camp. + +By that I was determined on the picture. There is nothing like two wills +set in opposite directions to determine a woman. Buddy and I again and +again approached the lake, mostly sideways. But at last he went in, took +twenty steps out, felt the cold on his poor empty belly, and--refused +the ice-cake. We went out much faster than we went in, making the bank +in a great bound and a very bad humor--two very bad humors. + + + + +XVI + +OVER CASCADE PASS + + +To get out of the Doubtful Lake plateau to Cascade Pass it was necessary +to climb eight hundred feet up a steep and very slippery cliffside. On +the other side lay the pass, but on the level of the lake. It was here +that we "went up a hill one day and then went down again" with a +vengeance. And on this cliffside it was that the little gray mare went +over again, falling straight on to a snow-bank, which saved her, and +then rolling over and over shedding parts of our equipment, and landing +far below dazed and almost senseless. + +It was on the top of that wall above Doubtful Lake that I had the +greatest fright of the trip. + +That morning, as a special favor, the Little Boy had been allowed to go +ahead with Mr. Hilligoss, who was to clear trail and cut footholds where +they were necessary. When we were more than halfway to the top of the +wall above the lake, two alternative routes to the top offered +themselves, one to the right across a snow-field that hugged the edge of +a cliff which dropped sheer five hundred feet to the water, another to +the left over slippery heather which threatened a slide and a casualty +at every step. The Woodsman had left no blazes, there being no tree to +mark. Holding on by clutching to the heather with our hands, we debated. +Finally, we chose the left-hand route as the one they had probably +taken. But when we reached the top, the Woodsman and the Little Boy were +not there. We hallooed, but there was no reply. And, suddenly, the +terrible silence of the mountains seemed ominous. Had they ventured +across the snow-bank and slipped? + +I am not ashamed to say that, sitting on my horse on the top of that +mountain-wall, I proceeded to have a noiseless attack of hysterics. +There were too many chances of accident for any of the party to take the +matter lightly. There we gathered on that little mountain meadow, not +much bigger than a good-sized room, and waited. There was snow and ice +and silence everywhere. Below, Doubtful Lake lay like a sapphire set in +granite, and far beneath it lay the valley from which we had climbed the +day before. But no one cared for scenery. + +Then it was that "Silent Lawrie" turned his horse around and went back. +Soon he hallooed, and, climbing back to us, reported that they had +crossed the ice-bank. He had found the marks of the axe making +footholds. And soon afterward there was another halloo from below, and +the missing ones rode into sight. They were blithe and gay. They had +crossed the ice-field and had seen a view which they urged we should not +miss. But I had had enough view. All I wanted was the level earth. There +could be nothing after that flat enough to suit me. + +Sliding, stumbling, falling, leading our scrambling horses, we got down +the wall on the other side. It was easier going, but slippery with +heather and that green moss of the mountains, which looks so tempting +but which gives neither foothold nor nourishment. Then, at last, the +pass. + +It was thirty-six hours since our horses had had anything to eat. We had +had food and sleep, but during the entire night the poor animals had +been searching those rocky mountain-sides for food and failing to find +it. They stood in a dejected group, heads down, feet well braced to +support their weary bodies. + +But last summer was not a normal one. Unusually heavy snowfalls the +winter before had been followed by a late, cold spring. The snow was +only beginning to melt late in July, and by September, although almost +gone from the pass itself, it still covered deep the trail on the east +side. + +So, some of those who read this may try the same great adventure +hereafter and find it unnecessary to make the Doubtful Lake détour. I +hope so. Because the pass is too wonderful not to be visited. Some day, +when this magnificent region becomes a National Park, and there is +something more than a dollar a mile to be spent on trails, a thousand +dollars or so invested in trail-work will put this roof of the world +within reach of any one who can sit a horse. And those who go there will +be the better for the going. Petty things slip away in the silent high +places. It is easy to believe in God there. And the stars and heaven +seem very close. + +One thing died there forever for me--my confidence in the man who writes +the geography and who says that, representing the earth by an orange, +the highest mountains are merely as the corrugations on its skin. + +On Cascade Pass is the dividing-line between the Chelan and the +Washington National Forests. For some reason we had confidently believed +that reaching the pass would see the end of our difficulties. The only +question that had ever arisen was whether we could get to the pass or +not. And now we were there. + +We were all perceptibly cheered; even the horses seemed to feel that the +worst was over. Tame grouse scudded almost under our feet. They had +never seen human beings, and therefore had no terror of them. + +And here occurred one of the small disappointments that the Middle Boy +will probably remember long after he has forgotten the altitude in feet +of that pass and other unimportant matters. For he scared up some +grouse, and this is the tragedy. The open season for grouse is September +1st in Chelan and September 15th across the line. And the birds would +not cross the line. They were wise birds, and must have had a calendar +about them, for, although we were vague as to the date, we knew it was +not yet the 15th. So they sat or fluttered about, and looked most +awfully good to eat. But they never went near the danger-zone or the +enemy's trenches. + +We lay about and rested, and the grouse laughed at us, and a great +marmot, sentinel of his colony, sat on a near-by rock and whistled +reports of what we were doing. Joe unlimbered the moving-picture camera, +and the Head used the remainder of his small stock of iodine on the +injured horses. The sun shone on the flowers and the snow, on the pail +in which our cocoa was cooking, on the barrels of our unused guns and +the buckles of the saddles. We watched the pack-horses coming down, tiny +pin-point figures, oddly distorted by the great packs. And we rested for +the descent. + +I do not know why we thought that descent from Cascade Pass on the +Pacific side was going to be easy. It was by far the most nerve-racking +part of the trip. Yet we started off blithely enough. Perhaps Buddy knew +that he was the first horse to make that desperate excursion. He +developed a strange nervousness, and took to leaping off the trail in +bad places, so that one moment I was a part of the procession and the +next was likely to be six feet above the trail on a rocky ledge, with no +apparent way to get down. + +We had expected that there would be less snow on the western slope, but +at the beginning of the trip we found snow everywhere. And whereas +before the rock-slides had been wretchedly uncomfortable but at +comparatively low altitudes, now we found ourselves climbing across +slides which hugged the mountain thousands of feet above the valley. + +Our nerves began to go, too, I think, on that last day. We were plainly +frightened, not for ourselves but each for the other. There were many +places where to dislodge a stone was to lose it as down a bottomless +well. There was one frightful spot where it was necessary to go through +a waterfall on a narrow ledge slippery with moss, where the water +dropped straight, uncounted feet to the valley below. + +The Little Boy paused blithely, his reins over his arm, and surveyed the +scenery from the center of this death-trap. + +"If anybody slipped here," he said, "he'd fall quite a distance." Then +he kicked a stone to see it go. + +"_Quit that!_" said the Head, in awful tones. + +Midway of the descent, we estimated that we should lose at least ten +horses. The pack was behind us, and there was no way to discover how +they were faring. But as the ledges were never wide enough for a horse +and the one leading him to move side by side, it seemed impossible that +the pack-ponies with their wide burdens could edge their way along. + +[Illustration: _Watching the pack-train coming down at Cascade Pass_] + +I had mounted Buddy again. I was too fatigued to walk farther, and, +besides, I had fallen so often that I felt he was more sure-footed than +I. Perhaps my narrowest escape on that trip was where a huge stone had +slipped across the ledge we were following. Buddy, afraid to climb its +slippery sides, undertook to leap it. There was one terrible moment when +he failed to make a footing with his hind feet and we hung there over +the gorge. After that, Dan Devore led him. + +In spite of our difficulties, we got down to the timber-line rather +quickly. But there trouble seemed to increase rather than diminish. +Trees had fallen across the way, and dangerous détours on uncertain +footing were necessary to get round them. The warm rains of the Pacific +Slope had covered the mountain-sides with thick vegetation also. Our +way, hardly less steep than on the day before, was overgrown with +greenery that was often a trap for the unwary. And even when, at last, +we were down beyond the imminent danger of breaking our necks at every +step, there were more difficulties. The vegetation was rank, +tremendously high. We worked our way through it, lost to each other and +to the world. Wilderness snows had turned the small streams to roaring +rivers and spread them over flats through which we floundered. So long +was it since the trail had been used that it was often difficult to tell +where it took off from the other side of the stream. And our horses were +growing very weary. They had made the entire trip without grain and with +such bits of pasture as they could pick up in the mountains. Now it was +a long time since they had had even grass. + +It will never be possible to know how many miles we covered in that +Cascade Pass trip. As Mr. Hilligoss said, mountain miles were measured +with a coonskin, and they threw in the tail. Often to make a mile's +advance we traveled four on the mountain-side. + +So when they tell me that it was a trifle of sixteen miles from the top +of Cascade Pass to the camp-site we made that night, I know that it was +nearer thirty. In point of difficulties, it was a thousand. + +Yet the last part of the trip, had we not been too weary to enjoy it, +was superbly beautiful. There was a fine rain falling. The undergrowth +was less riotous and had taken on the form of giant ferns, ten feet +high, which overhung the trail. Here were great cypress trees thirty-six +feet in circumference--a forest of them. We rode through green aisles +where even the death of the forest was covered by soft moss. Out of the +green and moss-covered trunks of dead giants, new growth had sprung, new +trees, hanging gardens of ferns. + +There had been much talk of Mineral Park. It was our objective point for +camp that night, and I think I had gathered that it was to be a +settlement. I expected nothing less than a post-office and perhaps some +miners' cabins. When, at the end of that long, hard day, we reached +Mineral Park at twilight and in a heavy rain, I was doomed to +disappointment. + +Mineral Park consists of a deserted shack in a clearing perhaps forty +feet square, on the bank of a mountain stream. All around it is +impenetrable forest. The mountains converge here so that the valley +becomes a cañon. So dense was the growth that we put up our tents on the +trail itself. + +In the little clearing round the empty shack, the horses were tied in +the cold rain. It was impossible to let them loose, for we could never +have found them again. Our hearts ached that night for the hungry +creatures; the rain had brought a cold wind and they could not even move +about to keep warm. + +I was too tired to eat that night. I went to bed and lay in my tent, +listening to the sound of the rain on the canvas. The camp-stove was set +up in the trail, and the others gathered round it, eating in the rain. +But, weary as I was, I did not sleep. For the first time, terror of the +forest gripped me. It menaced; it threatened. + +The roar of the river sounded like the rush of flame. I lay there and +wondered what would happen if the forest took fire. For the gentle +summer rain would do little good once a fire started. There would be no +way out. The giant cliffs would offer no refuge. We could not even have +reached them through the jungle had we tried. And forest-fires were +common enough. We had ridden over too many burned areas not to realize +that. + + + + +XVII + +OUT TO CIVILIZATION + + +It was still raining in the morning. The skies were gray and sodden and +the air was moist. We stood round the camp-fire and ate our fried ham, +hot coffee, and biscuits. It was then that the Head, prompted by +sympathy, fed his horse the rain-soaked biscuit, the apple, the two +lumps of sugar, and the raw egg. + +Yet, in spite of the weather, we were jubilant. The pack-train had come +through without the loss of a single horse. Again the impossible had +become possible. And that day was to see us out of the mountains and in +peaceful green valleys, where the horses could eat their fill. + +The sun came out as we started. Had it not been for the horses, we +should have been entirely happy. But sympathy for them had become an +obsession. We rode slowly to save them; we walked when we could. It was +strange to go through that green wonderland and find not a leaf the +horses could eat. It was all moss, ferns, and evergreens. + +From the semi-arid lands east of the Cascades to the rank vegetation of +the Pacific side was an extraordinary change. Trees grew to enormous +sizes. In addition to the great cedars, there were hemlocks fifteen and +eighteen feet in circumference. Only the strong trees survive in these +valleys, and by that ruthless selection of nature weak young saplings +die early. So we found cedar, hemlock, lodge-pole pine, white and +Douglas fir, cottonwood, white pine, spruce, and alder of enormous size. + +The brake ferns were the most common, often growing ten feet tall. We +counted five varieties of ferns growing in profusion, among them brake +ferns, sword-ferns, and maidenhair, most beautiful and luxuriant. The +maidenhair fern grew in masses, covering dead trunks of trees and making +solid walls of delicate green beside the trail. + +"Silent Lawrie" knew them all. He knew every tiniest flower and plant +that thrust its head above the leaf-mould. He saw them all, too. +Peanuts, his horse, made his own way now, and the naturalist sat a +trifle sideways in his saddle and showed me his discoveries. + +I am no naturalist, so I rode behind him, notebook in hand, and I made a +list something like this. If there are any errors they are not the +naturalist's, but mine, because, although I have written a great deal on +a horse's back, I am not proof against the accident of Whiskers stirring +a yellow-jackets' nest on the trail, or of Buddy stumbling, weary beast +that he was, over a root on the path. + +This is my list: red-stemmed dogwood; bunchberries, in blossom on the +higher reaches, in bloom below; service-berries, salmon-berries; +skunk-cabbage, beloved by bears, and the roots of which the Indians +roast and eat; above four thousand feet, white rhododendrons, and, above +four thousand five hundred feet, heather; hellebore also in the high +places; thimble-berries and red elderberries, tag-alder, red +honeysuckle, long stretches of willows in the creek-bottoms; vining +maples, too, and yew trees, the wood of which the Indians use for +making bows. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _A field of bear-grass_] + +Around Cloudy Pass we found the red monkey-flower. In different places +there was the wild parsnip; the ginger-plant, with its heart-shaped leaf +and blossom, buried in the leaf-mould, its crushed leaves redolent of +ginger; masses of yellow violets, twinflowers, ox-eye daisies, and +sweet-in-death, which is sold on the streets in the West as we sell +sweet lavender. There were buttercups, purple asters, bluebells, +goat's-beard, columbines, Mariposa lilies, bird's-bill, trillium, +devil's-club, wild white heliotrope, brick-leaved spirea, wintergreen, +everlasting. + +And there are still others, where Buddy collided with the yellow-jacket, +that I find I cannot read at all. + +Something lifted for me that day as Buddy and I led off down that fat, +green valley, with the pass farther and farther behind--a weight off my +spirit, a deadly fear of accident, not to myself but to the Family, +which had obsessed me for the last few days. But now I could twist in +my saddle and see them all, ruddy and sound and happy, whistling as they +rode. And I knew that it was all right. It had been good for them and +good for me. It is always good to do a difficult thing. And no one has +ever fought a mountain and won who is not the better for it. The +mountains are not for the weak or the craven, or the feeble of mind or +body. + +We went on, to the distant tinkle of the bell on the lead-horse of the +pack-train. + +It was that day that "Silent Lawrie" spoke I remember, because he had +said so little before, and because what he said was so well worth +remembering. + +"Why can't all this sort of thing be put into music?" he asked. "It _is_ +music. Think of it, the drama of it all!" + +Then he went on, and this is what "Silent Lawrie" wants to have written. +I pass it on to the world, and surely it can be done. It starts at dawn, +with the dew, and the whistling of the packers as they go after the +horses. Then come the bells of the horses as they come in, the smoke of +the camp-fire, the first sunlight on the mountains, the saddling and +packing. And all the time the packers are whistling. + +Then the pack starts out on the trail, the bells of the leaders +jingling, the rattle and crunch of buckles and saddle-leather, the click +of the horses' feet against the rocks, the swish as they ford a singing +stream. The wind is in the trees and birds are chirping. Then comes the +long, hard day, the forest, the first sight of snow-covered peaks, the +final effort, and camp. + +After that, there is the thrush's evening song, the afterglow, the +camp-fire, and the stars. And over all is the quiet of the night, and +the faint bells of grazing horses, like the silver ringing of the bell +at a mass. + +I wish I could do it. + +At noon that day in the Skagit Valley, we found our first civilization, +a camp where a man was cutting cedar blocks for shingles. He looked +absolutely astounded when our long procession drew in around his shanty. +He meant only one thing to us; he meant oats. If he had oats, we were +saved. If he had no oats, it meant again long hours of traveling with +our hungry horses. + +He had a bag of oats. But he was not inclined, at first, to dispose of +them, and, as a matter of fact, he did not sell them to us at all. When +we finally got them from him, it was only on our promise to send back +more oats. Money was of no use to him there in the wilderness; but oats +meant everything. + +Thirty-one horses we drove into that little bit of a clearing under the +cedar trees, perhaps a hundred feet by thirty. Such wild excitement as +prevailed among the horses when the distribution of oats began, such +plaintive whinnying and restless stirring! But I think they behaved much +better than human beings would have under the same circumstances. And at +last each was being fed--such a pathetically small amount, too, hardly +more than a handful apiece, it seemed. In his eagerness, the Little +Boy's horse breathed in some oats, and for a time it looked as though he +would cough himself to death. + +The wood-cutter's wife was there. We were the one excitement in her +long months of isolation. I can still see her rather pathetic face as +she showed me the lace she was making, the one hundred and one ways in +which she tried to fill her lonely hours. + +All through the world there are such women, shut away from their kind, +staying loyally with the man they have chosen through days of aching +isolation. That woman had children. She could not take them into the +wilderness with her, so they were in a town, and she was here in the +forest, making things for them and fretting about them and longing for +them. There was something tragic in her face as she watched us mount to +go on. + +We were to reach Marblemont that day and there to leave our horses. +After they had rested and recovered, Dan Devore was to take them back +over the range again, while we went on to civilization and a railroad. + +We promised the wood-cutter to send the oats back with the outfit; and +when we sent them, we sent at the same time some magazines to that +lonely wife and mother on the Skagit. + +Late in the afternoon, we emerged from the forest. It was like coming +from a darkened room into the light. One moment we were in the aisles of +that great green cathedral, the next there was an open road and the +sunlight and houses. We prodded the horses with our heels and raced down +the road. Surprised inhabitants came out and stared. We waved to them; +we loved them; we loved houses and dogs and cows and apple trees. But +most of all we loved level places. + +We were in time, too, for the railroad strike had not yet taken place. + +As Bob got off his horse, he sang again that little ditty with which, +during the most strenuous hours of the trip, we had become familiar:-- + + "Oh, a sailor's life is bold and free, + He lives upon the bright blue sea: + He has to work like h--, of course, + But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." + + +THE END + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +The poems on pages 140 and 188, were punctuated differently. This was +retained. + +On page 90, Dvorak is printed with a hacek over the r. The contraints of +text preclude this from being used in this one instance. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tenting To-night, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 19475-8.txt or 19475-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/4/7/19475/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tenting To-night + A Chronicle of Sport and Adventure in Glacier Park and the + Cascade Mountains + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #19475] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>TENTING<br /> + +TO-NIGHT</h1> + + +<div class='center'><i>A Chronicle of Sport<br />and Adventure in<br />Glacier Park and the<br />Cascade +Mountains by</i></div> + + +<h2>MARY ROBERTS RINEHART</h2> + + +<h3>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS</h3> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 79px;"> +<img src="images/emblem.png" width="79" height="100" alt="Emblem" title="Emblem" /> +</div> + +<div class="center">BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> +<b>The Riverside Press Cambridge</b><br /> +1918</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE<br /> +COMPANY (COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE)<br /> +<br /> +COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART<br /> +<br /> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br /> +<br /> +<i>Published April 1918</i></div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 293px;"><a name="front" id="front"></a> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="293" height="400" alt="Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake" title="Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake</i></span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Trail</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Big Adventure</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_10'>10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bridge Creek to Bowman Lake</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_24'>24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Fisherman's Paradise</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_39'>39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">To Kintla Lake</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_50'>50</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Running the Rapids of the Flathead</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_63'>63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Second Day on the Flathead</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_71'>71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Through the Flathead Cañon</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_80'>80</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Round-up at Kalispell</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_90'>90</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Off for Cascade Pass</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_100'>100</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lake Chelan to Lyman Lake</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_111'>111</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Cloudy Pass and the Agnes Creek Valley</span> </td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_129'>129</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Cañon Fishing and a Telegram</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_142'>142</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Doing the Impossible</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_150'>150</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Doubtful Lake</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_158'>158</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XVI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Over Cascade Pass</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_167'>167</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XVII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Out to Civilization</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_180'>180</a></td></tr> +</table></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations"> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake</span></td><td align='left'><a href='#front'><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_2'>2</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy</span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_6'>6</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Looking South from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Kiser Photo Co.</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_14'>14</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National Park</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by A. J. Baker, Kalispell, Mont.</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_22'>22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Mountain Lake in Glacier National Park</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Fred H. Kiser</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_36'>36</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Getting Ready for the Day's Fishing at Camp on Bowman Lake</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by R. E. Marble, Glacier Park</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_40'>40</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Horses in the Rope Corral</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by A. J. Baker</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_44'>44</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bear-Grass</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Fred H. Kiser</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_56'>56</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Glacier Park Lake</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by A. J. Baker</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_60'>60</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Still-Water Fishing</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by R. E. Marble</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork of the Flathead River</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by R. E. Marble</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_74'>74</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Beginning of the Cañon, Middle Fork of the Flathead River</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by R. E. Marble</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_82'>82</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), with Two Other Members of the Blackfoot Tribe</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_96'>96</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A High Mountain Meadow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by L. D. Lindsley, Lake Chelan</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_100'>100</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by L. D. Lindsley</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_112'>112</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Looking out of Ice-cave, Lyman Glacier</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by L. D. Lindsley</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_126'>126</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Looking Southeast from Cloudy Pass</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by L. D. Lindsley</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_132'>132</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Stream Fishing</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_144'>144</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Mountain Miles: The Trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, Glacier National Park</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by A. J. Baker</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_152'>152</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Where the Rock-Slides Start (Glacier National Park)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by A. J. Baker</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_156'>156</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Switchbacks on the Trail (Glacier National Park)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Fred H. Kiser</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_160'>160</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Watching the Pack-Train coming down at Cascade Pass</span><br /></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_174'>174</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Field of Bear-Grass</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Photograph by Fred H. Kiser</i></span></td><td align='right'><a href='#Page_182'>182</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<h2>TENTING TO-NIGHT</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>I</h2> + +<h3>THE TRAIL</h3> + + +<p>The trail is narrow—often but the width of the pony's feet, a tiny path +that leads on and on. It is always ahead, sometimes bold and wide, as +when it leads the way through the forest; often narrow, as when it hugs +the sides of the precipice; sometimes even hiding for a time in river +bottom or swamp, or covered by the débris of last winter's avalanche. +Sometimes it picks its precarious way over snow-fields which hang at +dizzy heights, and again it flounders through mountain streams, where +the tired horses must struggle for footing, and do not even dare to +stoop and drink.</p> + +<p>It is dusty; it is wet. It climbs; it falls; it is beautiful and +terrible. But always it skirts the coast of adventure. Always it goes +on, and always it calls to those that follow it. Tiny path that it is, +worn by the feet of earth's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> wanderers, it is the thread which has knit +together the solid places of the earth. The path of feet in the +wilderness is the onward march of life itself.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/003.jpg"><img src="images/003-tb.jpg" alt="Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park" title="Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park" /></a></div> + +<div class="center"><i><b>Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park</b></i></div> + +<p>City-dwellers know nothing of the trail. Poor followers of the +pavements, what to them is this six-inch path of glory? Life for many of +them is but a thing of avenues and streets, fixed and unmysterious, a +matter of numbers and lights and post-boxes and people. They know +whither their streets lead. There is no surprise about them, no sudden +discovery of a river to be forded, no glimpse of deer in full flight or +of an eagle poised over a stream. No heights, no depths. To know if it +rains at night, they look down at shining pavements; they do not hold +their faces to the sky.</p> + + +<p>Now, I am a near-city-dweller. For ten months in the year, I am +particular about mail-delivery, and eat an evening dinner, and +occasionally agitate the matter of having a telephone in every room in +the house. I run the usual gamut of dinners, dances, and bridge, with +the usual country-club setting as the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> spring goes on. And each May I +order a number of flimsy frocks, in the conviction that I have done all +the hard going I need to, and that this summer we shall go to the New +England coast. And then—about the first of June there comes a day when +I find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring +house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's +supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes, +trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats. Some of +the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon, +melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled Royal Coachmen, and here and there the +determined gayety of the Parmachene Belle.</p> + + +<p>I look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes, +snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown +velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries. It has been +rained on in Flanders, slept on in France, and has carried many a +refreshing draft to my lips in my "ain countree."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<p>I put my fishing-rod together and give it a tentative flick across the +bed, and—I am lost.</p> + +<p>The family professes surprise, but it is acquiescent. And that night, or +the next day, we wire that we will not take the house in Maine, and I +discover that the family has never expected to go to Maine, but has been +buying more trout-flies right along.</p> + +<p>As a family, we are always buying trout-flies. We buy a great many. I do +not know what becomes of them. To those whose lives are limited to the +unexciting sport of buying golf-balls, which have endless names but no +variety, I will explain that the trout do not eat the flies, but merely +attempt to. So that one of the eternal mysteries is how our flies +disappear. I have seen a junior Rinehart start out with a boat, a rod, +six large cakes of chocolate, and four dollars' worth of flies, and +return a few hours later with one fish, one Professor, one Doctor, and +one Black Moth minus the hook. And the boat had not upset.</p> + +<p>June, after the decision, becomes a time of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> subdued excitement. For +fear we shall forget to pack them, things are set out early. Stringers +hang from chandeliers, quirts from doorknobs. Shoe-polish and disgorgers +and adhesive plaster litter the dressing-tables. Rows of boots line the +walls. And, in the evenings, those of us who are at home pore over maps +and lists.</p> + +<p>This last year, our plans were ambitious. They took in two complete +expeditions, each with our own pack-outfit. The first was to take +ourselves, some eight packers, guides, and cooks, and enough horses to +carry our outfit—thirty-one in all—through the western and practically +unknown side of Glacier National Park, in northwestern Montana, to the +Canadian border. If we survived that, we intended to go by rail to the +Chelan country in northern Washington and there, again with a +pack-train, cross the Cascades over totally unknown country to Puget +Sound.</p> + +<p>We did both, to the eternal credit of our guides and horses.</p> + +<p>The family, luckily for those of us who have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> the <i>Wanderlust</i>, is four +fifths masculine. I am the odd fifth—unlike the story of King George +the Fifth and Queen Mary the other four fifths. It consists of the head +of the family, to be known hereafter as the Head, the Big Boy, the +Middle Boy, the Little Boy, and myself. As the Big Boy is very, very +big, and the Little Boy is not really very little, being on the verge of +long trousers, we make a comfortable traveling unit. And, because we +were leaving the beaten path and going a-gypsying, with a new camp each +night no one knew exactly where, the party gradually augmented.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 318px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page006.jpg" width="318" height="400" alt="The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy" title="The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy" /> +<span class="caption"><i>The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy</i></span> +</div> + +<p>First, we added an optimist named Bob. Then we added a "movie"-man, +called Joe for short and because it was his name, and a "still" +photographer, who was literally still most of the time. Some of these +pictures are his. He did some beautiful work, but he really needed a +mouth only to eat with.</p> + +<p>(The "movie"-man is unpopular with the junior members of the family just +now, because he hid his camera in the bushes and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> took the Little Boy +in a state of goose flesh on the bank of Bowman Lake.)</p> + +<p>But, of course, we have not got to Bowman Lake yet.</p> + +<p>During the year before, I had ridden over the better-known trails of +Glacier Park with Howard Eaton's riding party, and when I had crossed +the Gunsight Pass, we had looked north and west to a great country of +mountains capped with snow, with dense forests on the lower slopes and +in the valleys.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" I had asked the ranger who had accompanied us across the +pass.</p> + +<p>"It is the west side of Glacier Park," he explained. "It is not yet +opened up for tourist travel. Once or twice in a year, a camping party +goes up through this part of the park. That is all."</p> + +<p>"What is it like?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Wonderful!"</p> + +<p>So, sitting there on my horse, I made up my mind that sometime <i>I</i> would +go up the west side of Glacier Park to the Canadian border.</p> + +<p>Roughly speaking, there are at least six<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> hundred square miles of +Glacier Park on the west side that are easily accessible, but that are +practically unknown. Probably the area is more nearly a thousand square +miles. And this does not include the fastnesses of the range itself. It +comprehends only the slopes on the west side to the border-line of the +Flathead River.</p> + +<p>The reason for the isolation of the west side of Glacier Park is easily +understood. The park is divided into two halves by the Rocky Mountain +range, which traverses it from northwest to southeast. Over it there is +no single wagon-road of any sort between the Canadian border and Helena, +perhaps two hundred and fifty miles. A railroad crosses at the Marias +Pass. But from that to the Canadian line, one hundred miles, travel from +the east is cut off over the range, except by trail.</p> + +<p>To reach the west side of Glacier Park at the present time, the tourist, +having seen the wonders of the east side, must return to Glacier Park +Station, take a train over the Marias Pass, and get out at Belton. Even +then, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> can only go by boat up to Lewis's Hotel on Lake McDonald, a +trifling distance. There are no hotels beyond Lewis's, and no roads.</p> + +<p>Naturally, this tremendous area is unknown and unvisited.</p> + +<p>It is being planned, however, by the new Department of National Parks to +build a road this coming year along Lake McDonald. Eventually, this +much-needed highway will connect with the Canadian roads, and thus +indirectly with Banff and Lake Louise. The opening-up of the west side +of Glacier Park will make it perhaps the most unique of all our parks, +as it is undoubtedly the most magnificent. The grandeur of the east side +will be tempered by the more smiling and equally lovely western slopes. +And when, between the east and the west sides, there is constructed the +great motor-highway which will lead across the range, we shall have, +perhaps, the most scenic motor-road in the United States—until, in the +fullness of time, we build another road across Cascade Pass in +Washington.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II</h2> + +<h3>THE BIG ADVENTURE</h3> + + +<p>Came at last the day to start west. In spite of warnings, we found that +our irreducible minimum of luggage filled five wardrobe-trunks. In vain +we went over our lists and cast out such bulky things as extra +handkerchiefs and silk socks and fancy neckties and toilet-silver. We +started with all five. It was boiling hot; the sun beat in at the +windows of the transcontinental train and stifled us. Over the prairies, +dust blew in great clouds, covering the window-sills with white. The Big +Boy and the Middle Boy and the Little Boy referred scornfully to the +flannels and sweaters on which I had been so insistent. The Head slept +across the continent. The Little Boy counted prairie-dogs.</p> + +<p>Then, almost suddenly, we were in the mountains—for the Rockies seem to +rise out of a great plain. The air was stimulating. There had been a +great deal of snow last winter, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> the wind from the ice-capped peaks +overhead blew down and chilled us. We threw back our heads and breathed.</p> + +<p>Before going to Belton for our trip with the pack-outfit, we rode again +for two weeks with the Howard Eaton party through the east side of the +park, crossing again those great passes, for each one of which, like the +Indians, the traveler counts a <i>coup</i>—Mount Morgan, a mile high and the +width of an army-mule on top; old Piegan, under the shadow of the Garden +Wall; Mount Henry, where the wind blows always a steady gale. We had +scaled Dawson with the aid of ropes, since snowslides covered the trail, +and crossed the Cut Bank in a hailstorm. Like the noble Duke of York, +Howard Eaton had led us "up a hill one day and led us down again." Only, +he did it every day.</p> + +<p>Once, in my notebook, I wrote on top of a mountain my definition of a +mountain pass. I have used it before, but because it was written with +shaking fingers and was torn from my very soul, I cannot better it. This +is what I wrote:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>A pass is a blood-curdling spot up which one's +horse climbs like a goat and down the other side +of which it slides as you lead it, trampling ever +and anon on a tender part of your foot. A pass is +the highest place between two peaks. A pass is not +an opening, but a barrier which you climb with +chills and descend with prayer. A pass is a thing +which you try to forget at the time, and which you +boast about when you get back home. </p></div> + +<p>At last came the day when we crossed the Gunsight Pass and, under Sperry +Glacier, looked down and across to the north and west. It was sunset and +cold. The day had been a long and trying one. We had ridden across an +ice-field which sloped gently off—into China, I dare say. I did not +look over. Our horses were weary, and we were saddle-sore and hungry.</p> + +<p>Pete, our big guide, whose name is really not Pete at all, waved an airy +hand toward the massed peaks beyond—the land of our dreams.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, "there it is!"</p> + +<p>And there it was.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Getting a pack-outfit ready for a long trip into the wilderness is a +serious matter. We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> were taking thirty-one horses, guides, packers, and +a cook. But we were doing more than that—we were taking two boats! This +was Bob's idea. Any highly original idea, such as taking boats where not +even tourists had gone before, or putting eggs on a bucking horse, or +carrying grapefruit for breakfast into the wilderness, was Bob's idea.</p> + +<p>"You see, I figure it out like this," he said, when, on our arrival at +Belton, we found the boats among our equipment: "If we can get those +boats up to the Canadian line and come down the Flathead rapids all the +way, it will only take about four days on the river. It's a stunt that's +never been pulled off."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean," I said, "that we are going to run four days of rapids +that have never been run?"</p> + +<p>"That's it."</p> + +<p>I looked around. There, in a group, were the Head and the Big Boy and +the Middle Boy and the Little Boy. And a fortune-teller at Atlantic City +had told me to beware of water!</p> + +<p>"At the worst places," the Optimist con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>tinued, "we can send Joe ahead +in one boat with the 'movie' outfit, and get you as you come along."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page014.jpg" width="400" height="310" alt="Looking south from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park" title="Looking south from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park" /> +<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 12em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright, 1912, by kiser photo co.</span></small></span><br /> +<i>Looking south from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park</i> +</span> +</div> +<p>"I dare say," I observed, with some bitterness. "Of course we may upset. +But if we do, I'll try to go down for the third time in front of the +camera."</p> + +<p>But even then the boats were being hoisted into a wagon-bed filled with +hay. And I knew that I was going to run four days of rapids. It was +written.</p> + +<p>It was a bright morning. In a corral, the horses were waiting to be +packed. Rolls of blankets, crates of food, and camping-utensils lay +everywhere. The Big Boy marshaled the fishing-tackle. Bill, the cook, +was searching the town for the top of an old stove to bake on. We had +provided two reflector ovens, but he regarded them with suspicion. They +would, he suspected, not do justice to his specialty, the corn-meal +saddle-bag, a sort of sublimated hot cake.</p> + +<p>I strolled to the corral and cast a horsewoman's eye on my mount.</p> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He looks like a very nice horse," I said. "He's quite handsome."</p> + +<p>Pete tightened up the cinch.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he observed; "he's all right. He's a pretty good mare."</p> + +<p>The Head was wandering around with lists in his hand. His conversation +ran something like this:—</p> + +<p>"Pocket-flashes, chocolate, jam, medicine-case, reels, landing-nets, +cigarettes, tooth-powder, slickers, matches."</p> + +<p>He was always accumulating matches. One moment, a box of matches would +be in plain sight and the next it had disappeared. He became a sort of +match-magazine, so that if anybody had struck him violently, in almost +any spot, he would have exploded.</p> + +<p>Hours went by. The sun was getting high and hot. The crowd which had +been watching gradually disappeared about its business. The two +boats—big, sturdy river-boats they were—had rumbled along toward the +wilderness, one on top of the other, with George Locke and Mike Shannon +as pilots, watching for break<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>ers ahead. In the corral, our supplies +were being packed on the horses, Bill Shea and Pete, Tom Sullivan and +Tom Farmer and their assistants working against time. In crates were our +cooking-utensils, ham, bacon, canned salmon, jam, flour, corn-meal, +eggs, baking-powder, flies, rods, and reels, reflector ovens, sunburn +lotion, coffee, cocoa, and so on. Cocoa is the cowboy's friend. +Innumerable blankets, "tarp" beds, and war-sacks lay rolled ready for +the pack-saddles. The cook was declaiming loudly that some one had +opened his pack and taken out his cleaver.</p> + +<p>For a pack-outfit, the west side of Glacier Park is ideal. The east side +is much the best so far for those who wish to make short trips along the +trails into the mountains, although as yet only a small part, +comparatively, of the eastern wonderland is open. There, one may spend a +day, or several days, in the midst of the wildest possible country and +yet return at night to excellent hotels.</p> + +<p>On the west side, however, a pack-outfit is necessary. There is but one +hotel, Lewis's, on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> Lake McDonald. To get to the Canadian line, there +must be camping facilities for at least eight days if there are no +stop-overs. And not to stop over is to lose the joy of the trip. It is +an ideal two to three weeks' jaunt with a pack-train. A woman who can +sit a horse—and every one can ride in a Western saddle—a woman can +make the land trip not only with comfort but with joy. That is, a woman +who likes the outdoors.</p> + +<p>What did we wear, that bright morning when, all ready at last, the cook +on the chuck-wagon, the boats ambling ahead, with Bill Hossick, the +teamster, driving the long line of heavily packed horses and our own +saddlers lined up for the adventure, we moved out on to the trail?</p> + +<p>Well, the men wore khaki riding-trousers and flannel shirts, +broad-brimmed felt hats, army socks drawn up over the cuff of the +breeches, and pack-shoes. A pack-shoe is one in which the leather of the +upper part makes the sole also, without a seam. On to this soft sole is +sewed a heavy leather one. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> pack-shoe has a fastened tongue and is +waterproof.</p> + +<p>And I? I had not counted on the "movie"-man, and I was dressed for +comfort in the woods. I had buckskin riding-breeches and high boots, and +over my thin riding-shirt I wore a cloth coat. I had packed in my warbag +a divided skirt also, and a linen suit, for hot days, of breeches and +coat. But of this latter the least said the better. It betrayed me and, +in portions, deserted me.</p> + +<p>All of us carried tin drinking-cups, which vied with the bells on the +pack-animals for jingle. Most of us had sweaters or leather +wind-jammers. The guides wore "chaps" of many colors, boots with high +heels, which put our practical packs in the shade, and gay silk +handkerchiefs.</p> + +<p>Joe was to be a detachable unit. As a matter of fact, he became detached +rather early in the game, having been accidentally given a bucker. It +was on the second day, I think, that his horse buried his head between +his fore legs, and dramatized one of the best bits<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> of the trip when Joe +was totally unable to photograph it.</p> + +<p>He had his own guide and extra horse for the camera. It had been our +expectation that, at the most hazardous parts of the journey, he would +perch on some crag and show us courageously risking our necks to have a +good time. But on the really bad places he had his own life to save, and +he never fully trusted Maud, I think, after the first day. Maud was his +horse.</p> + +<p>Besides, when he did climb to some aerie, and photographed me, for +instance, in a sort of Napoleon-crossing-the-Alps attitude, sitting my +horse on the brink of eternity and being reassured from safety by the +Optimist—outside the picture, of course—the developed film flattened +out the landscape. So that, although I was on the edge of a cañon a mile +deep, I might as well have been posing on the bank of the Ohio River.</p> + +<p>On the east side of the Park I had ridden Highball. It is not +particularly significant that I started the summer on Highball and ended +it on Budweiser. Now I had Angel, a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> huge white mare with a pink nose, a +loving disposition, and a gait that kept me swallowing my tongue for +fear I would bite the end off it. The Little Boy had Prince, a small +pony which ran exactly like an Airedale dog, and in every canter beat +out the entire string. The Head had H——, and considered him well +indicated. One bronco was called "Bronchitis." The top horse of the +string was Bill Shea's Dynamite, according to Bill Shea. There were +Dusty, Shorty, Sally Goodwin, Buffalo Tom, Chalk-Eye, Comet, and +Swapping Tater—Swapping Tater being a pacer who, when he hit the +ground, swapped feet. Bob had Sister Sarah.</p> + +<p>At last, everything was ready. The pack-train got slowly under way. We +leaped into our saddles—"leaped" being a figurative term which grew +more and more figurative as time went on and we grew saddle-weary and +stiff—and, passing the pack-train on a canter, led off for the +wilderness.</p> + +<p>All that first day we rode, now in the sun, now in deep forest. +Luncheon-time came, but the pack-train was far behind. We waited, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +we could not hear so much as the tinkle of its bells. So we munched +cakes of chocolate from the pockets of our riding-coats and went grimly +on.</p> + +<p>The wagon with the boats had made good time. It was several miles along +the wagon-trail before we caught up with it. It had found a quiet harbor +beside the road, and the boatmen were demanding food. We tossed them +what was left of the chocolate and went on.</p> + +<p>The presence of a wagon-trail in that empty land, unvisited and unknown, +requires explanation. In the first place, it was not really a road. It +was a trail, and in places barely that. But, sixteen years before, a +road had been cleared through the forest by some people who believed +there was oil near the Canadian line. They cut down trees and built +corduroy bridges. But in sixteen years it has not been used. No wheels +have worn it smooth. It takes its leisurely way, now through wilderness, +now through burnt country where the trees stand stark and dead, now +through prairie or creek-bottom, now up, now down, always with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +range rising abruptly to the east, and with the Flathead River somewhere +to the west.</p> + +<p>It will not take much expenditure to make that old wagon-trail into a +good road. It has its faults. It goes down steep slopes—on the second +day out, the chuck-wagon got away, and, fetching up at the bottom, threw +out Bill the cook and nearly broke his neck. It climbs like a cat after +a young robin. It is rocky or muddy or both. But it is, potentially, a +road.</p> + +<p>The Rocky Mountains run northwest and southeast, and in numerous basins, +fed by melting glaciers and snow-fields, are deep and quiet lakes. These +lakes, on the west side, discharge their overflow through roaring and +precipitous streams to the Flathead, which flows south and east. While +our general direction was north, it was our intention to turn off east +and camp at the different lakes, coming back again to the wagon-trail to +resume our journey.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page022.jpg" width="400" height="298" alt="Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National Park" title="Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National Park" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National Park</i></span> +</div> + +<p>Therefore, it became necessary, day after day, to take our boats off the +wagon-road and haul them along foot-trails none too good. The log of the +two boats is in itself a thrilling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> story. There were days and days +when the wagon was mired, when it stuck in the fords of streams or in +soft places on the trail. It was a land flotilla by day, and, with its +straw, a couch at night. And there came, toward the end of the journey, +that one nerve-racking day when, over a sixty-foot cliff down a +foot-trail, it was necessary to rope wagon, boats, and all, to get the +boats into the Flathead River.</p> + +<p>But all this was before us then. We only knew it was summer, that the +days were warm and the nights cool, that the streams were full of trout, +that such things as telegraphs and telephones were falling far in our +rear, and that before us was the Big Adventure.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>III</h2> + +<h3>BRIDGE CREEK TO BOWMAN LAKE</h3> + + +<p>The first night we camped at Bridge Creek on a river-flat. Beside us, +the creek rolled and foamed. The horses, in their rope corral, lay down +and rolled in sheer ecstasy when their heavy packs were removed. The +cook set up his sheet-iron stove beside the creek, built a wood fire, +lifted the stove over it, fried meat, boiled potatoes, heated beans, and +made coffee while the tents were going up. From a thicket near by came +the thud of an axe as branches were cut for bough beds.</p> + +<p>I have slept on all kinds of bough beds. They may be divided into three +classes. There is the one which is high in the middle and slopes down at +the side—there is nothing so slippery as pine-needles—so that by +morning you are quite likely to be not only off the bed but out of the +tent. And there is the bough bed made by the guide when he is in a great +hurry, which con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>sists of large branches and not very many needles. So +that in the morning, on rising, one is as furrowed as a waffle off the +iron. And there is the third kind, which is the real bough bed, but +which cannot be tossed off in a moment, like a poem, but must be the +result of calculation, time, and much labor. It is to this bough bed +that I shall some day indite an ode.</p> + +<p>This is the way you go about it: First, you take a large and healthy +woodsman with an axe, who cuts down a tree—a substantial tree. Because +this is the frame of your bed. But on no account do this yourself. One +of the joys of a bough bed is seeing somebody else build it.</p> + +<p>The tree is an essential. It is cut into six-foot lengths—unless one is +more than six feet long. If the bed is intended for one, two side pieces +with one at the head and one at the foot are enough, laid flat on a +level place, making a sort of boxed-in rectangle. If the bed is intended +for two, another log down the center divides it into two bunks and +prevents quarreling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now begins the real work of constructing the bough bed. If one is a good +manager, while the frame is being made, the younger members of the +family have been performing the loving task of getting the branches +together. When a sufficient number of small branches has been +accumulated, this number varying from one ton to three, judging by size +and labor, the bough bed is built by the simple expedient of sticking +the branches into the enclosed space like flowers into a vase. They must +be packed very closely, stem down. This is a slow and not particularly +agreeable task for one's loving family and friends, owing to the +tendency of pine-and balsam-needles to jag. Indeed, I have known it to +happen that, after a try or two, some one in the outfit is delegated to +the task of official bed-maker, and a slight coldness is noticeable when +one refers to dusk and bedtime.</p> + +<p>Over these soft and feathery plumes of balsam—soft and feathery only +through six blankets—is laid the bedding, and on this couch the wearied +and saddle-sore tourist may<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> sleep as comfortably as in his grandaunt's +feather bed.</p> + +<p>But, dear traveler, it is much simpler to take an air-mattress and a +foot-pump. True, even this has its disadvantages. It is not safe to +stick pins into it while disrobing at night. Occasionally, a faulty +valve lets go, and the sleeper dreams he is falling from the Woolworth +Tower. But lacking a sturdy woodsman and a loving family to collect +branches, I advise the air-bed.</p> + +<p>Fishing at Bridge Creek, that first evening, was poor. We caught dozens +of small trout. But it would have taken hundreds to satisfy us after our +lunchless day, and there were other reasons.</p> + +<p>One casts for trout. There is no sitting on a mossy stone and watching a +worm guilefully struggling to attract a fish to the hooks. No; one +casts.</p> + +<p>Now, I have learned to cast fairly well. On the lawn at home, or in the +middle of a ten-acre lot, cleared, or the center of a lake, I can put +out quite a lot of line. In one cast out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> three, I can drop a fly so +that it appears to be committing suicide—which is the correct way. But +in a thicket I am lost. I hold the woman's record for getting the hook +in my hair or the lobe of the Little Boy's ear. I have hung fish high in +trees more times than phonographs have hanged Danny Deever. I can, under +such circumstances (i.e., the thicket), leave camp with a rod, four +six-foot leaders, an expensive English line, and a smile, and return an +hour later with a six-inch trout, a bandaged hand, a hundred and eighty +mosquito bites, no leaders, and no smile.</p> + +<p>So we fished little that first evening, and, on the discovery that +candles had been left out of the cook's outfit, we retired early to our +bough beds, which were, as it happened that night, of class A.</p> + +<p>There was a deer-lick on our camp-ground there at Bridge Creek, and +during the night deer came down and strayed through the camp. One of the +guides saw a black bear also. We saw nothing. Some day I shall write an +article called: "Wild Animals I Have Missed."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>We had made fourteen miles the first day, with a late start. It was not +bad, but the next day we determined to do better. At five o'clock we +were up, and at five-thirty tents were down and breakfast under way. We +had had a visitor the night before—that curious anomaly, a young +hermit. He had been a very well-known pugilist in the light-weight class +and, his health failing, he had sought the wilderness. There he had +lived for seven years alone.</p> + +<p>We asked him if he never cared to see people. But he replied that trees +were all the company he wanted. Deer came and browsed around his tiny +shack there in the woods. All the trout he could use played in his front +garden. He had a dog and a horse, and he wanted nothing else. He came to +see us off the next morning, and I think we amused him. We seemed to +need so much. He stared at our thirty-one horses, sixteen of them packed +with things he had learned to live without. But I think he rather hated +to see us go. We had brought a little excitement into his quiet life.</p> + +<p>The first bough bed had been a failure. For<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>—note you—I had not then +learned of the bough bed <i>de luxe</i>. This information, which I have given +you so freely, dear reader, what has it not cost me in sleepless nights +and family coldness and aching muscles!</p> + +<p>So I find this note in my daily journal, written that day on horseback, +and therefore not very legible:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Mem: After this, must lie over the camp-ground +until I find a place that fits me to sleep on. +Then have the tent erected over it. </p></div> + +<p>There was a little dissension in the party that morning, Joe having +wakened in the night while being violently shoved out under the edge of +his tent by his companion, who was a restless sleeper. But ill-temper +cannot live long in the open. We settled to the swinging walk of the +trail. In the mountain meadows there were carpets of flowers. They +furnished highly esthetic if not very substantial food for our horses +during our brief rests. They were very brief, those rests. All too soon, +Pete would bring Angel to me, and I would vault into the +saddle—extremely figurative, this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>—and we would fall into line, Pete +swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the Optimist bouncing +freely, Joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies +of the trip, the Big Boy with long legs that almost touched the ground, +the Middle Boy with eyes roving for adventure, the Little Boy deadly +serious and hoping for a bear. And somewhere in the rear, where he could +watch all responsibilities and supply the smokers with matches, the +Head.</p> + +<p>That second day, we crossed Dutch Ridge and approached the Flathead. +What I have called here the Flathead is known locally as the North Fork. +The pack-outfit had started first. Long before we caught up with them, +we heard the bells on the lead horses ringing faintly.</p> + +<p>Passing a pack-outfit on the trail is a difficult matter. The wise +little horses, traveling free and looked after only by a wrangler or +two, do not like to be passed. One of two things happens when the +saddle-outfit tries to pass the pack. Either the pack starts on a smart<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +canter ahead, or it turns wildly off into the forest to the +accompaniment of much complaint by the drivers. A pack-horse loose on a +narrow trail is a dangerous matter. With its bulging pack, it worms its +way past anything on the trail, and bad accidents have followed. Here, +however, there was room for us to pass.</p> + +<p>Tiny gophers sat up beside the trail and squeaked at us. A coyote +yelped. Bumping over fallen trees, creaking and groaning and swaying, +came the boat-wagon. Mike had found a fishing-line somewhere, and +pretended to cast from the bow.</p> + +<p>"Ship ahoy!" he cried, when he saw us, and his instructions to the +driver were purely nautical. "Hard astern!" he yelled, going down a +hill, and instead of "Gee" or "Haw" he shouted "Port" or "Starboard."</p> + +<p>An acquaintance of George and Mike has built a boat which is intended to +go up-stream by the force of the water rushing against it and turning a +propeller. We had a spirited discussion about it.</p> + +<p>"Because," as one of the men objected, "it's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> all right until you get to +the head of the stream. Then what are you going to do?" he asked. +"She'll only go up—she won't go down."</p> + +<p>Pete, the chief guide, was a German. He was rather uneasy for fear we +intended to cross the Canadian line. But we reassured him. A big blond +in a wide-flapping Stetson, black Angora chaps, and flannel shirt with a +bandana, he led our little procession into the wilderness and sang as he +rode. The Head frequently sang with him. And because the only song the +Head knew very well in German was the "Lorelei," we had it hour after +hour. Being translated to one of the boatmen, he observed: "I have known +girls like that. I guess I'd leave most any boat for them. But I'd leave +this boat for most any girl."</p> + +<p>We were approaching the mountains, climbing slowly but steadily. We +passed through Lone Tree Prairie, where one great pine dominated the +country for miles around, and stopped by a small river for luncheon.</p> + +<p>Of all the meals that we took in the open, perhaps luncheon was the most +delightful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> Condensed milk makes marvelous cocoa. We opened tins of +things, consulted maps, eased the horses' cinches, rested our own tired +bodies for an hour or so. For the going, while much better than we had +expected, was still slow. It was rare, indeed, to be able to get the +horses out of a walk. And there is no more muscle-racking occupation +than riding a walking horse hour after hour through a long day.</p> + +<p>By the end of the second day we were well away from even that remote +part of civilization from which we had started, and a terrible fact was +dawning on us. The cook did not like us!</p> + +<p>Now, we all have our small vanities, and mine has always been my success +with cooks. I like cooks. As time goes on, I am increasingly dependent +on cooks. I never fuss a cook, or ask how many eggs a cake requires, or +remark that we must be using the lard on the hardwood floors. I never +make any of the small jests on that order, with which most housewives +try to reduce the cost of living.</p> + +<p>No; I really go out of my way to ignore the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> left-overs, and not once on +this trip had I so much as mentioned dish-towels or anything unpleasant. +I had seen my digestion slowly going with a course of delicious but +indigestible saddle-bags, which were all we had for bread.</p> + +<p>But—I was failing. Bill unpacked and cooked and packed up again and +rode on the chuck-wagon. But there was something wrong. Perhaps it was +the fall out of the wagon. Perhaps we were too hungry. We were that, I +know. Perhaps he looked ahead through the vista of days and saw that +formidable equipment of fishing-tackle, and mentally he was counting the +fish to clean and cook and clean and cook and clean and—</p> + +<p>The center of a camping-trip is the cook. If, in the spring, men's +hearts turn to love, in the woods they turn to food. And cooking is a +temperamental art. No unhappy cook can make a soufflé. Not, of course, +that we had soufflé.</p> + +<p>A camp cook should be of a calm and placid disposition. He has the +hardest job that I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> know of. He cooks with inadequate equipment on a +tiny stove in the open, where the air blows smoke into his face and +cinders into his food. He must cook either on his knees or bending over +to within a foot or so of the ground. And he must cook moving, as it +were. Worse than that, he must cook not only for the party but for a +hungry crowd of guides and packers that sits around in a circle and +watches him, and urges him, and gets under his feet, and, if he is +unpleasant, takes his food fairly out of the frying-pan under his eyes +if he is not on guard. He is the first up in the morning and the last in +bed. He has to dry his dishes on anything that comes handy, and then +pack all of his grub on an unreliable horse and start off for the next +eating-ground.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/facing_page036.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page036-tb.jpg" alt="A mountain lake in Glacier National Park" title="A mountain lake in Glacier National Park" /></a></div> + +<div class='center'><b><span style="margin-left: 12em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon</span></small></span><br /><i>A mountain lake in Glacier National Park</i></b></div> + +<p>So, knowing all this, and also that we were about a thousand miles from +the nearest employment-office and several days' hard riding from a +settlement, we went to Bill with tribute. We praised his specialties. We +gave him a college lad, turned guide for the summer, to assist him. We +gathered up our own dishes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> We inquired for his bruise. But gloom +hung over him like a cloud.</p> + + + + +<p>And he <i>could</i> cook. Well—</p> + +<p>We had made a forced trip that day, and the last five miles were +agonizing. In vain we sat sideways on our horses, threw a leg over the +pommel, got off, and walked and led them. Bowman Lake, our objective +point, seemed to recede.</p> + +<p>Very few people have ever seen Bowman Lake. Yet I believe it is one of +the most beautiful lakes in this country. It is not large, perhaps only +twelve miles long and from a mile to two miles in width. Save for the +lower end, it lies entirely surrounded by precipitous and inaccessible +peaks—old Rainbow, on whose mist-cap the setting sun paints a true +rainbow day after day, Square Peak, Reuter Peak, and Peabody, named with +the usual poetic instinct of the Geological Survey. They form a natural +wall, round the upper end of the lake, of solid-granite slopes which +rise over a mile in height above it. Perpetual snow covers the tops of +these mountains, and, melting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> in innumerable waterfalls, feeds the lake +below.</p> + +<p>So far as I can discover, we were taking the first boat, with the +possible exception of an Indian canoe long ago, to Bowman Lake. Not the +first boat, either, for the Geological Survey had nailed a few boards +together, and the ruin of this venture was still decaying on the shore.</p> + +<p>There was a report that Bowman Lake was full of trout. That was one of +the things we had come to find out. It was for Bowman Lake primarily +that all the reels and flies and other lure had been arranged. If it was +true, then twenty-four square miles of virgin lake were ours to fish +from.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>IV</h2> + +<h3>A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE</h3> + + +<p>After our first view of the lake, the instant decision was to make a +permanent camp there for a few days. And this we did. Tents were put up +for the luxurious-minded, three of them. Mine was erected over me, when, +as I had pre-determined, I had found a place where I could lie +comfortably. The men belonging to the outfit, of course, slept under the +stars. A packer, a guide, or the cook with an outfit like ours has, +outside of such clothing as he wears or carries rolled in his blankets, +but one possession—and that is his tarp bed. With such a bed, a can of +tomatoes, and a gun, it is said that a cow-puncher can go anywhere.</p> + +<p>Once or twice I was awake in the morning before the cook's loud call of +"Come and get it!" brought us from our tents. I never ceased to view +with interest this line of tarp beds, each with its sleeping occupant, +his hat on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> ground beside him, ready, when the call came, to sit up +blinking in the sunlight, put on his hat, crawl out, and be ready for +the day.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page040.jpg" width="400" height="256" alt="Getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on Bowman Lake" title="Getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on Bowman Lake" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on Bowman Lake</i></span> +</div> + +<p>The boats had traveled well. The next morning, after a breakfast of ham +and eggs, fried potatoes, coffee, and saddle-bags, we were ready to try +them out.</p> + +<p>And here I shall be generous. For this means that next year we shall go +there and find other outfits there before us, and people in the latest +thing in riding-clothes, and fancy trout-creels and probably +sixty-dollar reels.</p> + +<p>Bowman Lake is a fisherman's paradise. The first day on the lake we +caught sixty-nine cut-throat trout averaging a pound each, and this +without knowing where to look.</p> + + +<p>In the morning, we could see them lying luxuriously on shelving banks in +the sunlight, only three to six feet below the surface. They rose, like +a shot, to the flies. For some reason, George Locke, our fisherman, +resented their taking the Parmachene Belle. Perhaps because the trout of +his acquaintance had not cared for this fly. Or maybe he considered +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> Belle not sportsmanly. The Brown Hackle and Royal Coachman did +well, however, and, in later fishing on this lake, we found them more +reliable than the gayer flies. In the afternoon, the shallows failed us. +But in deep holes where the brilliant walls shelved down to incredible +depths, they rose again in numbers.</p> + +<p>It was perfectly silent. Doubtless, countless curious wild eyes watched +us from the mountain-slopes and the lake-borders. But we heard not even +the cracking of brushwood under cautious feet. The tracks of deer, where +they had come down to drink, a dead mountain-lion floating in a pool, +the slow flight of an eagle across the face of old Rainbow, and no sound +but the soft hiss of a line as it left the reel—that was Bowman Lake, +that day, as it lay among its mountains. So precipitous are the slopes, +so rank the vegetation where the forest encroaches, that we were put to +it to find a ridge large enough along the shore to serve as a foothold +for luncheon. At last we found a tiny spot, perhaps ten feet long by +three feet wide, and on that we landed. The sun went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> down; the rainbow +clouds gathered about the peaks above, and still the trout were rising. +When at last we turned for our ten-mile row back to camp, it was almost +dusk.</p> + +<p>Now and then, when I am tired and the things of this world press close +and hard, I think of those long days on that lonely lake, and the +home-coming at nightfall. Toward the pin-point of glow—the distant +camp-fire which was our beacon light—the boat moved to the long, tired +sweep of the oars; around us the black forest, the mountains overhead +glowing and pink, as if lighted from within. And then, at last, the +grating of our little boat on the sand—and night.</p> + +<p>During the day, our horses were kept in a rope corral. Sometimes they +were quiet; sometimes a spirit of mutiny seemed to possess the entire +thirty-one. There is in such a string always one bad horse that, with +ears back and teeth showing, keeps the entire bunch milling. When such a +horse begins to stir up trouble, the wrangler tries to rope him and get +him out. Mad excitement follows as the noose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> whips through the air. But +they stay in the corral. So curious is the equine mind that it seldom +realizes that it could duck and go under the rope, or chew it through, +or, for that matter, strain against it and break it.</p> + +<p>At night, we turned the horses loose. Almost always in the morning, some +were missing, and had to be rounded up. The greater part, however, +stayed close to the bell-mare. It was our first night at Bowman Lake, I +think, that we heard a mountain-lion screaming. The herd immediately +stampeded. It was far away, so that we could not hear the horses +running. But we could hear the agitated and rapid ringing of the bell, +and, not long after, the great cat went whining by the camp. In the +morning, the horses were far up the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>Sometime I shall write that article on "Wild Animals I Have Missed." We +were in a great game-country. But we had little chance to creep up on +anything but deer. The bells of the pack-outfit, our own jingling spurs, +the accouterments, the very tinkle of the tin cups on our saddles must +have made our presence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> known to all the wilderness-dwellers long before +we appeared.</p> + +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/facing_page044.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page044-tb.jpg" alt="The horses in the rope corral" title="The horses in the rope corral" /></a><br /><span class="caption"><i><b>The horses in the rope corral</b></i></span></div> + +<p>After we had been at Bowman Lake a day or two, while at breakfast one +morning, we saw two of the guides racing their horses in a mad rush +toward the camp. Just outside, one of the ponies struck a log, turned a +somersault, and threw his rider, who, nothing daunted, came hurrying up +on foot. They had seen a bull moose not far away. Instantly all was +confusion. The horses were not saddled. One of the guides gave me his +and flung me on it. The Little Boy made his first essay at bareback +riding. In a wild scamper we were off, leaping logs and dodging trees. +The Little Boy fell off with a terrific thud, and sat up, looking +extremely surprised. And when we had got there, as clandestinely as a +steam calliope in a circus procession, the moose was gone. I sometimes +wonder, looking back, whether there really was a moose there or not. Did +I or did I not see a twinkle in Bill Shea's eye as he described the +sweep of the moose's horns? I wonder.</p> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> + + +<p>Birds there were in plenty; wild ducks that swam across the lake at +terrific speed as we approached; plover-snipe, tiny gray birds with long +bills and white breasts, feeding along the edge of the lake peacefully +at our very feet; an eagle carrying a trout to her nest. Brown squirrels +came into the tents and ate our chocolate and wandered over us +fearlessly at night. Bears left tracks around the camp. But we saw none +after we left the Lake McDonald country.</p> + +<p>Yet this is a great game-country. The warden reports a herd of +thirty-six moose in the neighborhood of Bowman Lake; mountain-lion, +lynx, marten, bear, and deer abound. A trapper built long ago a +substantial log shack on the north shore of the lake, and although it is +many years since it was abandoned, it is still almost weather-proof. All +of us have our dreams. Some day I should like to go back and live for a +little time in that forest cabin. In the long snow-bound days after he +set his traps, the trapper had busied himself fitting it up. A tin can +made his candle-bracket on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> wall, axe-hewn planks formed a table and +a bench, and diagonally across a corner he had built his fireplace of +stones from the lakeside.</p> + +<p>He had a simple method of constructing a chimney; he merely left without +a roof that corner of the cabin and placed slanting boards in it. He had +made a crane, too, which swung out over the fireplace. All of the Rocky +Mountains were in his back garden, and his front yard was Bowman Lake.</p> + +<p>We had had fair weather so far. But now rain set in. Hail came first; +then a steady rain. The tents were cold. We got out our slickers and +stood out around the beach fire in the driving storm, and ate our +breakfast of hot cakes, fried ham, potatoes and onions cooked together, +and hot coffee. The cook rigged up a tarpaulin over his little stove and +stood there muttering and frying. He had refused to don a slicker, and +his red sweater, soaking up the rain, grew heavy with moisture and began +to stretch. Down it crept, down and down.</p> + +<p>The cook straightened up from his frying-pan and looked at it. Then he +said:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>—</p> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="There, little sweater"> +<tr><td align='left'>"There, little sweater, don't you cry;</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">You'll be a blanket by and by."</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>This little touch of humor on his part cheered us. Perhaps, seeing how +sporting we were about the weather, he was going to like us after all. +Well—</p> + +<p>Our new tents leaked—disheartening little drips that came in and +wandered idly over our blankets, to lodge in little pools here and +there. A cold wind blew. I resorted to that camper's delight—a stone +heated in the camp-fire—to warm my chilled body. We found one or two +magazines, torn and dejected, and read them, advertisements and all. And +still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon.</p> + +<p>By afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. We ate supper after +dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in +our hands. The firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers. +The horses stood with their heads low against the storm. The men of the +outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their +faces.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>The next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. At eight +o'clock, the clouds began to lift. Their solidity broke. The lower edge +of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and +ominous, grew ragged. Shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off, +grew smaller, disappeared. Overhead, the pall was thinner. Finally it +broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. And, at last, old +Rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through +its vapory sheathings. Angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and +then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her +way out. The rain was over.</p> + +<p>The horses provided endless excitement. Whether at night being driven +off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into +the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. Getting +them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. As soon as a few +were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> escaped and +shot through the camp. There were times when the air seemed full of +flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language.</p> + +<p>On the last day at Bowman Lake, we realized that although the weather +had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. He was polite enough—he had +always been polite to the party. But he packed in a dejected manner. +There was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry +jam in sacking.</p> + +<p>The breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. The tents are taken +down at dawn almost over one's head. Blankets are rolled and strapped; +the pack-ponies groan and try to roll their packs off.</p> + +<p>Bill Shea quotes a friend of his as contending that the way to keep a +pack-pony cinched is to put his pack on him, throw the diamond hitch, +cinch him as tight as possible, and then take him to a drinking-place +and fill him up with water. However, we did not resort to this.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>V</h2> + +<h3>TO KINTLA LAKE</h3> + + +<p>We had washed at dawn in the cold lake. The rain had turned to snow in +the night, and the mountains were covered with a fresh white coating. +And then, at last, we were off, the wagons first, although we were soon +to pass them. We had lifted the boats out of the water and put them +lovingly in their straw again. And Mike and George formed the crew. The +guides were ready with facetious comments.</p> + +<p>"Put up a sail!" they called. "Never give up the ship!" was another +favorite. The Head, who has a secret conviction that he should have had +his voice trained, warbled joyously:—</p> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="I'll stick to the ship"> +<tr><td align='left'>"I'll stick to the ship, lads;</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">You save your lives.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">I've no one to love me;</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">You've children and wives."</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>And so, still in the cool of the morning, our long procession mounted +the rise which some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> great glacier deposited ages ago at the foot of +what is now Bowman Lake. We turned longing eyes back as we left the lake +to its winter ice and quiet. For never again, probably, will it be ours. +We have given its secret to the world.</p> + +<p>At two o'clock we found a ranger's cabin and rode into its enclosure for +luncheon. Breakfast had been early, and we were very hungry. We had gone +long miles through the thick and silent forest, and now we wanted food. +We wanted food more than we wanted anything else in the world. We sat in +a circle on the ground and talked about food.</p> + +<p>And, at last, the chuck-wagon drove in. It had had a long, slow trip. We +stood up and gave a hungry cheer, and then—<i>Bill was gone!</i> Some miles +back he had halted the wagon, got out, taken his bed on his back, and +started toward civilization afoot. We stared blankly at the teamster.</p> + +<p>"Well," we said; "what did he say?"</p> + +<p>"All he said to me was, 'So long,'" said the teamster.</p> + +<p>And that was all there was to it. So there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> we were in the wilderness, +far, far from a cook. The hub of our universe had departed. Or, to make +the figure modern, we had blown out a tire. And we had no spare one.</p> + +<p>I made my declaration of independence at once. I could cook; but I would +not cook for that outfit. There were too many; they were too hungry. +Besides, I had come on a pleasure-trip, and the idea of cooking for +fifteen men and thirty-one horses was too much for me. I made some cocoa +and grumbled while I made it. We lunched out of tins and in savage +silence. When we spoke, it was to impose horrible punishments on the +defaulting cook. We hoped he would enjoy his long walk back to +civilization without food.</p> + +<p>"Food!" answered one of the boys. "He's got plenty cached in that bed of +his, all right. What you should have done," he said to the teamster, +"was to take his bed from him and let him starve."</p> + +<p>In silence we finished our luncheon; in silence, mounted our horses. In +black and hopeless silence we rode on north, farther and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> farther from +cooks and hotels and tables-d'hôte.</p> + +<p>We rode for an hour—two hours. And, at last, sitting in a cleared spot, +we saw a man beside the trail. He was the first man we had seen in days. +He was sitting there quite idly. Probably that man to-day thinks that he +took himself there on his own feet, of his own volition. We know better. +He was directed there for our happiness. It was a direct act of +Providence. For we rode up to him and said:—</p> + +<p>"Do you know of any place where we can find a cook?"</p> + +<p>And this man, who had dropped from heaven, replied:</p> + +<p>"<i>I am a cook.</i>"</p> + +<p>So we put him on our extra saddle-horse and took him with us. He cooked +for us with might and main, day and night, until the trip was over. And +if you don't believe this story, write to Norman Lee, Kintla, Montana, +and ask him if it is true. What is more, Norman Lee could cook. He could +cook on his knees,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> bending over, and backward. He had been in Cuba, in +the Philippines, in the Boxer Rebellion in China, and was now a trapper; +is now a trapper, for, as I write this, Norman Lee is trapping marten +and lynx on the upper left-hand corner of Montana, in one of the empty +spaces of the world.</p> + +<p>We were very happy. We caracoled—whatever that may be. We sang and +whistled, and we rode. How we rode! We rode, and rode, and rode, and +rode, and rode, and rode, and rode. And, at last, just when the end of +endurance had come, we reached our night camp.</p> + +<p>Here and there upon the west side of Glacier Park are curious, sharply +defined treeless places, surrounded by a border of forest. On Round +Prairie, that night, we pitched our tents and slept the sleep of the +weary, our heads pillowed on war-bags in which the heel of a slipper, +the edge of a razor-case, a bottle of sunburn lotion, and the tooth-end +of a comb made sleeping an adventure.</p> + +<p>It was cold. It was always cold at night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> But, in the morning, we +wakened to brilliant sunlight, to the new cook's breakfast, and to +another day in the saddle. We were roused at dawn by a shrill yell.</p> + +<p>Startled, every one leaped to the opening of his tent and stared out. It +proved, however, not to be a mountain-lion, and was, indeed, nothing +more than one of the packers struggling to get into a wet pair of socks, +and giving vent to his irritation in a wild fury of wrath.</p> + +<p>As Pete and Bill Shea and Tom Farmer threw the diamond hitch over the +packs that morning, they explained to me that all camp cooks are of two +kinds—the good cooks, who are evil of disposition, and the tin-can +cooks, who only need a can-opener to be happy. But I lived to be able to +refute that. Norman Lee was a cook, and he was also amiable.</p> + +<p>But that morning, in spite of the bright sunlight, started ill. For +seven horses were missing, and before they were rounded up, the guides +had ridden a good forty miles of forest and trail. But, at last, the +wanderers were brought in and we were ready to pack.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 226px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page056.jpg" width="226" height="400" alt="Bear-grass" title="Bear-grass" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Bear-grass</i></span> +</div> +<p>On a pack-horse there are two sets of rope. There is a sling-rope, +twenty or twenty-five feet long, and a lash-rope, which should be +thirty-five feet long. The sling-rope holds the side pack; the top pack +is held by the lash-rope and the diamond hitch. When a cow-puncher on a +bronco yells for a diamond, he does not refer to a jewel. He means a +lash-rope. When the diamond is finally thrown, the packer puts his foot +against the horse's face and pulls. The packer pulls, and the horse +grunts. If the packer pulls a shade too much, the horse bucks, and there +is an exciting time in which everybody clears and the horse has the +field—every one, that is, but Joe, whose duty it was to be on the spot +in dangerous moments. Generally, however, by the time he got his camera +set up and everything ready, the bucker was feeding placidly and the +excitement was over.</p> + +<p>We rather stole away from Round Prairie that morning. A settler had +taken advantage of a clearing some miles away to sow a little grain. +When our seven truants were found that brilliant morning, they had eaten +up prac<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>tically the grain-field and were lying gorged in the center of +it.</p> + + + +<p>So "we folded our tents like the Arabs, and as silently stole away." +(This has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good +place for it.)</p> + +<p>We had come out on to the foothills again on our way to Kintla Lake. +Again we were near the Flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple +of the Kootenai Hills. The Kootenais on the left, the Rockies on the +right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin.</p> + +<p>The meadow-lands were full of flowers. There was rather less Indian +paint-brush than on the east side of the park. We were too low for much +bear-grass. But there were masses everywhere of June roses, true +forget-me-nots, and larkspur. And everywhere in the burnt areas was the +fireweed, that phœnix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead +trees.</p> + +<p>There were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish—everything but fresh +meat. We had had no fresh meat since the first day out. And now my soul +revolted at the sight of bacon. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> loathed all ham with a deadly +loathing. I had eaten canned salmon until I never wanted to see it +again. And our provisions were getting low.</p> + +<p>Just to the north, where we intended to camp, was Starvation Ridge. It +seemed to be an ominous name.</p> + +<p>Norman Lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred +miles—they have no idea of distance there—who would kill a forty-pound +calf if we would send him word. But it seemed rather too much veal. We +passed it up.</p> + +<p>On and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. No little +rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the +mountains. We were tanned a blackish purple. We were saddle-sore. One of +the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested +rubbing it on the saddle. Packs slipped and were tightened. The mountain +panorama unrolled slowly to our right. And all day long the boatmen +struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now +hardly good enough for horses.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> + +<p>Where the trail turned off toward the mountains and Kintla Lake, we met +a solitary horseman. He had ridden sixty miles down and sixty miles back +to get his mail. There is a sort of R.F.D. in this corner of the world, +but it is not what I should call in active operation. It was then +August, and there had been just two mails since the previous Christmas!</p> + +<p>Aside from the Geological Survey, very few people, except an occasional +trapper, have ever seen Kintla Lake. It lies, like Bowman Lake, in a +recess in the mountains. We took some photographs of Kintla Peak, taking +our boats to the upper end of the lake for the work. They are, so far as +I can discover, the only photographs ever taken of this great mountain +which towers, like Rainbow, a mile or so above the lake.</p> + +<p>Across from Kintla, there is a magnificent range of peaks without any +name whatever. The imagination of the Geological Survey seemed to die +after Starvation Ridge; at least, they stopped there. Kintla is a +curious lemon-yellow color, a great, flat wall tapering to a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> point and +frequently hidden under a cap of clouds.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/facing_page060.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page060-tb.jpg" alt="A Glacier Park lake" title="A Glacier Park lake" /></a></div> + +<div class='center'><i><b>A Glacier Park lake</b></i></div> +<p>But Kintla Lake is a disappointment to the fisherman. With the exception +of one of the guides, who caught a four-pound bull-trout there, repeated +whippings of the lake with the united rods and energies of the entire +party failed to bring a single rise. No fish leaped of an evening; none +lay in the shallows along the bank. It appeared to be a dead lake. I +have a strong suspicion that that guide took away Kintla's only fish, +and left it without hope of posterity.</p> + +<p>We rested at Kintla,—for a strenuous time was before us,—rested and +fasted. For supplies were now very low. Starvation Ridge loomed over us, +and starvation stared us in the face. We had counted on trout, and there +were no trout. That night, we supped off our last potatoes and off cakes +made of canned salmon browned in butter. Breakfast would have to be a +repetition minus the potatoes. We were just a little low in our minds.</p> + + + +<p>The last thing I saw that night was the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> cook's shadowy figure as he +crouched working over his camp-fire.</p> + +<p>And we wakened in the morning to catastrophe. In spite of the fact that +we had starved our horses the day before, in order to keep them grazing +near camp that night, they had wandered. Eleven were missing, and eleven +remained missing. Up the mountain-slopes and through the woods the +wranglers rode like madmen, only to come in on dejected horses with +failure written large all over them. One half of the saddlers were gone; +my Angel had taken wings and flown away.</p> + +<p>We sat dejectedly on the bank and fished those dead waters. We wrangled +among ourselves. Around us was the forest, thick and close save for the +tiny clearing, perhaps forty feet by forty feet. There was no open +space, no place to walk, nothing to do but sit and wait.</p> + +<p>At last, some of us in the saddle and some afoot, we started. It looked +as though the walkers might have a long hike. But sometime about midday +there was a sound of wild<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up +with the truants. They had been far up on the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>It is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out +about such a trip as this. Of Kintla itself, I have no very vivid +memories. But standing out very sharply is that figure of the cook +crouched over his dying fire, with the black forest all about him. There +is a picture, too, of a wild deer that came down to the edge of the lake +to drink as we sat in the first boat that had ever been on Kintla Lake, +whipping a quiet pool. And there is a clear memory of the assistant +cook, the college boy who was taking his vacation in the wilds, +whistling the Dvořák "Humoresque" as he dried the dishes on a piece +of clean sacking.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VI</h2> + +<h3>RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD</h3> + + +<p>It was now approaching time for Bob's great idea to materialize. For +this, and to this end, had he brought the boats on their strange +land-journey—such a journey as, I fancy, very few boats have ever had +before.</p> + +<p>The project was, as I have said, to run the unknown reaches of the North +Fork of the Flathead from the Canadian border to the town of Columbia +Falls.</p> + +<p>"The idea is this," Bob had said: "It's never been done before, do you +see? It makes the trip unusual and all that."</p> + +<p>"Makes it unusually risky," I had observed.</p> + +<p>"Well, there's a risk in pretty nearly everything," he had replied +blithely. "There's a risk in crossing a city street, for that matter. +Riding these horses is a risk, if you come to that. Anyhow, it would +make a good story."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> + +<p>So that is why I did it. And this is the story:</p> + +<p>We were headed now for the Flathead just south of the Canadian line. To +reach the river, it was necessary to take the boats through a burnt +forest, without a trail of any sort. They leaped and plunged as the +wagon scrambled, jerked, careened, stuck, détoured, and finally got +through. There were miles of such going—heart-breaking miles—and at +the end we paused at the top of a sixty-foot bluff and looked down at +the river.</p> + +<p>Now, I like water in a tub or drinking-glass or under a bridge. I am +very keen about it. But I like still water—quiet, well-behaved, +stay-at-home water. The North Fork of the Flathead River is a riotous, +debauched, and highly erratic stream. It staggers in a series of wild +zigzags for a hundred miles of waterway from the Canadian border to +Columbia Falls, our destination. And that hundred miles of whirlpools, +jagged rocks, and swift and deadly cañons we were to travel. I turned +around and looked at the Family. It was my ambition that had brought +them to this. We might never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> again meet, as a whole. We were sure to +get to Columbia Falls, but not at all sure to get there in the boats. I +looked at the boats; they were, I believe, stout river-boats. But they +were small. Undeniably, they were very small.</p> + +<p>The river appeared to be going about ninety miles an hour. There was one +hope, however. Perhaps they could not get the boats down over the bluff. +It seemed a foolhardy thing even to try. I suggested this to Bob. But he +replied, rather tartly, that he had not brought those boats at the risk +of his life through all those miles of wilderness to have me fail him +now.</p> + +<p>He painted the joys of the trip. He expressed so strong a belief in them +that he said that he himself would ride with the outfit, thus permitting +most of the Family in the boats that first day. He said the river was +full of trout. I expressed a strong doubt that any trout could live in +that stream and hold their own. I felt that they had all been washed +down years ago. And again I looked at the Family.</p> + +<p>Because I knew what would happen. The Family would insist on going +along. It was not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> going to let mother take this risk alone; it was +going to drown with her if necessary.</p> + +<p>The Family jaws were set. <i>They were going.</i></p> + +<p>The entire outfit lowered the wagon by roping it down. There was one +delicious moment when I thought boats and all were going over the edge. +But the ropes held. Nothing happened.</p> + +<p><i>They put the boats in the water.</i></p> + +<p>I had one last rather pitiful thought as I took my seat in the stern of +one of them.</p> + +<p>"This is my birthday," I said wistfully. "It's rather a queer way to +spend a birthday, I think."</p> + +<p>But this was met with stern silence. I was to have my story whether I +wanted it or not.</p> + +<p>Yet once in the river, the excitement got me. I had run brief spells of +rapids before. There had been a gasp or two and it was over. But this +was to be a prolonged four days' gasp, with intervals only to sleep at +night.</p> + +<p>Fortunately for all of us, it began rather quietly. The current was +swift, so that, once out into the stream, we shot ahead as if we had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +been fired out of a gun. But, for all that, the upper reaches were +comparatively free of great rocks. Friendly little sandy shoals beckoned +to us. The water was shallow. But, even then, I noticed what afterward I +found was to be a delusion of the entire trip.</p> + +<p>This was the impression of riding downhill. I do not remember now how +much the Flathead falls per mile. I have an impression that it is ninety +feet, but as that would mean a drop of nine thousand feet, or almost two +miles, during the trip, I must be wrong somewhere. It was sixteen feet, +perhaps.</p> + +<p>But hour after hour, on the straight stretches, there was that +sensation, on looking ahead, of staring down a toboggan-slide. It never +grew less. And always I had the impression that just beyond that glassy +slope the roaring meant uncharted falls—and destruction. It never did.</p> + +<p>The outfit, following along the trail, was to meet us at night and have +camp ready when we appeared—if we appeared. Only a few of us could use +the boats. George Locke in one,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> Mike Shannon in the other, could carry +two passengers each. For the sake of my story, I was to take the entire +trip; the others were to alternate.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 272px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page068.jpg" width="272" height="400" alt="Still-water fishing" title="Still-water fishing" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Still-water fishing</i></span> +</div> + +<p>I do not know, but I am very confident that no other woman has ever +taken this trip. I am fairly confident that no other men have ever taken +it. We could find no one who had heard of it being taken. All that we +knew was that it was the North Fork of the Flathead River, and that if +we stayed afloat long enough, we would come out at Columbia Falls. The +boatmen knew the lower part of the river, but not the upper two thirds +of it.</p> + + +<p>Now that it is over, I would not give up my memory of that long run for +anything. It was one of the most unique experiences in a not uneventful +career. It was beautiful always, terrible occasionally. There were +dozens of places each day where the boatmen stood up, staring ahead for +the channel, while the boats dodged wildly ahead. But always these +skillful pilots of ours found a way through. And so fast did we go that +the worst places were al<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>ways behind us before we had time to be +really terrified.</p> + +<p>The Flathead River in these upper reaches is fairly alive with trout. On +the second day, I think it was, I landed a bull-trout that weighed nine +pounds, and got it with a six-ounce rod. I am very proud of that. I have +eleven different pictures of myself holding the fish up. There were +trout everywhere. The difficulty was to stop the boat long enough to get +them. In fact, we did not stop, save in an occasional eddy in the midst +of the torrent. We whipped the stream as we flew along. Under great +boulders, where the water seethed and roared, under deep cliffs where it +flew like a mill-race, there were always fish.</p> + +<p>It was frightful work for the boatmen. It required skill every moment. +There was not a second in the day when they could relax. Only men +trained to river rapids could have done it, and few, even, of these. To +the eternal credit of George and Mike, we got through. It was nothing +else.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the first day, in the dusk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> which made the river +doubly treacherous, we saw our camp-fire far ahead.</p> + +<p>With the going-down of the sun, the river had grown cold. We were wet +with spray, cramped from sitting still and holding on. But friendly +hands drew our boats to shore and helped us out.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VII</h2> + +<h3>THE SECOND DAY ON THE FLATHEAD</h3> + + +<p>In a way, this is a fairy-story. Because a good fairy had been busy +during our absence. Days before, at the ranger's cabin, unknown to most +of us, an order had gone down to civilization for food. During all those +days under Starvation Ridge, food had been on the way by +pack-horse—food and an extra cook.</p> + +<p>So we went up to camp, expecting more canned salmon and fried trout and +little else, and beheld—</p> + +<p>A festive board set with candles—the board, however, in this case is +figurative; it was the ground covered with a tarpaulin—fried chicken, +fresh green beans, real bread, jam, potatoes, cheese, cake, candy, +cigars, and cigarettes. And—champagne!</p> + +<p>That champagne had traveled a hundred miles on horseback. It had been +cooled in the icy water of the river. We drank it out of tin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> cups. We +toasted each other. We toasted the Flathead flowing just beside us. We +toasted the full moon rising over the Kootenais. We toasted the good +fairy. The candles burned low in their sockets—this, also, is +figurative; they were stuck on pieces of wood. With due formality I was +presented with a birthday gift, a fishing-reel purchased by the Big and +the Middle and the Little Boy.</p> + +<p>Of all the birthdays that I can remember—and I remember quite a +few—this one was the most wonderful. Over mountain-tops, glowing deep +pink as they rose above masses of white clouds, came slowly a great +yellow moon. It turned the Flathead beside us to golden glory, and +transformed the evergreen thickets into fairy glades of light and +shadow. Flickering candles inside the tents made them glow in luminous +triangles against their background of forest.</p> + +<p>Behind us, in the valley lands at the foot of the Rockies, the horses +rested and grazed, and eased their tired backs. The men lay out in the +open and looked at the stars. The air was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> fragrant with pine and +balsam. Night creatures called and answered.</p> + +<p>And, at last, we went to our tents and slept. For the morning was a new +day, and I had not got all my story.</p> + +<p>That first day's run of the river we got fifty trout, ranging from one +half-pound to four pounds. We should have caught more, but they could +not keep up with the boat. We caught, also, the most terrific sunburn +that I have ever known anything about. We had thought that we were +thoroughly leathered, but we had not passed the primary stage, +apparently. In vain I dosed my face with cold-cream and talcum powder, +and with a liquid warranted to restore the bloom of youth to an aged +skin (mine, however, is not aged).</p> + +<p>My journal for the second day starts something like this:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Cold and gray. Stood in the water fifteen minutes +in hip-boots for a moving picture. River looks +savage. </p></div> + +<p>Of that second day, one beautiful picture stands out with distinctness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + +<p>The river is lovely; it winds and twists through deep forests with +always that marvelous background of purple mountains capped with snow. +Here and there, at long intervals, would come a quiet half-mile where, +although the current was incredibly swift, there were, at least, no +rocks. It was on coming round one of these bends that we saw, out from +shore and drinking quietly, a deer. He was incredulous at first, and +then uncertain whether to be frightened or not. He threw his head up and +watched us, and then, turning, leaped up the bank and into the forest.</p> + +<p>Except for fish, there was surprisingly little life to be seen. Bald +eagles sat by the river, as intent on their fishing as we were on ours. +Wild ducks paddled painfully up against the current. Kingfishers fished +in quiet pools. But the real interest of the river, its real life, lay +in its fish. What piscine tragedies it conceals, with those murderous, +greedy, and powerful assassins, the bull-trout, pursuing fish, as I have +seen them, almost into the landing-net! What joyous interludes where, in +a sunny shallow,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> tiny baby trout played tag while we sat and watched +them!</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/facing_page074.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page074-tb.jpg" alt="Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork of the Flathead River" title="Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork of the Flathead River" /></a></div> + +<div class='center'><i><b>Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork of the Flathead River</b></i></div> + +<p>The danger of the river is not all in the current. There are quicksands +along the Flathead, sands underlain with water, apparently secure but +reaching up clutching hands to the unwary. Our noonday luncheon, taken +along the shore, was always on some safe and gravelly bank or tiny +island.</p> + +<p>Our second camp on the Flathead was less fortunate than the first. +Always, in such an outfit as ours, the first responsibility is the +horses. Camp must be made within reach of grazing-grounds for them, and +in these mountain and forest regions this is almost always a difficult +matter. Here and there are meadows where horses may eat their fill; but, +generally, pasture must be hunted. Often, long after we were settled for +the night, our horses were still ranging far, hunting for grass.</p> + +<p>So, on this second night, we made an uncomfortable camp for the sake of +the horses, a camp on a steep bluff sloping into the water in a dead +forest. It had been the intention, as the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> river was comparatively quiet +here, to swim the animals across and graze them on the other side. But, +although generally a horse can swim when put to it, we discovered too +late that several horses in our string could not swim at all. In the +attempt to get them across, one horse with a rider was almost drowned. +So we gave that up, and they were driven back five miles into the +country to pasture.</p> + +<p>There is something ominous and most depressing about a burnt forest. +There is no life, nothing green. It is a ghost-forest, filled with tall +tree skeletons and the mouldering bones of those that have fallen, and +draped with dry gray moss that swings in the wind. Moving through such a +forest is almost impossible. Fallen and rotten trees, black and charred +stumps cover every foot of ground. It required two hours' work with an +axe to clear a path that I might get to the little ridge on which my +tent was placed. The day had been gray, and, to add to our discomfort, +there was a soft, fine rain. The Middle Boy had developed an inflamed +knee and was badly crippled. Sitting in the drizzle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> beside the +camp-fire, I heated water in a tin pail and applied hot compresses +consisting of woolen socks.</p> + +<p>It was all in the game. Eggs tasted none the worse for being fried in a +skillet into which the rain was pattering. Skins were weather-proof, if +clothes were not. And heavy tarpaulins on the ground protected our +bedding from dampness.</p> + +<p>The outfit, coming down by trail, had passed a small store in a +clearing. They had bought a whole cheese weighing eleven pounds, a +difficult thing to transport on horseback, a wooden pail containing +nineteen pounds of chocolate chips, and six dozen eggs—our first eggs +in many days.</p> + +<p>In the shop, while making the purchase, the Head had pulled out a box of +cigarettes. The woman who kept the little store had never seen +machine-made cigarettes before, and examined them with the greatest +interest. For in that country every man is his own cigarette-maker. The +Middle Boy later reported with wide eyes that at her elbow she kept a +loaded<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> revolver lying, in plain view. She is alone a great deal of the +time there in the wilderness, and probably she has many strange +visitors.</p> + +<p>It was at the shop that a terrible discovery was made. We had been in +the wilderness on the east side and then on the west side of the park +for four weeks. And days in the woods are much alike. No one had had a +calendar. The discovery was that we had celebrated my birthday on the +wrong day!</p> + +<p>That night, in the dead forest, we gathered round the camp-fire. I made +hot compresses. The packers and guides told stories of the West, and we +matched them with ones of the East. From across the river, above the +roaring, we could hear the sharp stroke of the axe as branches were +being cut for our beds. There was nothing living, nothing green about us +where we sat.</p> + +<p>I am aware that the camp-fire is considered one of the things about +which the camper should rave. My own experience of camp-fires is that +they come too late in the day to be more than a warming-time before +going to bed. We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> were generally too tired to talk. A little desultory +conversation, a cigarette or two, an outline of the next day's work, and +all were off to bed. Yet, in that evergreen forest, our fires were +always rarely beautiful. The boughs burned with a crackling white flame, +and when we threw on needles, they burst into stars and sailed far up +into the night. As the glare died down, each of us took his hot stone +from its bed of ashes and, carrying it carefully, retired with it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VIII</h2> + +<h3>THROUGH THE FLATHEAD CAÑON</h3> + + +<p>The next morning we wakened to sunshine, and fried trout and bacon and +eggs for breakfast. The cook tossed his flapjacks skillfully. As the +only woman in the party, I sometimes found an air of festivity about my +breakfast-table. Whereas the others ate from a tarpaulin laid on the +ground, I was favored with a small box for a table and a smaller one for +a seat. On the table-box was set my graniteware plate, knife, fork, and +spoon, a paper napkin, the Prince Albert and the St. Charles. Lest this +sound strange to the uninitiated, the St. Charles was the condensed milk +and the Prince Albert was an old tin can which had once contained +tobacco but which now contained the sugar. Thus, in our camp-etiquette, +one never asked for the sugar, but always for the Prince Albert; not for +the milk, but always for the St. Charles, sometimes corrupted to the +Charlie.</p> + +<p>I was late that morning. The men had gone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> about the business of +preparing the boats for the day. The packers and guides were out after +the horses. The cook, hot and weary, was packing up for the daily +exodus. He turned and surveyed that ghost-forest with a scowl.</p> + +<p>"Another camping-place like this, and I'll be braying like a blooming +burro."</p> + +<p>On the third day, we went through the Flathead River cañon. We had +looked forward to this, both because of its beauty and its danger. +Bitterly complaining, the junior members of the family were exiled to +the trail with the exception of the Big Boy.</p> + +<p>It had been Joe's plan to photograph the boat with the moving-picture +camera as we came down the cañon. He meant, I am sure, to be on hand if +anything exciting happened. But impenetrable wilderness separated the +trail from the edge of the gorge, and that evening we reached the camp +unphotographed, unrecorded, to find Joe sulking in a corner and inclined +to blame the forest on us.</p> + +<p>In one of the very greatest stretches of the rapids, a long +straightaway, we saw a pigmy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> figure, far ahead, hailing us from the +bank. "Pigmy" is a word I use generally with much caution, since a +friend of mine, in the excitement of a first baby, once published a poem +entitled "My Pigmy Counterpart," which a type-setter made, in the +magazine version, "My Pig, My Counterpart."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page082.jpg" width="400" height="297" alt="The beginning of the cañon, Middle Fork of the Flathead River" title="The beginning of the cañon, Middle Fork of the Flathead River" /> +<span class="caption"><i>The beginning of the cañon, Middle Fork of the Flathead River</i></span> +</div> + +<p>Nevertheless, we will use it here. Behind this pigmy figure stretched a +cliff, more than one hundred feet in height, of sheer rock overgrown +with bushes. The figure had apparently but room on which to stand. +George stood up and surveyed the prospect.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, in his slow drawl, "if that's lunch, I don't think we +can hit it."</p> + +<p>The river was racing at mad speed. Great rocks caught the current, +formed whirlpools and eddies, turned us round again and again, and sent +us spinning on, drenched with spray. That part of the river the boatmen +knew—at least by reputation. It had been the scene, a few years before, +of the tragic drowning of a man they knew. For now we were getting down +into the better known portions.</p> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + +<p>To check a boat in such a current seemed impossible. But we needed food. +We were tired and cold, and we had a long afternoon's work still before +us.</p> + +<p>At last, by tremendous effort and great skill, the boatmen made the +landing. It was the college boy who had clambered down the cliff and +brought the lunch, and it was he who caught the boats as they were +whirling by. We had to cling like limpets—whatever a limpet is—to the +edge, and work our way over to where there was room to sit down.</p> + +<p>It reminded the Head of Roosevelt's expression about peace raging in +Mexico. He considered that enjoyment was raging here.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, we ate. We made the inevitable cocoa, warmed beans, ate a +part of the great cheese purchased the day before, and, with gingersnaps +and canned fruit, managed to eke out a frugal repast. And shrieked our +words over the roar of the river.</p> + +<p>It was here that the boats were roped down. Critical examination and +long debate with the boatmen showed no way through. On the far<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> side, +under the towering cliff, was an opening in the rocks through which the +river boiled in a drop of twenty feet.</p> + +<p>So it was fortunate, after all, that we had been hailed from the shore +and had stopped, dangerous as it had been. For not one of us would have +lived had we essayed that passage under the cliff. The Flathead River is +not a deep river; but the force of its flow is so great, its drop so +rapid, that the most powerful swimmer is hopeless in such a current. +Light as our flies were, again and again they were swept under and held +as though by a powerful hand.</p> + +<p>Another year, the Flathead may be a much simpler proposition to +negotiate. Owing to the unusually heavy snows of last winter, which had +not commenced to melt on the mountain-tops until July, the river was +high. In a normal summer, I believe that this trip could be +taken—although always the boatmen must be expert in river rapids—with +comparative safety and enormous pleasure.</p> + +<p>There is a thrill and exultation about running rapids—not for minutes, +not for an hour or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> two, but for days—that gets into the blood. And +when to that exultation is added the most beautiful scenery in America, +the trip becomes well worth while. However, I am not at all sure that it +is a trip for a woman to take. I can swim, but that would not have +helped at all had the boat, at any time in those four days, struck a +rock and turned over. Nor would the men of the party, all powerful +swimmers, have had any more chance than I.</p> + +<p>We were a little nervous that afternoon. The cañon grew wilder; the +current, if possible, more rapid. But there were fewer rocks; the +river-bed was clearer.</p> + +<p>We were rapidly nearing the Middle Fork. Another day would see us there, +and from that point, the river, although swift, would lose much of its +danger.</p> + +<p>Late the afternoon of the third day we saw our camp well ahead, on a +ledge above the river. Everything was in order when we arrived. We +unloaded ourselves solemnly out of the boats, took our fish, our poles, +our graft-hooks and landing-nets, our fly-books, my sunburn lotion,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> and +our weary selves up the bank. Then we solemnly shook hands all round. We +had come through; the rest was easy.</p> + +<p>On the last day, the river became almost a smiling stream. Once again, +instead of between cliffs, we were traveling between great forests of +spruce, tamarack, white and yellow pine, fir, and cedar. A great golden +eagle flew over the water just ahead of our boat. And in the morning we +came across our first sign of civilization—a wire trolley with a cage, +extending across the river in lieu of a bridge. High up in the air at +each end, it sagged in the middle until the little car must almost have +touched the water. We had a fancy to try it, and landed to make the +experiment. But some ungenerous soul had padlocked it and had gone away +with the key.</p> + +<p>For the first time that day, it was possible to use the trolling-lines. +We had tried them before, but the current had carried them out far ahead +of the boat. Cut-throat trout now and then take a spoon. But it is the +bull-trout which falls victim, as a rule, to the troll.</p> + +<p>I am not gifted with the trolling-line. Some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>time I shall write an +article on the humors of using it—on the soft and sibilant hiss with +which it goes out over the stern; on the rasping with which it grates on +the edge of the boat as it holds on, stanch and true, to water-weeds and +floating branches; on the low moan with which it buries itself under a +rock and dies; on the inextricable confusion into which it twists and +knots itself when, hand over hand, it is brought in for inspection.</p> + +<p>I have spent hours over a trolling-line, hours which, otherwise, I +should have wasted in idleness. There are thirty-seven kinds of knots +which, so far, I have discovered in a trolling-line, and I am but at the +beginning of my fishing career.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing," the Head said to me that last day, as I sat in the +stern busily working at the line. "Knitting?"</p> + +<p>We got few fish that day, but nobody cared. The river was wide and +smooth; the mountains had receded somewhat; the forest was there to the +right and left of us. But it was an open, smiling forest. Still far +enough away,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> but slipping toward us with the hours, were settlements, +towns, the fertile valley of the lower river.</p> + +<p>We lunched that night where, just a year before, I had eaten my first +lunch on the Flathead, on a shelving, sandy beach. But this time the +meal was somewhat shadowed by the fact that some one had forgotten to +put in butter and coffee and condensed milk.</p> + +<p>However, we were now in that part of the river which our boatmen knew +well. From a secret cache back in the willows, George and Mike produced +coffee and condensed milk and even butter. So we lunched, and far away +we heard a sound which showed us how completely our wilderness days were +over—the screech of a railway locomotive.</p> + +<p>Late that afternoon, tired, sunburned, and unkempt, we drew in at the +little wharf near Columbia Falls. It was weeks since we had seen a +mirror larger than an inch or so across. Our clothes were wrinkled from +being used to augment our bedding on cold nights. The whites of our eyes +were bloodshot with the sun.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> My old felt hat was battered and torn with +the fish-hooks that had been hung round the band. Each of us looked at +the other, and prayed to Heaven that he looked a little better himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>IX</h2> + +<h3>THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL</h3> + + +<p>Columbia Falls had heard of our adventure, and was prepared to do us +honor. Automobiles awaited us on the river-bank. In a moment we were +snatched from the jaws of the river and seated in the lap of luxury. If +this is a mixed metaphor, it is due to the excitement of the change. +With one of those swift transitions of the Northwest, we were out of the +wilderness and surrounded by great yellow fields of wheat.</p> + +<p>Cleared land or natural prairie, these valleys of the Northwest are +marvelously fertile. Wheat grows an incredible number of bushels to the +acre. Everything thrives. And on the very borders of the fields stands +still the wilderness to be conquered, the forest to be cleared. Untold +wealth is there for the man who will work and wait, land rich beyond the +dreams of fertilizer. But it costs about eighty dollars an acre, I am +told, to clear forest-land<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> after it has been cut over. It is not a +project, this Northwestern farming, to be undertaken on a shoestring. +The wilderness must be conquered. It cannot be coaxed. And a good many +hearts have been broken in making that discovery. A little money—not +too little—infinite patience, cheerfulness, and red-blooded +effort—these are the factors which are conquering the Northwest.</p> + +<p>I like the Northwest. In spite of its pretensions, its large cities, its +wealth, it is still peopled by essential frontiersmen. They are still +pioneers—because the wilderness encroaches still so close to them. I +like their downrightness, their pride in what they have achieved, their +hatred of sham and affectation.</p> + +<p>And if there is to be real progress among us in this present generation, +the growth of a political and national spirit, that sturdy insistence on +better things on which our pioneer forefathers founded this nation, it +is likely to come, as a beginning, from these newer parts of our +country. These people have built for themselves. What we in the East +have inher<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>ited, they have made. They know its exact cost in blood and +sweat. They value it. And they will do their best by it.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, after all, this is the end of this particular adventure. And +yet, what Western story is complete without a round-up?</p> + +<p>There was to be a round-up the next day at Kalispell, farther south in +that wonderful valley.</p> + +<p>But there was a difficulty in the way. Our horses were Glacier Park +horses. Columbia Falls was outside of Glacier Park. Kalispell was even +farther outside of Glacier Park, and horses were needed badly in the +Park. For last year Glacier Park had the greatest boom in its history +and found the concessionnaires unprepared to take care of all the +tourists. What we should do, we knew, was to deadhead our horses back +into the Park as soon as they had had a little rest.</p> + +<p>But, on the other hand, there was Kalispell and the round-up. It would +make a difference of just one day. True, we could have gone to the +round-up on the train. But, for two rea<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>sons, this was out of the +question. First, it would not make a good story. Second, we had nothing +but riding-clothes, and ours were only good to ride in and not at all to +walk about in.</p> + +<p>After a long and serious conclave, it was decided that Glacier Park +would not suffer by the absence of our string for twenty-four hours +more.</p> + +<p>On the following morning, then, we set off down the white and dusty +road, a gay procession, albeit somewhat ragged. Sixteen miles in the +heat we rode that morning. It was when we were halfway there that one of +the party—it does not matter which one—revealed that he had received a +telegram from the Government demanding the immediate return of our +outfit. We halted in the road and conferred.</p> + +<p>It is notorious of Governments that they are short-sighted, detached, +impersonal, aloof, and haughty. We gathered in the road, a gayly +bandanaed, dusty, and highly indignant crowd, and conferred.</p> + +<p>The telegram had been imperative. It did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> not request. It commanded. It +unhorsed us violently at a time when it did not suit either ourselves or +our riding-clothes to be unhorsed.</p> + +<p>We conferred. We were, we said, paying two dollars and a half a day for +each of those horses. Besides, we were out of adhesive tape, which is +useful for holding on patches. Besides, also, we had the horses. If they +wanted them, let them come and get them. Besides, this was +discrimination. Ever since the Park was opened, horses had been taken +out of it, either on to the Reservation or into Canada, to get about to +other parts of the Park. Why should the Government pick on us?</p> + +<p>We were very bitter and abusive, and the rest of the way I wrote +mentally a dozen sarcastic telegrams. Yes; the rest of the way. Because +we went on. With a round-up ahead and the Department of the Interior in +the rear, we rode forward to our stolen holiday, now and then pausing, +an eye back to see if we were pursued. But nothing happened; no sheriff +in a buckboard drove up with a shotgun across his knees. The Government, +or its representa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>tive in Glacier Park, was contenting itself with +foaming at the mouth. We rode on through the sunlight, and sang as we +rode.</p> + +<p>Kalispell is a flourishing and attractive town of northwestern Montana. +It is notable for many other things besides its annual round-up. But it +remains dear to me for one particular reason.</p> + +<p>My hat was done. It had no longer the spring and elasticity of youth. It +was scarred with many rains and many fish-hooks. It had ceased to add +its necessary jaunty touch to my costume. It detracted. In its age, I +loved it, but the Family insisted cruelly on a change. So, sitting on +Angel, a new one was brought me, a chirky young thing, a cowgirl affair +of high felt crown and broad rim.</p> + +<p>And, at this moment, a gentleman I had never seen before, but who is +green in my memory, stepped forward and presented me with his own +hat-band. It was of leather, and it bore this vigorous and inspiriting +inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck."</p> + +<p>To-day, when I am low in my mind, I take<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> that cowgirl hat from its +retreat and read its inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck." It is +a whole creed.</p> + +<p>Somewhere among my papers I have the programme of that round-up at +Kalispell. It was a very fine round-up. There was a herd of buffalo; +there were wild horses and long-horned Mexican steers. There was a +cheering crowd. There was roping, and marvelous riding.</p> + +<p>But my eyes were fixed on the grand-stand with a stony stare.</p> + +<p>I am an adopted Blackfoot Indian, known in the tribe as "Pi-ta-mak-an," +and only a few weeks before I had had a long conference with the chiefs +of the tribe, Two Guns, White Calf (the son of old White Calf, the great +chief who dropped dead in the White House during President Cleveland's +administration), Medicine Owl and Curly Bear and Big Spring and Bird +Plume and Wolf Plume and Bird Rattler and Bill Shute and +Stabs-by-Mistake and Eagle Child and Many Tail-Feathers—and many more.</p> + +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/facing_page096.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page096-tb.jpg" alt="Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), with two other members of the Blackfoot Tribe" title="Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), with two other members of the Blackfoot Tribe" /></a><br /><span class="caption"><i>Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), <br />with two other members of the Blackfoot Tribe</i></span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> + +<p>And these Indians had all promised me that, as soon as our conference +was over, they were going back to the Reservation to get in their hay +and work hard for the great herd which the Government had promised to +give them. They were going to be good Indians.</p> + +<p>So I stared at the grand-stand with a cold and fixed eye. For there, +very many miles from where they should have been, off the Reservation +without permission of the Indian agent, painted and bedecked in all the +glory of their forefathers—paint, feathers, beads, strings of thimbles +and little mirrors—handsome, bland, and enjoying every instant to the +full in their childish hearts, were my chiefs.</p> + +<p>During the first lull in the proceedings, a delegation came to visit me +and to explain. This is what they said: First of all, they desired me to +make peace with the Indian agent. He was, they considered, most +unreasonable. There were many times when one could labor, and there was +but one round-up. They petitioned, then, that I intercede and see that +their ration-tickets were not taken away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> + +<p>And even as the interpreter told me their plea, one old brave caught my +hand and pointed across to the enclosure, where a few captive buffalo +were grazing. I knew what it meant. These, my Blackfeet, had been the +great buffalo-hunters. With bow and arrow they had followed the herds +from Canada to the Far South. These chiefs had been mighty hunters. But +for many years not a single buffalo had their eyes beheld. They who had +lived by the buffalo were now dying with them. A few full-bloods shut +away on a reservation, a few buffalo penned in a corral—children of the +open spaces and of freedom, both of them, and now dying and imprisoned. +For the Blackfeet are a dying people.</p> + +<p>They had come to see the buffalo.</p> + +<p>But they did not say so. An Indian is a stoic. He has both imagination +and sentiment, but the latter he conceals. And this was the explanation +they gave me for the Indian agent:—</p> + +<p>I knew that, back in my home, when a friend asked me to come to an +entertainment, I must go or that friend would be offended with me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> And +so it was with the Blackfeet Indians—they had been invited to this +round-up, and they felt that they should come or they would hurt the +feelings of those who had asked them. Therefore, would I, Pi-ta-mak-an, +go to the Indian agent and make their peace for them? For, after all, +summer was short and winter was coming. The old would need their +ration-tickets again. And they, the braves, would promise to go back to +the Reservation and get in the hay, and be all that good Indians should +be.</p> + +<p>And I, too, was as good an Indian as I knew how to be, for I scolded +them all roundly and then sat down at the first possible opportunity and +wrote to the agent.</p> + +<p>And the agent? He is a very wise and kindly man, facing one of the +biggest problems in our country. He gave them back their ration-tickets +and wiped the slate clean, to the eternal credit of a Government that +has not often to the Indian tempered justice with mercy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>X</h2> + +<h3>OFF FOR CASCADE PASS</h3> + + +<p>How many secrets the mountains hold! They have forgotten things we shall +never know. And they are cruel, savagely cruel. What they want, they +take. They reach out a thousand clutching hands. They attack with +avalanche, starvation, loneliness, precipice. They lure on with green +valleys and high flowering meadows where mountain-sheep move sedately, +with sunlit peaks and hidden lakes, with silence for tired ears and +peace for weary souls. And then—they kill.</p> + +<p>Because man is a fighting animal, he obeys their call, his wit against +their wisdom of the ages, his strength against their solidity, his +courage against their cunning. And too often he loses.</p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page100.jpg" width="400" height="276" alt="A high mountain meadow" title="A high mountain meadow" /> +<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 18em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright by l. d. lindsley</span></small></span><br /><i>A high mountain meadow</i></span> +</div> + +<p>I am afraid of the mountains. I have always the feeling that they are +lying in wait. At night, their very silence is ominous. The crack of ice +as a bit of slow-moving glacier is dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>lodged, lightning, and the roar +of thunder somewhere below where I lie—these are the artillery of the +range, and from them I am safe. I am too small for their heavy guns. But +a shelving trail on the verge of a chasm, a slip on an ice-field, a +rolling stone under a horse's foot—these are the weapons I fear above +the timber-line.</p> + +<p>Even below there is danger—swamps and rushing rivers, but above all the +forest. In mountain valleys it grows thick on the bodies of dead forests +beneath. It crowds. There is barely room for a tent. And all through the +night the trees protest. They creak and groan and sigh, and sometimes +they burn. In a <i>cul-de-sac</i>, with only frowning cliffs about, the +forest becomes ominous, a thing of dreadful beauty. On nights when, +through the crevices of the green roof, there are stars hung in the sky, +the weight lifts. But there are other nights when the trees close in +like ranks of hostile men and take the spirit prisoner.</p> + +<p>The peace of the wilderness is not peace. It is waiting.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> + +<p>On the Glacier Park trip, there had been one subject which came up for +discussion night after night round the camp-fire. It resolved itself, +briefly, into this: Should we or should we not get out in time to go +over to the State of Washington and there perform the thrilling feat +which Bob, the Optimist, had in mind?</p> + +<p>This was nothing more nor less than the organization of a second +pack-outfit and the crossing of the Cascade Mountains on horseback by a +virgin route. The Head, Bob, and Joe had many discussions about it. I do +not recall that my advice was ever asked. It is generally taken for +granted in these wilderness-trips of ours that I will be there, ready to +get a story when the opportunity presents itself.</p> + +<p>Owing to the speed with which the North Fork of the Flathead River +descends from the Canadian border to civilization, we had made very good +time. And, at last, the decision was made to try this new adventure.</p> + +<p>"It will be a bully story," said the Optimist, "and you can be dead sure +of this: it's never been done before."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<p>So, at last, it was determined, and we set out on that wonderful +harebrain excursion of which the very memory gives me a thrill. Yet, now +that I know it can be done, I may try it again some day. It paid for +itself over and over in scenery, in health, and in thrills. But there +were several times when it seemed to me impossible that we could all get +over the range alive.</p> + +<p>We took through thirty-one horses and nineteen people. When we got out, +our horses had had nothing to eat, not a blade of grass or a handful of +grain, for thirty-six hours, and they had had very little for five days.</p> + +<p>On the last morning, the Head gave his horse for breakfast one +rain-soaked biscuit, an apple, two lumps of sugar, and a raw egg. The +other horses had nothing.</p> + +<p>We dropped three pack-horses over cliffs in two days, but got them +again, cut and bruised, and we took out our outfit complete, after two +weeks of the most arduous going I have ever known anything about. When +the news that we had got over the pass penetrated to the set<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>tlements, a +pack-outfit started over Cascade Pass in our footsteps to take supplies +to a miner. They killed three horses on that same trail, and I believe +gave it up in the end.</p> + +<p>Doubtless, by next year, a passable trail will have been built up to +Doubtful Lake and another one up that eight-hundred-foot mountain-wall +above the lake, where, when one reaches the top, there is but room to +look down again on the other side. Perhaps, too, there will be a trail +down the Agnes Creek Valley, so that parties can get through easily. +When that is done,—and it is promised by the Forest Supervisor,—one of +the most magnificent horseback trips in the country will be opened for +the first time to the traveler.</p> + +<p>Most emphatically, the trip across the Cascades at Doubtful Lake and +Cascade Pass is not a trip for a woman in the present condition of +things, although any woman who can ride can cross Cloudy Pass and get +down Agnes Creek way. But perhaps before this is published, the Chelan +National Forest will have been made a National Park. It ought to be.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> It +is superb. There is no other word for it. And it ought not to be called +a forest, because it seems to have everything but trees. Rocks and +rivers and glaciers—more in one county than in all Switzerland, they +claim—and granite peaks and hair-raising precipices and lakes filled +with ice in midsummer. But not many trees, until, at Cascade Pass, one +reaches the boundaries of the Washington National Forest and begins to +descend the Pacific slope.</p> + +<p>The personnel of our party was slightly changed. Of the original one, +there remained the Head, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, Joe, +Bob, and myself. To these we added at the beginning six persons besides +our guides and packers. Two of them did not cross the pass, however—the +Forest Pathologist from Washington, who travels all over the country +watching for tree-diseases and tree-epidemics and who left us after a +few days, and the Supervisor of Chelan Forest, who had but just come +from Oregon and was making his first trip over his new territory.</p> + +<p>We were fortunate, indeed, in having four<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> forest-men with us, men whose +lives are spent in the big timber, who know the every mood and tense of +the wilderness. For besides these two, the Pathologist and the Forest +Supervisor, there was "Silent Lawrie" Lindsley, naturalist, +photographer, and lover of all that is wild, a young man who has spent +years wandering through the mountains around Chelan, camera and gun at +hand, the gun never raised against the wild creatures, but used to shoot +away tree-branches that interfere with pictures, or, more frequently, to +trim a tree into such outlines as fit it into the photograph.</p> + +<p>And then there was the Man Who Went Ahead. For forty years this man, Mr. +Hilligoss, has lived in the forest. Hardly a big timber-deal in the +Northwest but was passed by him. Hardly a tree in that vast wilderness +but he knew it. He knew everything about the forest but fear—fear and +fatigue. And, with an axe and a gun, he went ahead, clearing trail, +blazing trees, and marking the détours to camp-sites by an arrow made of +bark and thrust through a slash in a tree.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hour after hour we would struggle on, seeing everywhere evidences of his +skill on the trail, to find, just as endurance had reached its limit, +the arrow that meant camp and rest.</p> + +<p>And—there was Dan Devore and his dog, Whiskers. Dan Devore was our +chief guide and outfitter, a soft voiced, bearded, big souled man, +neither very large nor very young. All soul and courage was Dan Devore, +and one of the proud moments of my life was when it was all over and he +told me I had done well. I wanted most awfully to have Dan Devore think +I had done well.</p> + +<p>He was sitting on a stone at the time, I remember, and Whiskers, his old +Airedale, had his head on Dan's knee. All of his thirteen years, +Whiskers had wandered through the mountains with Dan Devore, always +within call. To see Dan was to see Whiskers; to see Whiskers was to see +Dan.</p> + +<p>He slept on Dan's tarp bed at night, and in the daytime led our long and +winding procession. Indomitable spirit that he was, he traveled three +miles to our one, saved us from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> furious onslaughts of many a marmot +and mountain-squirrel, and, in the absence of fresh meat, ate his salt +pork and scraps with the zest of a hungry traveler.</p> + +<p>Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Fred. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Fred, +because, like Joe, that was a part of their name. I will be frank about +Mrs. Fred. I was worried about her before I knew her. I was accustomed +to roughing it; but how about another woman? Would she be putting up her +hair in curlers every night, and whimpering when, as sometimes happens, +the slow gait of her horse became intolerable? Little did I know Mrs. +Fred. She was a natural wanderer, a follower of the trail, a fine and +sound and sporting traveling companion. And I like to think that she is +typical of the women of that Western country which bred her, feminine to +the core, but strong and sweet still.</p> + +<p>Both the Freds were great additions. Was it not after Mr. Fred that we +trailed on that famous game-hunt of ours, of which a spirited account is +coming later? Was it not Mr. Fred who, night after night, took the +junior Rine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>harts away from an anxious mother into the depths of the +forest or the bleakness of mountain-slopes, there to lie, armed to the +teeth, and wait for the first bears to start out for breakfast?</p> + +<p>Now you have us, I think, except the men of the outfit, and they deserve +space I cannot give them. They were a splendid lot, and it was by their +incessant labor that we got over.</p> + +<p>Try to see us, then, filing along through deep valleys, climbing cliffs, +stumbling, struggling, not talking much, a long line of horses and +riders. First, far ahead, Mr. Hilligoss. Then the riders, led by "Silent +Lawrie," with me just behind him, because of photographs. Then, at the +head of the pack-horses, Dan Devore. Then the long line of pack-ponies, +sturdy and willing, and piled high with our food, our bedding, and our +tents. And here, there, and everywhere, Joe, with the moving-picture +camera.</p> + +<p>We were determined, this time, to have no repetition of the Glacier Park +fiasco, where Bill, our cook, had deserted us at a bad time—although it +is always a bad time when the cook<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> leaves. So now we had two cooks. +Much as I love the mountains and the woods, the purple of evening +valleys, the faint pink of sunrise on snow-covered peaks, the most +really thrilling sight of a camping-trip is two cooks bending over an +iron grating above a fire, one frying trout and the other turning +flapjacks.</p> + +<p>Our trail led us through one of the few remaining unknown portions of +the United States. It cannot long remain unknown. It is too superb, too +wonderful. And it has mineral in it, silver and copper and probably +coal. The Middle Boy, who is by way of being a chemist and has +systematically blown himself up with home-made explosives for years—the +Middle Boy found at least a dozen silver mines of fabulous value, +although the men in the party insisted that his specimens were iron +pyrites and other unromantic minerals.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XI</h2> + +<h3>LAKE CHELAN TO LYMAN LAKE</h3> + + +<p>Now, as to where we were—those long days of fording rivers and beating +our way through jungle or of dizzy climbs up to the snow, those short +nights, so cold that six blankets hardly kept us warm, while our tired +horses wandered far, searching for such bits of grass as grew among the +shale.</p> + +<p>In the north-central part of the State of Washington, Nature has done a +curious thing. She has built a great lake in the eastern shoulders of +the Cascade Mountains. Lake Chelan, more than fifty miles long and +averaging a mile and a half in width, is ten hundred and seventy-five +feet above sea-level, while its bottom is four hundred feet below the +level of the ocean. It is almost completely surrounded by granite walls +and peaks which reach more than a mile and a half into the air.</p> + +<p>The region back from the lake is practically unknown. A small part of it +has never been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> touched by the Geological Survey, and, in one or two +instances, we were able to check up errors on our maps. Thus, a lake +shown on our map as belonging at the head of McAllister Creek really +belongs at the head of Rainbow Creek, while McAllister Lake is not shown +at all. Mr. Coulter, a forester who was with us for a time, last year +discovered three lakes at the head of Rainbow Creek which have never +been mapped, and, so far as could be learned, had never been seen by a +white man before. Yet Lake Chelan itself is well known in the Northwest. +It is easily reached, its gateway being the famous Wenatchee Valley, +celebrated for its apples.</p> +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page112.jpg" width="400" height="277" alt="Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan" title="Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan</i></span> +</div> +<p>It was from Chelan that we were to make our start. Long before we +arrived, Dan Devore and the packers were getting the outfit ready.</p> + + + +<p>Yet the first glimpse of Chelan was not attractive. We had motored half +a day through that curious, semi-arid country, which, when irrigated, +proves the greatest of all soils in the world for fruit-raising. The +August sun had baked the soil into yellow dust which covered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +everything. Arid hillsides without a leaf of green but dotted thickly +with gray sagebrush, eroded valleys, rocks and gullies—all shone a +dusty yellow in the heat. The dust penetrated everything. Wherever water +could be utilized were orchards, little trees planted in geometrical +rows and only waiting the touch of irrigation to make their owners +wealthy beyond dreams.</p> + +<p>The lower end of Lake Chelan was surrounded by these bleak hillsides, +desert without the great spaces of the desert. Yet unquestionably, in a +few years from now, these bleak hillsides will be orchard land. Only the +lower part, however, is bleak—only an end, indeed. There is nothing +more beautiful and impressive than the upper part of that strangely deep +and quiet lake lying at the foot of its enormous cliffs.</p> + +<p>By devious stages we reached the head of Lake Chelan, and there for four +days the outfitting went on. Horses were being brought in, saddles +fitted; provisions in great cases were arriving. To outfit a party of +our size for two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> weeks means labor and generous outlay. And we were +going to be comfortable. We were willing to travel hard and sleep hard. +But we meant to have plenty of food. I think we may claim the unique +distinction of being the only people who ever had grapefruit regularly +for breakfast on the top of that portion of the Cascade Range.</p> + +<p>While we waited, we learned something about the country. It is volcanic +ash, disintegrated basalt, this great fruit-country to the right of the +range. And three things, apparently, are responsible for its marvelous +fruit-growing properties. First, the soil itself, which needs only water +to prove marvelously fertile; second, the length of the growing-season, +which around Lake Chelan is one hundred and ninety-two days in the year. +And this just south of the Canadian border! There is a third reason, +too: the valleys are sheltered from frost. Even if a frost comes,—and I +believe it is almost unknown,—the high mountains surrounding these +valleys protect the blossoms so that the frost has evaporated before the +sun strikes the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> trees. There is no such thing known as a killing frost.</p> + +<p>But it is irrigation on a virgin and fertile soil that is primarily +responsible. They run the water to the orchards in conduits, and then +dig little trenches, running parallel among the trees. Then they turn it +on, and the tree-roots are bathed, soaked. And out of the desert spring +such trees of laden fruit that each branch must be supported by wires!</p> + +<p>So we ate such apples as I had never dreamed of, and waited. Joe got his +films together. The boys practiced shooting. I rested and sharpened +lead-pencils. Bob had found a way to fold his soft hat into what he +fondly called the "Jennings do," which means a plait in the crown to +shed the rain, and which turned an amiable <i>ensemble</i> into something +savage and extremely flat on top. The Head played croquet.</p> + +<p>And then into our complacency came, one night, a bit of tragedy.</p> + +<p>A man staggered into the little hotel at the head of the lake, carrying +another man on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> back. He had carried him for forty hours, lowering +him down, bit by bit, from that mountain highland where he had been +hurt—forty hours of superhuman effort and heart-breaking going, over +cliffs and through wilderness.</p> + +<p>The injured man was a sheep-herder. He had cut his leg with his +wood-axe, and blood-poisoning had set in. I do not know the rest of that +story. The sheep-herder was taken to a hospital the next day, traveling +a very long way. But whether he traveled still farther, to the land of +the Great Shepherd, I do not know. Only this I do know: that this +Western country I love is full of such stories, and of such men as the +hero of this one.</p> + +<p>At last we were ready. Some of the horses were sent by boat the day +before, for this strange lake has little or no shore-line. Granite +mountains slope stark and sheer to the water's edge, and drop from there +to frightful depths below. There are, at the upper end, no roads, no +trails or paths that border it. So the horses and all of us went by boat +to the mouth of Railroad Creek,—so called, I suppose, because<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> the +nearest railroad is more than forty miles away,—up which led the trail +to the great unknown. All around and above us were the cliffs, towering +seven thousand feet over the lake. And beyond those cliffs lay +adventure.</p> + +<p>For it <i>was</i> adventure. Even Dan Devore, experienced mountaineer and +guide that he was, had only been to Cascade Pass once, and that was +sixteen years before. He had never been across the divide. "Silent +Lawrie" Lindsley, the naturalist, had been only part-way down the Agnes +Creek Valley, which we intended to follow. Only in a general way had we +any itinerary at all.</p> + +<p>Now a National Forest is a happy hunting-ground. Whereas in the National +Parks game is faithfully preserved, hunting is permitted in the forests. +To this end, we took with us a complete arsenal. The naturalist carried +a Colt's revolver; the Big Boy had a twelve-gauge hammerless, called a +"howitzer." We had two twenty-four-gauge shotguns in case we met an +elephant or anything similarly large and heavy, and the Little Boy +proudly carried,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> strapped to his saddle, a twenty-two high-power rifle, +shooting a steel-jacketed, soft-nose bullet, an express-rifle of high +velocity and great alarm to mothers. In addition to this, we had a +Savage repeater and two Winchester thirties, and the Forest Supervisor +carried his own Winchester thirty-eight. We were entirely prepared to +meet the whole German army.</p> + +<p>It is rather sad to relate that, with all this preparation, we killed +nothing whatever. Although it is not true that, on the day we +encountered a large bear, and the three junior members of the family +were allowed to turn the artillery loose on him, at the end of the +firing the bear pulled out a flag and waved it, thinking it was the +Fourth of July.</p> + +<p>As we started, that August midday, for the long, dusty ride up the +Railroad Creek Trail, I am sure that the three junior Rineharts had +nothing less in mind than two or three bearskins apiece for school +bedrooms. They deserved better luck than they had. Night after night, +sitting in the comparative safety of the camp-fire, I have seen my three +sons, the Big,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> the Middle, and the Little Boy, starting off, armed to +the teeth with deadly weapons, to sleep out under the stars and catch +the first unwary bear on his way to breakfast in the morning.</p> + +<p>Morning after morning, I have sat breakfastless and shaken until the +weary procession of young America toiled into camp, hungry and bearless, +but, thank Heaven, whole of skin save where mosquitoes and black flies +had taken their toll of them. They would trudge five miles, sleep three +hours, hunt, walk five miles back, and then ride all day.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The first day was the least pleasant. We were still in the Railroad +Creek Valley; the trail was dusty; packs slipped on the sweating horses +and had to be replaced. The bucking horse of the outfit had, as usual, +been given the eggs, and, burying his head between his fore legs, threw +off about a million dollars' worth before he had been on the trail an +hour.</p> + +<p>On that first part of the trip, we had three dogs with us—Chubb and +Doc, as well as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> Whiskers. They ran in the dust with their tongues out, +and lay panting under bushes at each stop. Here and there we found the +track of sheep driven into the mountain to graze. For a hundred or two +hundred feet in width, it was eaten completely clean, for sheep have a +way of tearing up even the roots of the grass so that nothing green +lives behind them. They carry blight into a country like this.</p> + +<p>Then, at last, we found the first arrow of the journey, and turned off +the trail to camp.</p> + +<p>On that first evening, the arrow landed us in a great spruce grove where +the trees averaged a hundred and twenty-five feet in height. Below, the +ground was cleared and level and covered with fine moss. The great gray +trunks rose to Gothic arches of green. It was a churchly place. And +running through it were little streams living with trout.</p> + +<p>And in this saintly spot, quiet and peaceful, its only noise the +babbling of little rivers, dwelt billions on billions of mosquitoes that +were for the first time learning the delights of the human frame as +food.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was no getting away from them. Open our mouths and we inhaled +them. They hung in dense clouds about us and fought over the best +locations. They held loud and noisy conversations about us, and got in +our ears and up our nostrils and into our coffee. They went +trout-fishing with us and put up the tents with us; dined with us and on +us. But they let us alone at night.</p> + +<p>It is a curious thing about the mountain mosquito as I know him. He is a +lazy insect. He retires at sundown and does not begin to get in any +active work until eight o'clock the following morning. He keeps union +hours.</p> + +<p>Something of this we had anticipated, and I had ordered +mosquito-netting, to be worn as veils. When it was unrolled, it proved +to be a brilliant scarlet, a scarlet which faded in hot weather on to +necks and faces and turned us suddenly red and hideous.</p> + +<p>Although it was late in the afternoon when we reached that first camp, +Camp Romany, two or three of us caught more than a hundred trout before +sundown. We should have done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> better had it not been necessary to stop +and scratch every thirty seconds.</p> + +<p>That night, the Woodsman built a great bonfire. We huddled about it, +glad of its warmth, for although the days were hot, the nights, with the +wind from the snow-covered peaks overhead, were very cold. The tall, +unbranching gray spruce-trunks rose round it like the pillars of a +colonnade. The forester blew up his air bed. In front of the +supper-fire, the shadowy figures of the cooks moved back and forward. +From a near-by glacier came an occasional crack, followed by a roar +which told of ice dropping into cavernous depths below. The Little Boy +cleaned his gun and dreamed of mighty exploits.</p> + +<p>We rested all the next day at Camp Romany—rested and fished, while +three of the more adventurous spirits climbed a near-by mountain. Late +in the afternoon they rode in, bringing in their midst Joe, who had, at +the risk of his life, slid a distance which varied in the reports from +one hundred yards to a mile and a half down a snow-field, and had hung<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +fastened on the brink of eternity until he was rescued.</p> + +<p>Very white was Joe that evening, white and bruised. It was twenty-four +hours before he began to regret that the camera had not been turned on +him at the time.</p> + +<p>Not until we left Camp Romany did we feel that we were really off for +the trip. And yet that first day out from Romany was not agreeable +going. The trail was poor, although there came a time when we looked +back on it as superlative. The sun was hot, and there was no shade. +Years ago, prospectors hunting for minerals had started forest-fires to +level the ridges. The result was the burning-over of perhaps a hundred +square miles of magnificent forest. The second growth which has come up +is scrubby, a wilderness of young trees and chaparral, through which +progress was difficult and uninteresting.</p> + +<p>Up the bottom of the great glacier-basin toward the mountain at its +head, we made our slow and painful way. More dust, more mosquitoes. Even +the beauty of the snow-capped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> peaks overhead could not atone for the +ugliness of that destroyed region. Yet, although it was not lovely, it +was vastly impressive. Literally, hundreds of waterfalls cascaded down +the mountain wall from hidden lakes and glaciers above, and towering +before us was the mountain wall which we were to climb later that day.</p> + +<p>We had seen no human creature since leaving the lake, but as we halted +for luncheon by a steep little river, we suddenly found that we were not +alone. Standing beside the trail was an Italian bandit with a knife two +feet long in his hands.</p> + +<p>Ha! Come adventure! Come romance! Come rifles and pistols and all the +arsenal, including the Little Boy, with pure joy writ large over him! A +bandit, armed to the teeth!</p> + +<p>But this is a disappointing world. He was the cook from a mine—strange, +the way we met cooks, floating around loose in a world that seems to be +growing gradually cookless. And he carried with him his knife and his +bread-pan, which was, even then, hanging to a branch of a tree.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> + +<p>We fed him, and he offered to sing. The Optimist nudged me.</p> + +<p>"Now, listen," he said; "these fellows can <i>sing</i>. Be quiet, everybody!"</p> + +<p>The bandit twisted up his mustachios, smiled beatifically, and took up a +position in the trail, feet apart, eyes upturned.</p> + +<p>And then—he stopped.</p> + +<p>"I start a leetle high," he said; "I start again."</p> + +<p>So he started again, and the woods receded from around us, and the +rushing of the river died away, and nothing was heard in that lonely +valley but the most hideous sounds that ever broke a primeval silence +into rags and tatters.</p> + +<p>When, at last, he stopped, we got on our horses and rode on, a bitter +and disillusioned party of adventurers whose first bubble of enthusiasm +had been pricked.</p> + +<p>It was four o'clock when we began the ascent of the switchback at the +top of the valley. Up and up we went, dismounting here and there, going +slowly but eagerly. For, once over the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> wall, we were beyond the reach +of civilization. So strange a thing is the human mind! We who were for +most of the year most civilized, most dependent on our kind and the +comforts it has wrought out of a primitive world, now we were savagely +resentful of it. We wanted neither men nor houses. Stirring in us had +commenced that primeval call that comes to all now and then, the longing +to be alone with Mother Earth, savage, tender, calm old Mother Earth.</p> + +<p>And yet we were still in touch with the world. For even here man had +intruded. Hanging to the cliff were the few buildings of a small mine +which sends out its ore by pack-pony. I had already begun to feel the +aloofness of the quiet places, so it was rather disconcerting to have a +miner with a patch over one eye come to the doorway of one of the +buildings and remark that he had read some of my political articles and +agreed with them most thoroughly.</p> + + + +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/facing_page126.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page126-tb.jpg" alt="Looking out of ice-cave, Lyman Glacier" title="Looking out of ice-cave, Lyman Glacier" /></a><div class='caption2'><span style="margin-left: 12em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright, 1916, by l. d. lindsley</span></small></span><br /><i>Looking out of ice-cave, Lyman Glacier</i></div> +</div> + + + + +<p>That was a long day. We traveled from early morning until long after +late sundown. Up the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> switchback to a green plateau we went, meeting +our first ice there, and here again that miracle of the mountains, +meadow flowers and snow side by side.</p> + +<p>Far behind us strung the pack-outfit, plodding doggedly along. From the +rim we could look back down that fire-swept valley toward Heart Lake and +the camp we had left. But there was little time for looking back. +Somewhere ahead was a brawling river descending in great leaps from +Lyman Lake, which lay in a basin above and beyond. Our camp, that night, +was to be on the shore of Lyman Lake, at the foot of Lyman Glacier. And +we had still far to go.</p> + +<p>Mr. Hilligoss met us on the trail. He had found a camp-site by the lake +and had seen a bear and a deer. There were wild ducks also.</p> + +<p>Now and then there are scenes in the mountains that defy the written +word. The view from Cloudy Pass is one; the outlook from Cascade Pass is +another. But for sheer loveliness there are few things that surpass +Lyman Lake at sunset, its great glacier turned<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> to pink, the towering +granite cliffs which surround it dark purple below, bright rose at the +summits. And lying there, still with the stillness of the ages, the +quiet lake.</p> + +<p>There was, as a matter of fact, nothing to disturb its quiet. Not a +fish, so far as we could discover, lived in its opalescent water, cloudy +as is all glacial water. It is only good to look at, is Lyman Lake, and +there are no people to look at it.</p> + +<p>Set in its encircling, snow-covered mountains, it lies fifty-five +hundred feet above sea-level. We had come up in two days from eleven +hundred feet, a considerable climb. That night, for the first time, we +saw the northern lights—at first, one band like a cold finger set +across the sky, then others, shooting ribbons of cold fire, now bright, +now dim, covering the northern horizon and throwing into silhouette the +peaks over our heads.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XII</h2> + +<h3>CLOUDY PASS AND THE AGNES CREEK VALLEY</h3> + + +<p>I think I have said that one of the purposes of our expedition was to +hunt. We were to spend a day or two at Lyman Lake, and the sportsmen +were busy by the camp-fire that evening, getting rifles and shotguns in +order and preparing fishing-tackle.</p> + +<p>At dawn the next morning, which was at four o'clock, one of the packers +roused the Big Boy with the information that there were wild ducks on +the lake. He was wakened with extreme difficulty, put on his bedroom +slippers, picked up his shotgun, and, still in his sleeping-garments, +walked some ten feet from the mouth of his tent. There he yawned, +discharged both barrels of his gun in the general direction of the +ducks, yawned again, and went back to bed.</p> + +<p>I myself went on a hunting-excursion on the second day at Lyman Lake. +Now, theoreti<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>cally, I am a mighty hunter. I have always expected to +shoot something worth while and be photographed with my foot on it, and +a "bearer"—whatever that may be—holding my gun in the background. So +when Mr. Fred proposed an early start and a search along the side of +Chiwawa Mountain for anything from sheep to goats, including a grizzly +if possible, my imagination was roused. So jealous were we that the +first game should be ours that the party was kept a profound secret. Mr. +Fred and Mrs. Fred, the Head, and I planned it ourselves.</p> + +<p>We would rise early, and, armed to the teeth, would stalk the skulking +bear to his den.</p> + +<p>Rising early is also a theory of mine. I approve of it. But I do not +consider it rising early to get up at three o'clock in the morning. +Three o'clock in the morning is late at night. The moon was still up. It +was frightfully cold. My shoes were damp and refused to go on. I could +not find any hairpins. And I recalled a number of stories of the extreme +disagreeableness of bears when not shot in a vital spot.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>With all our hurry, it was four o'clock when we were ready to start. No +sun was in sight, but already a faint rose-colored tint was on the tops +of the mountains. Whiskers raised a sleepy head and looked at us from +Dan's bed. We tiptoed through the camp and started.</p> + +<p>We climbed. Then we climbed some more. Then we kept on climbing. Mr. +Fred led the way. He had the energy of a high-powered car and the +hopefulness of a pacifist. From ledge to ledge he scrambled, turning now +and then to wave an encouraging hand. It was not long before I ceased to +have strength to wave back. Hours went on. Five hundred feet, one +thousand feet, fifteen hundred feet above the lake. I confided to the +Head, between gasps, that I was dying. We had seen no living thing; we +continued to see no living thing. Two thousand feet, twenty-five hundred +feet. There was not enough air in the world to fill my collapsed lungs.</p> + +<p>Once Mr. Fred found a track, and scurried off in a new direction. Still +no result. The sun was up by that time, and I judged that it was about +noon. It was only six-thirty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page132.jpg" width="400" height="291" alt="Looking southeast from Cloudy Pass" title="Looking southeast from Cloudy Pass" /> +<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 12em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright by l. d. lindsley</span></small></span><br /> +<i>Looking southeast from Cloudy Pass</i> +</span> +</div> + +<p>A sort of desperation took possession of us all. We would keep up with +Mr. Fred or die trying. And then, suddenly, we were on the very roof of +the world, on the top of Cloudy Pass. All the kingdoms of the earth lay +stretched out around us, and all the kingdoms of the earth were empty.</p> + +<p>Now, the usual way to climb Cloudy Pass is to take a good businesslike +horse and sit on his back. Then, by devious and circuitous routes, with +frequent rests, the horse takes you up. When there is a place the horse +cannot manage, you get off and hold his tail, and he pulls you. Even at +that, it is a long business and a painful one. But it is better—oh, +far, far better!—than the way we had taken.</p> + +<p>Have you ever reached a point where you fix your starting eyes on a +shrub or a rock ten feet ahead and struggle for it? And, having achieved +it, fix on another five feet farther on, and almost fail to get it? +Because, if you have not, you know nothing of this agony of tearing +lungs and hammering heart and throbbing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> muscles that is the +mountain-climber's price for achievement.</p> + + + +<p>And then, after all, while resting on the top of the world with our feet +hanging over, discussing dilated hearts, because I knew mine would never +go back to normal, to see a ptarmigan, and have Mr. Fred miss it because +he wanted to shoot its head neatly off!</p> + +<p>Strange birds, those ptarmigan. Quite fearless of man, because they know +him not or his evil works, on alarm they have the faculty of almost +instantly obliterating themselves. I have seen a mother bird and her +babies, on an alarm, so hide themselves on a bare mountain-side that not +so much as a bit of feather could be seen. But unless frightened, they +will wander almost under the hunter's feet.</p> + +<p>I dare say they do not know how very delicious they are, especially +after a diet of salt meat.</p> + +<p>As we sat panting on Cloudy Pass, the sun rose over the cliff of the +great granite bowl. The peaks turned from red to yellow. It was +absolutely silent. No trees rustled in the morn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>ing air. There were no +trees. Only, here and there, a few stunted evergreens, two or three feet +high, had rooted on the rock and clung there, gnarled and twisted from +their winter struggles.</p> + +<p>Ears that had grown tired of the noises of cities grew rested. But our +ears were more rested than our bodies.</p> + +<p>I have always believed that it is easier to go downhill than to go up. +This is not true. I say it with the deepest earnestness. After the first +five hundred feet of descent, progress down became agonizing. The +something that had gone wrong with my knees became terribly wrong; they +showed a tendency to bend backward; they shook and quivered.</p> + +<p>The last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful +experiences of my life. A broken thing, I crept into camp and tendered +mute apologies to Budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "Buddy." +(Although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.)</p> + +<p>The remainder of that day, Mrs. Fred and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> I lay under a mosquito-canopy, +played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. The Forest Supervisor +climbed Lyman Glacier. The Head and the Little Boy made the circuit of +the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its +outlet. And the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which +was about to commence.</p> + +<p>One thing should be a part of the equipment of every one who intends to +camp in the mountains near the snow-fields. This is a mosquito-tent. +Ours was brought by that experienced woodsman and mountaineer, Mr. +Hilligoss, and was made with a light-muslin top three feet long by the +width of double-width muslin. To this was sewed sides of cheese-cloth, +with double seams and reinforced corners. At the bottom it had an extra +piece of netting two feet wide, to prevent the insects from crawling +under.</p> + +<p>Erecting such a shelter is very simple. Four stakes, five feet high, +were driven into the ground and the mosquito-canopy simply hung over +them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> + +<p>We had no face-masks, except the red netting, but, for such a trip, a +mask is simple to make and occasionally most acceptable. The best one I +know—and it, too, is the Woodsman's invention—consists of a four-inch +band of wire netting; above it, whipped on, a foot of light muslin to be +tied round the hat, and, below, a border of cheese-cloth two feet deep, +with a rubber band. Such a mask does not stick to the face. Through the +wire netting, it is possible to shoot with accuracy. The rubber band +round the neck allows it to be lifted with ease.</p> + +<p>I do not wish to give the impression that there were mosquitoes +everywhere. But when there were mosquitoes, there was nothing +clandestine about it.</p> + +<p>The next day we crossed Cloudy Pass and started down the Agnes Creek +Valley. It was to be a forced march of twenty-five miles over a trail +which no one was sure existed. There had, at one time, been a trail, but +avalanches have a way, in these mountain valleys, of destroying all +landmarks, and rock-slides come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> down from the great cliffs, fill +creek-beds, and form swamps. Whether we could get down at all or not was +a question. To the eternal credit of our guides, we made it. For the +upper five miles below Cloudy Pass it was touch and go. Even with the +sharp hatchet of the Woodsman ahead, with his blazes on the trees where +the trail had been obliterated, it was the hardest kind of going.</p> + +<p>Here were ditches that the horses leaped; here were rushing streams +where they could hardly keep their footing. Again, a long mile or two of +swamp and almost impenetrable jungle, where only the Woodsman's +axe-marks gave us courage to go on. We were mired at times, and again +there were long stretches over rock-slides, where the horses scrambled +like cats.</p> + +<p>But with every mile there came a sense of exhilaration. We were making +progress.</p> + +<p>There was little or no life to be seen. The Woodsman, going ahead of us, +encountered a brown bear reaching up for a cluster of salmon-berries. He +ambled away, quite unconcerned,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> and happily ignorant of that desperate +trio of junior Rineharts, bearing down on him with almost the entire +contents of the best gun shop in Spokane.</p> + +<p>It should have been a great place for bears, that Agnes Creek Valley. +There were ripe huckleberries, service-berries, salmon-and +manzanita-berries. There were plenty of places where, if I had been a +bear, I should have been entirely happy—caves and great rocks, and +good, cold water. And I believe they were there. But thirty-one horses +and a sort of family tendency to see if there is an echo anywhere about, +and such loud inquiries as, "Are you all right, mother?" and "Who the +dickens has any matches?"—these things are fatal to seeing wild life.</p> + +<p>Indeed, the next time I am overcome by one of my mad desires to see a +bear, I shall go to the zoo.</p> + +<p>It was fifteen years, I believe, since Dan Devore had seen the Agnes +Creek Valley. From the condition of the trail, I am inclined to think +that Dan was the last man who had ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> used it. And such a wonderland +as it is! Such marvels of flowers as we descended, such wild +tiger-lilies and columbines and Mariposa lilies! What berries and +queen's-cup and chalice-cup and bird's-bill! There was trillium, too, +although it was not in bloom, and devil's-club, a plant which stings and +sets up a painful swelling. There were yew trees, those trees which the +Indians use for making their bows, wild white rhododendron and spirea, +cottonwood, white pine, hemlock, Douglas spruce, and white fir. +Everywhere there was mountain-ash, the berries beloved of bears. And +high up on the mountain there was always heather, beautiful to look at +but slippery, uncertain footing for horse and man.</p> + +<p>Twenty-five miles, broken with canter and trot, is not more than I have +frequently taken on a brisk sunny morning at home. But twenty-five miles +at a slow walk, now in a creek-bed, now on the edge of a cliff, is a +different matter. The last five miles of the Agnes Creek trip were a +long despair. We found and located new muscles that the anatomists have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +overlooked.—A really first-class anatomist ought never to make a chart +without first climbing a high mountain and riding all day on the +creature alluded to in this song of Bob's, which gained a certain +popularity among the male members of the party.</p> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="A sailor's life"> +<tr><td align='left'>"A sailor's life is bold and free.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He lives upon the bright blue sea.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He has to work like h——, of course,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse."</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>It was dark when we reached our camp-ground at the foot of the valley. A +hundred feet below, in a gorge, ran the Stehekin River, a noisy and +turbulent stream full of trout. We groped through the darkness for our +tents that night and fell into bed more dead than alive. But at three +o'clock the next morning, the junior Rineharts, following Mr. Fred, were +off for bear, reappearing at ten, after breakfast was over, with an +excited story of having seen one very close but having unaccountably +missed it.</p> + +<p>There was no water for the horses at camp<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> that night, and none for them +in the morning. There was no way to get them down to the river, and the +poor animals were almost desperate with thirst. They were having little +enough to eat even then, at the beginning of the trip, and it was hard +to see them without water, too.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XIII</h2> + +<h3>CAÑON FISHING AND A TELEGRAM</h3> + + +<p>It was eleven o'clock the next morning before I led Buddy—I had +abandoned "Budweiser" in view of the drought—into a mountain stream and +let him drink. He would have rolled in it, too, but I was on his back +and I fiercely restrained him.</p> + +<p>The next day was a comparatively short trip. There was a trapper's cabin +at the fork of Bridge Creek in the Stehekin River. There we were to +spend the night before starting on our way to Cascade Pass. As it turned +out, we spent two days there. There was a little grass for the horses, +and we learned of a cañon, some five or six miles off our trail, which +was reported as full of fish.</p> + +<p>The most ardent of us went there the next day—Mr. Hilligoss, Weaver, +and "Silent Lawrie" and the Freds and Bob and the Big Boy and the Little +Boy and Joe. And, without expecting it, we happened on adventure.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> + +<p>Have you ever climbed down a cañon with rocky sides, a straight and +precipitous five hundred feet, clinging with your finger nails to any +bit of green that grows from the cliff, and to footholds made by an axe, +and carrying a fly-book and a trout-rod which is an infinitely precious +trout-rod? Also, a share of the midday lunch and twenty pounds more +weight than you ought to have by the beauty-scale? Because, unless you +have, you will never understand that trip.</p> + +<p>It was a series of wild drops, of blood-curdling escapes, of slips and +recoveries, of bruises and abrasions. But at last we made it, and there +was the river!</p> + +<p>I have still in mind a deep pool where the water, rushing at tremendous +speed over a rocky ledge, fell perhaps fifteen feet. I had fixed my eyes +on that pool early in the day, but it seemed impossible of access. To +reach it it was necessary again to scale a part of the cliff, and, +clinging to its face, to work one's way round along a ledge perhaps +three inches wide. When I had once made it, with the aid of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> friendly +hands and a leather belt, by which I was lowered, I knew one thing—knew +it inevitably. I was there for life. Nothing would ever take me back +over that ledge.</p> + +<div class="figright"><a href="images/facing_page144.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page144-tb.jpg" alt="Stream fishing" title="Stream fishing" /></a><div class='caption'><i>Stream fishing</i></div></div> + +<p>However, I was there, and there was no use wasting time. For there were +fish there. Now and then they jumped. But they did not take the fly. The +water seethed and boiled, and I stood still and fished, because a slip +on that spray-covered ledge and I was gone, to be washed down to Lake +Chelan, and lie below sea-level in the Cascade Mountains. Which might be +a glorious sort of tomb, but it did not appeal to me.</p> + +<p>I tried different flies with no result. At last, with a weighted line +and a fish's eye, I got my first fish—the best of the day, and from +that time on I forgot the danger.</p> + +<p>Some day, armed with every enticement known to the fisherman, I am going +back to that river. For there, under a log, lurks the wiliest trout I +have ever encountered. In full view he stayed during the entire time of +my sojourn. He came up to the fly, leaped over it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> made faces at it. +Then he would look up at me scornfully.</p> + + + + +<p>"Old tricks," he seemed to say. "Old stuff—not good enough." I dare say +he is still there.</p> + +<p>Late in the day, we got out of that cañon. Got out at infinite peril and +fatigue, climbed, struggled, stumbled, held on, pulled. I slipped once +and had a bad knee for six weeks. Never once did I dare to look back and +down. It was always up, and the top was always receding. And when we +reached camp, the Head, who had been on an excursion of his own, refused +to be thrilled, and spent the evening telling how he had been climbing +over the top of the world on his hands and knees. In sheer scorn, we let +him babble.</p> + +<p>But my hat is off to him, after all, for he had ready for us, and swears +to this day to its truth, the best fish-story of the trip.</p> + +<p>Lying on the top of one of our packing-cases was a great bull-trout. Now +a bull-trout has teeth, and held in a vise-like grip in the teeth of +this one was a smaller trout. In the mouth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> of the small trout was a +gray-and-black fly. The Head maintained that he had hooked the small +fish and was about to draw it to shore when the bull-trout leaped out of +the water, caught the small fish, and held on grimly. The Head thereupon +had landed them both.</p> + +<p>In proof of this, as I have said, he had the two fish on top of a +packing-case. But it is not a difficult matter to place a small trout +cross-wise in the jaws of a bull-trout, and to this day we are not quite +certain.</p> + +<p>There <i>were</i> tooth-marks on the little fish, but, as one of the guides +said, he wouldn't put it past the Head to have made them himself.</p> + +<p>That night we received a telegram. I remember it with great +distinctness, because the man who brought it in charged fifteen dollars +for delivering it. He came at midnight, and how he had reached us no one +will ever know. The telegram notified us that a railroad strike was +about to take place and that we should get out as soon as possible.</p> + +<p>Early the next morning we held a conference. It was about as far back as +it was to go ahead<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> over the range. And before us still lay the Great +Adventure of the pass.</p> + +<p>We took a vote on it at last and the "ayes" carried. We would go ahead, +making the best time we could. If the railroads had stopped when we got +out, we would merely turn our pack-outfit toward the east and keep on +moving. We had been all summer in the saddle by that time, and a matter +of thirty-five hundred miles across the continent seemed a trifle.</p> + +<p>Dan Devore brought us other news that morning, however. Cascade Pass was +closed with snow. A miner who lived alone somewhere up the gorge had +brought in the information. It was a serious moment. We could get to +Doubtful Lake, but it was unlikely we could get any farther. The +comparatively simple matter thus became a complicated one, for Doubtful +Lake was not only a détour; it was almost inaccessible, especially for +horses. But we hated to acknowledge defeat. So again we voted to go +ahead.</p> + +<p>That day, while the pack-outfit was being got ready, I had a long talk +with the Forest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> Supervisor. He told me many things about our National +Forests, things which are worth knowing and which every American, whose +playgrounds the forests are, should know.</p> + +<p>In the first place, the Forestry Department welcomes the camper. He is +given his liberty, absolutely. He is allowed to hunt such game as is in +season, and but two restrictions are placed on him. He shall leave his +camp-ground clean, and he shall extinguish every spark of fire before he +leaves. Beyond that, it is the policy of the Government to let campers +alone. It is possible in a National Forest to secure a special permit to +put up buildings for permanent camps. An act passed on the 4th of March, +1915, gives the camper a permit for a definite period, although until +that time the Government could revoke the permit at will.</p> + +<p>The rental is so small that it is practically negligible. All roads and +trails are open to the public; no admission can be charged to a National +Forest, and no concession will be sold. The whole idea of the National +Forest as a playground is to administer it in the public<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> interest. Good +lots on Lake Chelan can be obtained for from five to twenty-five dollars +a year, depending on their locality. It is the intention of the +Government to pipe water to these allotments.</p> + +<p>For the hunters, there is no protection for bear, cougar, coyotes, +bobcats, and lynx. No license is required to hunt them. And to the +persistent hunter who goes into the woods, not as we did, with an outfit +the size of a cavalry regiment, there is game to be had in abundance. We +saw goat-tracks in numbers at Cloudy Pass and the marks of Bruin +everywhere.</p> + +<p>The Chelan National Forest is well protected against fires. A +fire-launch patrols the lake and lookouts are stationed all the time on +Strong Mountain and Crow's Hill. They live there on the summits, where +provisions and water must be carried up to them. These lookouts now have +telephones, but until last summer they used the heliograph instead.</p> + +<p>So now we prepared, having made our decision to go on. That night, if +the trail was possible, we would camp at Doubtful Lake.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XIV</h2> + +<h3>DOING THE IMPOSSIBLE</h3> + + +<p>The first part of that adventurous day was quiet. We moved sedately +along on an overgrown trail, mountain walls so close on each side that +the valley lay in shadow. I rode next to Dan Devore that day, and on the +trail he stopped his horse and showed me the place where Hughie McKeever +was found.</p> + +<p>Dan Devore and Hughie McKeever went out one November to go up to +Horseshoe Basin. Dan left before the heaviest snows came, leaving +McKeever alone. When McKeever had not appeared by February, Dan went in +for him. His cabin was empty.</p> + +<p>He had kept a diary up to the 24th of December, when it stopped +abruptly. There were a few marten skins in the cabin, and his outfit. +That was all. In some cottonwoods, not far from the camp, they found his +hatchet and his bag hanging to a tree.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + +<p>It looked for a time, as though the mystery of Hughie McKeever's +disappearance would be one of the unsolved tragedies of the mountains. +But a trapper, whose route took him along Thunder Creek that spring, +noticed that his dog made a side trip each time, away from the trail. At +last he investigated, and found the body of Hughie McKeever. He had +probably been caught in a snow-slide, for his leg was broken below the +knee. Unable to walk, he had put his snowshoes on his hands and, +dragging the broken leg, had crawled six miles through the snow and ice +of the mountain winter. When he was found, he was only a mile and a half +from his cabin and safety.</p> + +<p>There are many other tragedies of that valley. There was a man who went +up Bridge Creek to see a claim he had located there. He was to be out +four days. But in ten days he had not appeared, which was not +surprising, for there was twenty-five feet of snow, and when the snow +had frozen so that rescuers could travel over the crust, they went up +after him. He was lying in one of the bunks of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> cabin with a +mattress over him, frozen to death.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 315px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page152.jpg" width="315" height="400" alt="Mountain miles: The trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, Glacier National Park" title="Mountain miles: The trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, Glacier National Park" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Mountain miles: The trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, <br />Glacier National Park</i></span> +</div> + +<p>So, Dan said, they covered him in the snow with a mattress, and went +back in the spring to bury him.</p> + +<p>Every winter, in those mountain valleys, men who cannot get their +outfits out before the snow shoot their horses or cut their throats +rather than let them freeze or starve to death. It is a grim country, +the Cascade country. One man shot nine in this very valley last winter.</p> + +<p>Our naturalist had been caught the winter before in the first snowstorm +of the season. He was from daylight until eight o'clock at night making +two miles of trail. He had to break it, foot by foot, for the horses.</p> + +<p>As we rode up the gorge toward the pass, it was evident, from the amount +of snow in the mountains, that stories had not been exaggerated. The +packers looked dubious. Even if we could make the climb to Doubtful +Lake, it seemed impossible that we could get farther. But the monotony +of the long ride was broken<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> that afternoon by our first sight, as a +party, of a bear.</p> + + +<p>It came out on a ledge of the mountain, perhaps three hundred yards +away, and proceeded, with great deliberation, to walk across a +rock-slide. It paid no attention whatever to us and to the wild +excitement which followed its discovery. Instantly, the three junior +Rineharts were off their horses, and our artillery attack was being +prepared. At the first shot, the pack-ponies went crazy. They lunged and +jumped, and even Buddy showed signs of strain, leaping what I imagine to +be some eleven feet in the air and coming back on four rigid knees. +Followed such a peppering of that cliff as it had never had before. +Little clouds of rock-dust rose above the bear, in front of him, behind +him, and below him. He stopped, mildly astonished, and looked around. +More noise, more bucking on the trail, more dust. The bear walked on a +trifle faster.</p> + +<p>It had been arranged that the first bear was to be left for the juniors. +So the packers and the rest of the party watched and advised.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> + +<p>But, as I have related elsewhere in this narrative, there were no +casualties. The bear, as far as I know, is living to-day, an honored +member of his community, and still telling how he survived the great +war. At last he disappeared into a cave, and we went on without so much +as a single skin to decorate a college room.</p> + +<p>We went on.</p> + +<p>What odds and ends of knowledge we picked up on those long days in the +saddle! That if lightning strikes a pine even lightly, it kills, but +that a fir will ordinarily survive; that mountain miles are measured +air-line, so that twenty-five miles may really be forty, and that, even +then, they are calculated on the level, so that one is credited with +only the base of the triangle while he is laboriously climbing up its +hypotenuse. I am personally acquainted with the hypotenuses of a good +many mountains, and there is no use trying to pretend that they are +bases. They are not.</p> + +<p>Then we learned that the purpose of the National Forests is not to +preserve timber but to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> conserve it. The idea is to sell and reseed. +About twenty-five per cent of the timber we saw was yellow pine. But +most of the timber we saw on the east side of the Cascades will be safe +for some time. I wouldn't undertake to carry out, from most of that +region, enough pine-needles to make a sofa-cushion. It is quite enough +to get oneself out.</p> + +<p>Up to now it had been hard going, but not impossible. Now we were to do +the impossible.</p> + +<p>It is a curious thing about mountains, but they have a hideous tendency +to fall down. Whole cliff-faces, a mile or so high, are suddenly seized +with a wandering disposition. Leaving the old folks at home and sliding +down into the valleys, they come awful croppers and sustain about eleven +million compound comminuted fractures.</p> + +<p>These family breaks are known as rock-slides.</p> + +<p>Now to travel twenty feet over a rock-slide is to twist an ankle, bruise +a shin-bone, utterly discourage a horse, and sour the most amiable +disposition.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page156.jpg" width="400" height="297" alt="Where the rock-slides start (Glacier National Park)" title="Where the rock-slides start (Glacier National Park)" /> +<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 8em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright, 1916, by a. j. baker, kalispell, mont.</span></small></span><br /> +<i>Where the rock-slides start (Glacier National Park)</i> +</span></div> +<p>There is no flat side to these wandering rocks. With the diabolical +ingenuity that nature can show when she goes wrong, they lie edge up. Do +you remember the little mermaid who wished to lose her tail and gain +legs so she could follow the prince? And how her penalty was that every +step was like walking on the edges of swords? That is a mountain +rock-slide, but I do not recall that the little mermaid had to drag a +frightened and slipping horse, which stepped on her now and then. Or +wear riding-boots. Or stop every now and then to be photographed, and +try to persuade her horse to stop also. Or keep looking up to see if +another family jar threatened. Or look around to see if any of the party +or the pack was rolling down over the spareribs of that ghastly +skeleton. No; the little mermaid's problem was a simple and +uncomplicated one.</p> + +<p>We were climbing, too. Only one thing kept us going. The narrow valley +twisted, and around each cliff-face we expected the end—either death or +solid ground. But not so, or, at least, not for some hours. +Riding-boots<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> peeled like a sunburnt face; stones dislodged and rolled +down; the sun beat down in early September fury, and still we went on.</p> + + + + + +<p>Only three miles it was, but it was as bad a three miles as I have ever +covered. Then—the naturalist turned and smiled.</p> + +<p>"Now we are all right," he said. "<i>We start to climb soon!</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XV</h2> + +<h3>DOUBTFUL LAKE</h3> + + +<p>Of all the mountain-climbing I have ever done the switchback up to +Doubtful Lake is the worst. We were hours doing it. There were places +when it seemed no horse could possibly make the climb. Back and forth, +up and up, along that narrow rock-filled trail, which was lost here in a +snow-bank, there in a jungle of evergreen that hung out from the +mountain-side, we were obliged to go. There was no going back. We could +not have turned a horse around, nor could we have reversed the +pack-outfit without losing some of the horses.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, we dropped two horses on that switchback. With +infinite labor the packers got them back to the trail, rolling, +tumbling, and roping them down to the ledge below, and there salvaging +them. It was heart-breaking, nerve-racking work. Near the top was an +ice-patch across a brawling waterfall. To slip on that ice-patch meant a +drop of in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>credible distance. From broken places in the crust it was +possible to see the stream below. Yet over the ice it was necessary to +take ourselves and the pack.</p> + +<p>"Absolutely no riding here," was the order, given in strained tones. For +everybody's nerves were on edge.</p> + +<p>Somehow or other, we got over. I can still see one little pack-pony +wandering away from the others and traveling across that tiny ice-field +on the very brink of death at the top of the precipice. The sun had +softened the snow so that I fell flat into it. And there was a dreadful +moment when I thought I was going to slide.</p> + +<p>Even when I was safely over, my anxieties were just beginning. For the +Head and the Juniors were not yet over. And there was no space to stop +and see them come. It was necessary to move on up the switchback, that +the next horse behind might scramble up. Buddy went gallantly on, +leaping, slipping, his flanks heaving, his nostrils dilated. Then, at +last, the familiar call,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>—</p> + + +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/facing_page160.jpg"><img src="images/facing_page160-tb.jpg" alt="Switchbacks on the trail (Glacier National Park)" title="Switchbacks on the trail (Glacier National Park)" /></a> + +<div class='caption2'><span style="margin-left: 6em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon</span></small></span><br /><i>Switchbacks on the trail (Glacier National Park)</i></div> +</div> + +<p>"Are you all right, mother?"</p> + +<p>And I knew it was all right with them—so far.</p> + +<p>Three thousand feet that switchback went straight up in the air. How +many thousand feet we traveled back and forward, I do not know.</p> + +<p>But these things have a way of getting over somehow. The last of the +pack-horses was three hours behind us in reaching Doubtful Lake. The +weary little beasts, cut, bruised, and by this time very hungry, looked +dejected and forlorn. It was bitterly cold. Doubtful Lake was full of +floating ice, and a chilling wind blew on us from the snow all about. A +bear came out on the cliff-face across the valley. But no one attempted +to shoot at him. We were too tired, too bruised and sore. We gave him no +more than a passing glance.</p> + +<p>It had been a tremendous experience, but a most alarming one. From the +brink of that pocket on the mountain-top where we stood the earth fell +away to vast distances beneath. The little river which empties Doubtful +Lake<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> slid greasily over a rock and disappeared without a sound into +the void.</p> + + + +<p>Until the pack-outfit arrived, we could have no food. We built a fire +and huddled round it, and now and then one of us would go to the edge of +the pit which lay below to listen. The summer evening was over and night +had fallen before we heard the horses coming near the top of the cliff. +We cheered them, as, one by one, they stumbled over the edge, dark +figures of horses and men, the animals with their bulging packs. They +had put up a gallant fight.</p> + +<p>And we had no food for the horses. The few oats we had been able to +carry were gone, and there was no grass on the little plateau. There was +heather, deceptively green, but nothing else. And here, for the benefit +of those who may follow us along the trail, let me say that oats should +be carried, if two additional horses are required for the +purpose—carried, and kept in reserve for the last hard days of the +trip.</p> + +<p>The two horses that had fallen were un<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>packed first. They were cut, and +on their cuts the Head poured iodine. But that was all we could do for +them. One little gray mare was trembling violently. She went over a +cliff again the next day, but I am glad to say that we took her out +finally, not much the worse except for a badly cut shoulder. The other +horse, a sorrel, had only a day or two before slid five hundred feet +down a snow-bank. He was still stiff from his previous accident, and if +ever I saw a horse whose nerve was gone, I saw one there—a poor, +tragic, shaken creature, trembling at a word.</p> + +<p>That night, while we lay wrapped in blankets round the fire while the +cooks prepared supper at another fire near by, the Optimist produced a +bottle of claret. We drank it out of tin cups, the only wine of the +journey, and not until long afterward did we know its history—that a +very great man to whose faith the Northwest owes so much of its +development had purchased it, twenty-five years before, for the visit to +this country of Albert, King of the Belgians.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + +<p>That claret, taken so casually from tin cups near the summit of the +Cascades, had been a part of the store of that great dreamer and most +abstemious of men, James J. Hill, laid in for the use of that other +great dreamer and idealist, Albert, when he was his guest. While we ate, +Weaver said suddenly,—</p> + +<p>"Listen!"</p> + +<p>His keen ears had caught the sound of a bell. He got up.</p> + +<p>"Either Johnny or Buck," he said, "starting back home!"</p> + +<p>Then commenced again that heart-breaking task of rounding up the horses. +That is a part of such an expedition. And, even at that, one escaped and +was found the next morning high up the cliffside, in a basin.</p> + +<p>It was too late to put up all the tents that night. Mrs. Fred and I +slept in our clothes but under canvas, and the men lay out with their +faces to the sky.</p> + +<p>Toward dawn a thunder-storm came up. For we were on the crest of the +Cascades now, where the rain-clouds empty themselves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> before traveling +to the arid country to the east. Just over the mountain-wall above us +lay the Pacific Slope.</p> + +<p>The rain came down, and around the peaks overhead lightning flashed and +flamed. No one moved except Joe, who sat up in his blankets, put his hat +on, said, "Let 'er rain," and lay down to sleep again. Peanuts, the +naturalist's horse, sought human companionship in the storm, and +wandered into camp, where one of the young bear-hunters wakened to find +him stepping across his prostrate and blanketed form.</p> + +<p>Then all was still again, except for the solid beat of the rain on +canvas and blanket, horse and man.</p> + +<p>It cleared toward morning, and at dawn Dan was up and climbed the wall +on foot. At breakfast, on his return, we held a conference. He reported +that it was possible to reach the top—possible but difficult, and that +what lay on the other side we should have to discover later on.</p> + +<p>A night's sleep had made Joe all business<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> again. On the previous day he +had been too busy saving his camera and his life—camera first, of +course—to try for pictures. But now he had a brilliant idea.</p> + +<p>"Now see here," he said to me; "I've got a great idea. How's Buddy about +water?"</p> + +<p>"He's partial to it," I admitted, "for drinking, or for lying down and +rolling in it, especially when I am on him. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's like this," he observed: "I'm set up on the bank of the +lake. See? And you ride him into the water and get him to scramble up on +one of those ice-cakes. Do you get it? It'll be a whale of a picture."</p> + +<p>"Joe," I said, in a stern voice, "did you ever try to make a horse go +into an icy lake and climb on to an ice-cake? Because if you have, you +can do it now. I can turn the camera all right. Anyhow," I added firmly, +"I've been photographed enough. This film is going to look as if I'd +crossed the Cascades alone. Some of you other people ought to have a +chance."</p> + +<p>But a moving-picture man after a picture is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> as determined as a cook who +does not like the suburbs.</p> + +<p>I rode Buddy to the brink of the lake, and there spoke to him in +friendly tones. I observed that this lake was like other lakes, only +colder, and that it ought to be mere play after the day before. I also +selected a large ice-cake, which looked fairly solid, and pointed Buddy +at it.</p> + +<p>Then I kicked him. He took a step and began to shake. Then he leaped six +feet to one side and reared, still shaking. Then he turned round and +headed for the camp.</p> + +<p>By that I was determined on the picture. There is nothing like two wills +set in opposite directions to determine a woman. Buddy and I again and +again approached the lake, mostly sideways. But at last he went in, took +twenty steps out, felt the cold on his poor empty belly, and—refused +the ice-cake. We went out much faster than we went in, making the bank +in a great bound and a very bad humor—two very bad humors.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XVI</h2> + +<h3>OVER CASCADE PASS</h3> + + +<p>To get out of the Doubtful Lake plateau to Cascade Pass it was necessary +to climb eight hundred feet up a steep and very slippery cliffside. On +the other side lay the pass, but on the level of the lake. It was here +that we "went up a hill one day and then went down again" with a +vengeance. And on this cliffside it was that the little gray mare went +over again, falling straight on to a snow-bank, which saved her, and +then rolling over and over shedding parts of our equipment, and landing +far below dazed and almost senseless.</p> + +<p>It was on the top of that wall above Doubtful Lake that I had the +greatest fright of the trip.</p> + +<p>That morning, as a special favor, the Little Boy had been allowed to go +ahead with Mr. Hilligoss, who was to clear trail and cut footholds where +they were necessary. When we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> were more than halfway to the top of the +wall above the lake, two alternative routes to the top offered +themselves, one to the right across a snow-field that hugged the edge of +a cliff which dropped sheer five hundred feet to the water, another to +the left over slippery heather which threatened a slide and a casualty +at every step. The Woodsman had left no blazes, there being no tree to +mark. Holding on by clutching to the heather with our hands, we debated. +Finally, we chose the left-hand route as the one they had probably +taken. But when we reached the top, the Woodsman and the Little Boy were +not there. We hallooed, but there was no reply. And, suddenly, the +terrible silence of the mountains seemed ominous. Had they ventured +across the snow-bank and slipped?</p> + +<p>I am not ashamed to say that, sitting on my horse on the top of that +mountain-wall, I proceeded to have a noiseless attack of hysterics. +There were too many chances of accident for any of the party to take the +matter lightly. There we gathered on that little mountain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> meadow, not +much bigger than a good-sized room, and waited. There was snow and ice +and silence everywhere. Below, Doubtful Lake lay like a sapphire set in +granite, and far beneath it lay the valley from which we had climbed the +day before. But no one cared for scenery.</p> + +<p>Then it was that "Silent Lawrie" turned his horse around and went back. +Soon he hallooed, and, climbing back to us, reported that they had +crossed the ice-bank. He had found the marks of the axe making +footholds. And soon afterward there was another halloo from below, and +the missing ones rode into sight. They were blithe and gay. They had +crossed the ice-field and had seen a view which they urged we should not +miss. But I had had enough view. All I wanted was the level earth. There +could be nothing after that flat enough to suit me.</p> + +<p>Sliding, stumbling, falling, leading our scrambling horses, we got down +the wall on the other side. It was easier going, but slippery with +heather and that green moss of the mountains, which looks so tempting +but which gives<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> neither foothold nor nourishment. Then, at last, the +pass.</p> + +<p>It was thirty-six hours since our horses had had anything to eat. We had +had food and sleep, but during the entire night the poor animals had +been searching those rocky mountain-sides for food and failing to find +it. They stood in a dejected group, heads down, feet well braced to +support their weary bodies.</p> + +<p>But last summer was not a normal one. Unusually heavy snowfalls the +winter before had been followed by a late, cold spring. The snow was +only beginning to melt late in July, and by September, although almost +gone from the pass itself, it still covered deep the trail on the east +side.</p> + +<p>So, some of those who read this may try the same great adventure +hereafter and find it unnecessary to make the Doubtful Lake détour. I +hope so. Because the pass is too wonderful not to be visited. Some day, +when this magnificent region becomes a National Park, and there is +something more than a dollar a mile to be spent on trails, a thousand +dollars or so in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>vested in trail-work will put this roof of the world +within reach of any one who can sit a horse. And those who go there will +be the better for the going. Petty things slip away in the silent high +places. It is easy to believe in God there. And the stars and heaven +seem very close.</p> + +<p>One thing died there forever for me—my confidence in the man who writes +the geography and who says that, representing the earth by an orange, +the highest mountains are merely as the corrugations on its skin.</p> + +<p>On Cascade Pass is the dividing-line between the Chelan and the +Washington National Forests. For some reason we had confidently believed +that reaching the pass would see the end of our difficulties. The only +question that had ever arisen was whether we could get to the pass or +not. And now we were there.</p> + +<p>We were all perceptibly cheered; even the horses seemed to feel that the +worst was over. Tame grouse scudded almost under our feet. They had +never seen human beings, and therefore had no terror of them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>And here occurred one of the small disappointments that the Middle Boy +will probably remember long after he has forgotten the altitude in feet +of that pass and other unimportant matters. For he scared up some +grouse, and this is the tragedy. The open season for grouse is September +1st in Chelan and September 15th across the line. And the birds would +not cross the line. They were wise birds, and must have had a calendar +about them, for, although we were vague as to the date, we knew it was +not yet the 15th. So they sat or fluttered about, and looked most +awfully good to eat. But they never went near the danger-zone or the +enemy's trenches.</p> + +<p>We lay about and rested, and the grouse laughed at us, and a great +marmot, sentinel of his colony, sat on a near-by rock and whistled +reports of what we were doing. Joe unlimbered the moving-picture camera, +and the Head used the remainder of his small stock of iodine on the +injured horses. The sun shone on the flowers and the snow, on the pail +in which our cocoa was cooking, on the barrels of our unused guns<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> and +the buckles of the saddles. We watched the pack-horses coming down, tiny +pin-point figures, oddly distorted by the great packs. And we rested for +the descent.</p> + +<p>I do not know why we thought that descent from Cascade Pass on the +Pacific side was going to be easy. It was by far the most nerve-racking +part of the trip. Yet we started off blithely enough. Perhaps Buddy knew +that he was the first horse to make that desperate excursion. He +developed a strange nervousness, and took to leaping off the trail in +bad places, so that one moment I was a part of the procession and the +next was likely to be six feet above the trail on a rocky ledge, with no +apparent way to get down.</p> + +<p>We had expected that there would be less snow on the western slope, but +at the beginning of the trip we found snow everywhere. And whereas +before the rock-slides had been wretchedly uncomfortable but at +comparatively low altitudes, now we found ourselves climbing across +slides which hugged the mountain thousands of feet above the valley.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 307px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page174.jpg" width="307" height="400" alt="Watching the pack-train coming down at Cascade Pass" title="Watching the pack-train coming down at Cascade Pass" /> +<span class="caption"><i>Watching the pack-train coming down at Cascade Pass</i></span> +</div> +<p>Our nerves began to go, too, I think, on that last day. We were plainly +frightened, not for ourselves but each for the other. There were many +places where to dislodge a stone was to lose it as down a bottomless +well. There was one frightful spot where it was necessary to go through +a waterfall on a narrow ledge slippery with moss, where the water +dropped straight, uncounted feet to the valley below.</p> + +<p>The Little Boy paused blithely, his reins over his arm, and surveyed the +scenery from the center of this death-trap.</p> + +<p>"If anybody slipped here," he said, "he'd fall quite a distance." Then +he kicked a stone to see it go.</p> + +<p>"<i>Quit that!</i>" said the Head, in awful tones.</p> + +<p>Midway of the descent, we estimated that we should lose at least ten +horses. The pack was behind us, and there was no way to discover how +they were faring. But as the ledges were never wide enough for a horse +and the one leading him to move side by side, it seemed impossible that +the pack-ponies with their wide burdens could edge their way along.</p> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> + +<p>I had mounted Buddy again. I was too fatigued to walk farther, and, +besides, I had fallen so often that I felt he was more sure-footed than +I. Perhaps my narrowest escape on that trip was where a huge stone had +slipped across the ledge we were following. Buddy, afraid to climb its +slippery sides, undertook to leap it. There was one terrible moment when +he failed to make a footing with his hind feet and we hung there over +the gorge. After that, Dan Devore led him.</p> + +<p>In spite of our difficulties, we got down to the timber-line rather +quickly. But there trouble seemed to increase rather than diminish. +Trees had fallen across the way, and dangerous détours on uncertain +footing were necessary to get round them. The warm rains of the Pacific +Slope had covered the mountain-sides with thick vegetation also. Our +way, hardly less steep than on the day before, was overgrown with +greenery that was often a trap for the unwary. And even when, at last, +we were down beyond the imminent danger of breaking our necks at every +step, there were more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> difficulties. The vegetation was rank, +tremendously high. We worked our way through it, lost to each other and +to the world. Wilderness snows had turned the small streams to roaring +rivers and spread them over flats through which we floundered. So long +was it since the trail had been used that it was often difficult to tell +where it took off from the other side of the stream. And our horses were +growing very weary. They had made the entire trip without grain and with +such bits of pasture as they could pick up in the mountains. Now it was +a long time since they had had even grass.</p> + +<p>It will never be possible to know how many miles we covered in that +Cascade Pass trip. As Mr. Hilligoss said, mountain miles were measured +with a coonskin, and they threw in the tail. Often to make a mile's +advance we traveled four on the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>So when they tell me that it was a trifle of sixteen miles from the top +of Cascade Pass to the camp-site we made that night, I know that it was +nearer thirty. In point of difficulties, it was a thousand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> + +<p>Yet the last part of the trip, had we not been too weary to enjoy it, +was superbly beautiful. There was a fine rain falling. The undergrowth +was less riotous and had taken on the form of giant ferns, ten feet +high, which overhung the trail. Here were great cypress trees thirty-six +feet in circumference—a forest of them. We rode through green aisles +where even the death of the forest was covered by soft moss. Out of the +green and moss-covered trunks of dead giants, new growth had sprung, new +trees, hanging gardens of ferns.</p> + +<p>There had been much talk of Mineral Park. It was our objective point for +camp that night, and I think I had gathered that it was to be a +settlement. I expected nothing less than a post-office and perhaps some +miners' cabins. When, at the end of that long, hard day, we reached +Mineral Park at twilight and in a heavy rain, I was doomed to +disappointment.</p> + +<p>Mineral Park consists of a deserted shack in a clearing perhaps forty +feet square, on the bank of a mountain stream. All around it is +impenetrable forest. The mountains converge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> here so that the valley +becomes a cañon. So dense was the growth that we put up our tents on the +trail itself.</p> + +<p>In the little clearing round the empty shack, the horses were tied in +the cold rain. It was impossible to let them loose, for we could never +have found them again. Our hearts ached that night for the hungry +creatures; the rain had brought a cold wind and they could not even move +about to keep warm.</p> + +<p>I was too tired to eat that night. I went to bed and lay in my tent, +listening to the sound of the rain on the canvas. The camp-stove was set +up in the trail, and the others gathered round it, eating in the rain. +But, weary as I was, I did not sleep. For the first time, terror of the +forest gripped me. It menaced; it threatened.</p> + +<p>The roar of the river sounded like the rush of flame. I lay there and +wondered what would happen if the forest took fire. For the gentle +summer rain would do little good once a fire started. There would be no +way out. The giant cliffs would offer no refuge. We could not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> even have +reached them through the jungle had we tried. And forest-fires were +common enough. We had ridden over too many burned areas not to realize +that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>XVII</h2> + +<h3>OUT TO CIVILIZATION</h3> + + +<p>It was still raining in the morning. The skies were gray and sodden and +the air was moist. We stood round the camp-fire and ate our fried ham, +hot coffee, and biscuits. It was then that the Head, prompted by +sympathy, fed his horse the rain-soaked biscuit, the apple, the two +lumps of sugar, and the raw egg.</p> + +<p>Yet, in spite of the weather, we were jubilant. The pack-train had come +through without the loss of a single horse. Again the impossible had +become possible. And that day was to see us out of the mountains and in +peaceful green valleys, where the horses could eat their fill.</p> + +<p>The sun came out as we started. Had it not been for the horses, we +should have been entirely happy. But sympathy for them had become an +obsession. We rode slowly to save them; we walked when we could. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +strange to go through that green wonderland and find not a leaf the +horses could eat. It was all moss, ferns, and evergreens.</p> + +<p>From the semi-arid lands east of the Cascades to the rank vegetation of +the Pacific side was an extraordinary change. Trees grew to enormous +sizes. In addition to the great cedars, there were hemlocks fifteen and +eighteen feet in circumference. Only the strong trees survive in these +valleys, and by that ruthless selection of nature weak young saplings +die early. So we found cedar, hemlock, lodge-pole pine, white and +Douglas fir, cottonwood, white pine, spruce, and alder of enormous size.</p> + +<p>The brake ferns were the most common, often growing ten feet tall. We +counted five varieties of ferns growing in profusion, among them brake +ferns, sword-ferns, and maidenhair, most beautiful and luxuriant. The +maidenhair fern grew in masses, covering dead trunks of trees and making +solid walls of delicate green beside the trail.</p> + +<p>"Silent Lawrie" knew them all. He knew every tiniest flower and plant +that thrust its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> head above the leaf-mould. He saw them all, too. +Peanuts, his horse, made his own way now, and the naturalist sat a +trifle sideways in his saddle and showed me his discoveries.</p> + +<p>I am no naturalist, so I rode behind him, notebook in hand, and I made a +list something like this. If there are any errors they are not the +naturalist's, but mine, because, although I have written a great deal on +a horse's back, I am not proof against the accident of Whiskers stirring +a yellow-jackets' nest on the trail, or of Buddy stumbling, weary beast +that he was, over a root on the path.</p> + +<p>This is my list: red-stemmed dogwood; bunchberries, in blossom on the +higher reaches, in bloom below; service-berries, salmon-berries; +skunk-cabbage, beloved by bears, and the roots of which the Indians +roast and eat; above four thousand feet, white rhododendrons, and, above +four thousand five hundred feet, heather; hellebore also in the high +places; thimble-berries and red elderberries, tag-alder, red +honeysuckle, long stretches of willows in the creek-bottoms; vining +maples, too, and yew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> trees, the wood of which the Indians use for +making bows.</p> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/facing_page182.jpg" width="400" height="261" alt="A field of bear-grass" title="A field of bear-grass" /> +<span class="caption"><span style="margin-left: 8em;"><small><span class="smcap">copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon</span></small></span> +<br /><i>A field of bear-grass</i></span> +</div> + +<p>Around Cloudy Pass we found the red monkey-flower. In different places +there was the wild parsnip; the ginger-plant, with its heart-shaped leaf +and blossom, buried in the leaf-mould, its crushed leaves redolent of +ginger; masses of yellow violets, twinflowers, ox-eye daisies, and +sweet-in-death, which is sold on the streets in the West as we sell +sweet lavender. There were buttercups, purple asters, bluebells, +goat's-beard, columbines, Mariposa lilies, bird's-bill, trillium, +devil's-club, wild white heliotrope, brick-leaved spirea, wintergreen, +everlasting.</p> + +<p>And there are still others, where Buddy collided with the yellow-jacket, +that I find I cannot read at all.</p> + +<p>Something lifted for me that day as Buddy and I led off down that fat, +green valley, with the pass farther and farther behind—a weight off my +spirit, a deadly fear of accident, not to myself but to the Family, +which had obsessed me for the last few days. But now I could twist<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> in +my saddle and see them all, ruddy and sound and happy, whistling as they +rode. And I knew that it was all right. It had been good for them and +good for me. It is always good to do a difficult thing. And no one has +ever fought a mountain and won who is not the better for it. The +mountains are not for the weak or the craven, or the feeble of mind or +body.</p> + +<p>We went on, to the distant tinkle of the bell on the lead-horse of the +pack-train.</p> + +<p>It was that day that "Silent Lawrie" spoke I remember, because he had +said so little before, and because what he said was so well worth +remembering.</p> + +<p>"Why can't all this sort of thing be put into music?" he asked. "It <i>is</i> +music. Think of it, the drama of it all!"</p> + +<p>Then he went on, and this is what "Silent Lawrie" wants to have written. +I pass it on to the world, and surely it can be done. It starts at dawn, +with the dew, and the whistling of the packers as they go after the +horses. Then come the bells of the horses as they come in, the smoke of +the camp-fire, the first sunlight on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> the mountains, the saddling and +packing. And all the time the packers are whistling.</p> + +<p>Then the pack starts out on the trail, the bells of the leaders +jingling, the rattle and crunch of buckles and saddle-leather, the click +of the horses' feet against the rocks, the swish as they ford a singing +stream. The wind is in the trees and birds are chirping. Then comes the +long, hard day, the forest, the first sight of snow-covered peaks, the +final effort, and camp.</p> + +<p>After that, there is the thrush's evening song, the afterglow, the +camp-fire, and the stars. And over all is the quiet of the night, and +the faint bells of grazing horses, like the silver ringing of the bell +at a mass.</p> + +<p>I wish I could do it.</p> + +<p>At noon that day in the Skagit Valley, we found our first civilization, +a camp where a man was cutting cedar blocks for shingles. He looked +absolutely astounded when our long procession drew in around his shanty. +He meant only one thing to us; he meant oats. If he had oats, we were +saved. If he had no oats,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> it meant again long hours of traveling with +our hungry horses.</p> + +<p>He had a bag of oats. But he was not inclined, at first, to dispose of +them, and, as a matter of fact, he did not sell them to us at all. When +we finally got them from him, it was only on our promise to send back +more oats. Money was of no use to him there in the wilderness; but oats +meant everything.</p> + +<p>Thirty-one horses we drove into that little bit of a clearing under the +cedar trees, perhaps a hundred feet by thirty. Such wild excitement as +prevailed among the horses when the distribution of oats began, such +plaintive whinnying and restless stirring! But I think they behaved much +better than human beings would have under the same circumstances. And at +last each was being fed—such a pathetically small amount, too, hardly +more than a handful apiece, it seemed. In his eagerness, the Little +Boy's horse breathed in some oats, and for a time it looked as though he +would cough himself to death.</p> + +<p>The wood-cutter's wife was there. We were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> the one excitement in her +long months of isolation. I can still see her rather pathetic face as +she showed me the lace she was making, the one hundred and one ways in +which she tried to fill her lonely hours.</p> + +<p>All through the world there are such women, shut away from their kind, +staying loyally with the man they have chosen through days of aching +isolation. That woman had children. She could not take them into the +wilderness with her, so they were in a town, and she was here in the +forest, making things for them and fretting about them and longing for +them. There was something tragic in her face as she watched us mount to +go on.</p> + +<p>We were to reach Marblemont that day and there to leave our horses. +After they had rested and recovered, Dan Devore was to take them back +over the range again, while we went on to civilization and a railroad.</p> + +<p>We promised the wood-cutter to send the oats back with the outfit; and +when we sent them, we sent at the same time some magazines to that +lonely wife and mother on the Skagit.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon, we emerged from the forest. It was like coming +from a darkened room into the light. One moment we were in the aisles of +that great green cathedral, the next there was an open road and the +sunlight and houses. We prodded the horses with our heels and raced down +the road. Surprised inhabitants came out and stared. We waved to them; +we loved them; we loved houses and dogs and cows and apple trees. But +most of all we loved level places.</p> + +<p>We were in time, too, for the railroad strike had not yet taken place.</p> + +<p>As Bob got off his horse, he sang again that little ditty with which, +during the most strenuous hours of the trip, we had become familiar:—</p> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="A sailor's life"> +<tr><td align='left'>"Oh, a sailor's life is bold and free,</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He lives upon the bright blue sea:</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He has to work like h—, of course,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse."</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<h2>THE END</h2> + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> + +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Note:</h3> + +<p>The poems on pages 140 and 188, were punctuated differently. This +was retained.</p></div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tenting To-night, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 19475-h.htm or 19475-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/4/7/19475/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..39b5bb6 --- /dev/null +++ b/19475-h/images/facing_page182.jpg diff --git a/19475-h/images/frontispiece.jpg b/19475-h/images/frontispiece.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..090bd14 --- /dev/null +++ b/19475-h/images/frontispiece.jpg diff --git a/19475.txt b/19475.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..31f6f89 --- /dev/null +++ b/19475.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4156 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tenting To-night, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tenting To-night + A Chronicle of Sport and Adventure in Glacier Park and the + Cascade Mountains + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #19475] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + +TENTING +TO-NIGHT + + +_A Chronicle of Sport and Adventure in Glacier Park and the Cascade +Mountains by_ + +MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS + +[Illustration] + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + =The Riverside Press Cambridge= + 1918 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE + COMPANY (COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE) + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published April 1918_ + + +[Illustration: _Chiwawa Mountain and Lyman Lake_] + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. THE TRAIL 1 + + II. THE BIG ADVENTURE 10 + + III. BRIDGE CREEK TO BOWMAN LAKE 24 + + IV. A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE 39 + + V. TO KINTLA LAKE 50 + + VI. RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD 63 + + VII. THE SECOND DAY ON THE FLATHEAD 71 + + VIII. THROUGH THE FLATHEAD CANON 80 + + IX. THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL 90 + + X. OFF FOR CASCADE PASS 100 + + XI. LAKE CHELAN TO LYMAN LAKE 111 + + XII. CLOUDY PASS AND THE AGNES CREEK VALLEY 129 + + XIII. CANON FISHING AND A TELEGRAM 142 + + XIV. DOING THE IMPOSSIBLE 150 + + XV. DOUBTFUL LAKE 158 + + XVI. OVER CASCADE PASS 167 + + XVII. OUT TO CIVILIZATION 180 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + CHIWAWA MOUNTAIN AND LYMAN LAKE _Frontispiece_ + + TRAIL OVER GUNSIGHT PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 2 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon_ + + THE AUTHOR, THE MIDDLE BOY, AND THE LITTLE BOY 6 + + LOOKING SOUTH FROM POLLOCK PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 14 + _Photograph by Kiser Photo Co._ + + LAKE ELIZABETH FROM PTARMIGAN PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 22 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker, Kalispell, Mont._ + + A MOUNTAIN LAKE IN GLACIER NATIONAL PARK 36 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + GETTING READY FOR THE DAY'S FISHING AT CAMP ON BOWMAN LAKE 40 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble, Glacier Park_ + + THE HORSES IN THE ROPE CORRAL 44 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + BEAR-GRASS 56 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + A GLACIER PARK LAKE 60 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + STILL-WATER FISHING 68 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + MOUNTAINS OF GLACIER NATIONAL PARK FROM THE NORTH FORK OF THE + FLATHEAD RIVER 74 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + THE BEGINNING OF THE CANON, MIDDLE FORK OF THE FLATHEAD RIVER 82 + _Photograph by R. E. Marble_ + + PI-TA-MAK-AN, OR RUNNING EAGLE (MRS. RINEHART), WITH TWO OTHER + MEMBERS OF THE BLACKFOOT TRIBE 96 + _Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul_ + + A HIGH MOUNTAIN MEADOW 100 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley, Lake Chelan_ + + SITTING BULL MOUNTAIN, LAKE CHELAN 112 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + LOOKING OUT OF ICE-CAVE, LYMAN GLACIER 126 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + LOOKING SOUTHEAST FROM CLOUDY PASS 132 + _Photograph by L. D. Lindsley_ + + STREAM FISHING 144 + _Photograph by Haynes, St. Paul_ + + MOUNTAIN MILES: THE TRAIL UP SWIFTCURRENT PASS, GLACIER NATIONAL + PARK 152 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + WHERE THE ROCK-SLIDES START (GLACIER NATIONAL PARK) 156 + _Photograph by A. J. Baker_ + + SWITCHBACKS ON THE TRAIL (GLACIER NATIONAL PARK) 160 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + WATCHING THE PACK-TRAIN COMING DOWN AT CASCADE PASS 174 + + A FIELD OF BEAR-GRASS 182 + _Photograph by Fred H. Kiser_ + + + + +TENTING TO-NIGHT + + + + +I + +THE TRAIL + + +The trail is narrow--often but the width of the pony's feet, a tiny path +that leads on and on. It is always ahead, sometimes bold and wide, as +when it leads the way through the forest; often narrow, as when it hugs +the sides of the precipice; sometimes even hiding for a time in river +bottom or swamp, or covered by the debris of last winter's avalanche. +Sometimes it picks its precarious way over snow-fields which hang at +dizzy heights, and again it flounders through mountain streams, where +the tired horses must struggle for footing, and do not even dare to +stoop and drink. + +It is dusty; it is wet. It climbs; it falls; it is beautiful and +terrible. But always it skirts the coast of adventure. Always it goes +on, and always it calls to those that follow it. Tiny path that it is, +worn by the feet of earth's wanderers, it is the thread which has knit +together the solid places of the earth. The path of feet in the +wilderness is the onward march of life itself. + +City-dwellers know nothing of the trail. Poor followers of the +pavements, what to them is this six-inch path of glory? Life for many of +them is but a thing of avenues and streets, fixed and unmysterious, a +matter of numbers and lights and post-boxes and people. They know +whither their streets lead. There is no surprise about them, no sudden +discovery of a river to be forded, no glimpse of deer in full flight or +of an eagle poised over a stream. No heights, no depths. To know if it +rains at night, they look down at shining pavements; they do not hold +their faces to the sky. + +[Illustration: _Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park_] + +Now, I am a near-city-dweller. For ten months in the year, I am +particular about mail-delivery, and eat an evening dinner, and +occasionally agitate the matter of having a telephone in every room in +the house. I run the usual gamut of dinners, dances, and bridge, with +the usual country-club setting as the spring goes on. And each May I +order a number of flimsy frocks, in the conviction that I have done all +the hard going I need to, and that this summer we shall go to the New +England coast. And then--about the first of June there comes a day when +I find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring +house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's +supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes, +trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats. Some of +the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon, +melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled Royal Coachmen, and here and there the +determined gayety of the Parmachene Belle. + +I look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes, +snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown +velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries. It has been +rained on in Flanders, slept on in France, and has carried many a +refreshing draft to my lips in my "ain countree." + +I put my fishing-rod together and give it a tentative flick across the +bed, and--I am lost. + +The family professes surprise, but it is acquiescent. And that night, or +the next day, we wire that we will not take the house in Maine, and I +discover that the family has never expected to go to Maine, but has been +buying more trout-flies right along. + +As a family, we are always buying trout-flies. We buy a great many. I do +not know what becomes of them. To those whose lives are limited to the +unexciting sport of buying golf-balls, which have endless names but no +variety, I will explain that the trout do not eat the flies, but merely +attempt to. So that one of the eternal mysteries is how our flies +disappear. I have seen a junior Rinehart start out with a boat, a rod, +six large cakes of chocolate, and four dollars' worth of flies, and +return a few hours later with one fish, one Professor, one Doctor, and +one Black Moth minus the hook. And the boat had not upset. + +June, after the decision, becomes a time of subdued excitement. For +fear we shall forget to pack them, things are set out early. Stringers +hang from chandeliers, quirts from doorknobs. Shoe-polish and disgorgers +and adhesive plaster litter the dressing-tables. Rows of boots line the +walls. And, in the evenings, those of us who are at home pore over maps +and lists. + +This last year, our plans were ambitious. They took in two complete +expeditions, each with our own pack-outfit. The first was to take +ourselves, some eight packers, guides, and cooks, and enough horses to +carry our outfit--thirty-one in all--through the western and practically +unknown side of Glacier National Park, in northwestern Montana, to the +Canadian border. If we survived that, we intended to go by rail to the +Chelan country in northern Washington and there, again with a +pack-train, cross the Cascades over totally unknown country to Puget +Sound. + +We did both, to the eternal credit of our guides and horses. + +The family, luckily for those of us who have the _Wanderlust_, is four +fifths masculine. I am the odd fifth--unlike the story of King George +the Fifth and Queen Mary the other four fifths. It consists of the head +of the family, to be known hereafter as the Head, the Big Boy, the +Middle Boy, the Little Boy, and myself. As the Big Boy is very, very +big, and the Little Boy is not really very little, being on the verge of +long trousers, we make a comfortable traveling unit. And, because we +were leaving the beaten path and going a-gypsying, with a new camp each +night no one knew exactly where, the party gradually augmented. + +First, we added an optimist named Bob. Then we added a "movie"-man, +called Joe for short and because it was his name, and a "still" +photographer, who was literally still most of the time. Some of these +pictures are his. He did some beautiful work, but he really needed a +mouth only to eat with. + +(The "movie"-man is unpopular with the junior members of the family just +now, because he hid his camera in the bushes and took the Little Boy +in a state of goose flesh on the bank of Bowman Lake.) + +[Illustration: _The Author, the Middle Boy, and the Little Boy_] + +But, of course, we have not got to Bowman Lake yet. + +During the year before, I had ridden over the better-known trails of +Glacier Park with Howard Eaton's riding party, and when I had crossed +the Gunsight Pass, we had looked north and west to a great country of +mountains capped with snow, with dense forests on the lower slopes and +in the valleys. + +"What is it?" I had asked the ranger who had accompanied us across the +pass. + +"It is the west side of Glacier Park," he explained. "It is not yet +opened up for tourist travel. Once or twice in a year, a camping party +goes up through this part of the park. That is all." + +"What is it like?" I asked. + +"Wonderful!" + +So, sitting there on my horse, I made up my mind that sometime _I_ would +go up the west side of Glacier Park to the Canadian border. + +Roughly speaking, there are at least six hundred square miles of +Glacier Park on the west side that are easily accessible, but that are +practically unknown. Probably the area is more nearly a thousand square +miles. And this does not include the fastnesses of the range itself. It +comprehends only the slopes on the west side to the border-line of the +Flathead River. + +The reason for the isolation of the west side of Glacier Park is easily +understood. The park is divided into two halves by the Rocky Mountain +range, which traverses it from northwest to southeast. Over it there is +no single wagon-road of any sort between the Canadian border and Helena, +perhaps two hundred and fifty miles. A railroad crosses at the Marias +Pass. But from that to the Canadian line, one hundred miles, travel from +the east is cut off over the range, except by trail. + +To reach the west side of Glacier Park at the present time, the tourist, +having seen the wonders of the east side, must return to Glacier Park +Station, take a train over the Marias Pass, and get out at Belton. Even +then, he can only go by boat up to Lewis's Hotel on Lake McDonald, a +trifling distance. There are no hotels beyond Lewis's, and no roads. + +Naturally, this tremendous area is unknown and unvisited. + +It is being planned, however, by the new Department of National Parks to +build a road this coming year along Lake McDonald. Eventually, this +much-needed highway will connect with the Canadian roads, and thus +indirectly with Banff and Lake Louise. The opening-up of the west side +of Glacier Park will make it perhaps the most unique of all our parks, +as it is undoubtedly the most magnificent. The grandeur of the east side +will be tempered by the more smiling and equally lovely western slopes. +And when, between the east and the west sides, there is constructed the +great motor-highway which will lead across the range, we shall have, +perhaps, the most scenic motor-road in the United States--until, in the +fullness of time, we build another road across Cascade Pass in +Washington. + + + + +II + +THE BIG ADVENTURE + + +Came at last the day to start west. In spite of warnings, we found that +our irreducible minimum of luggage filled five wardrobe-trunks. In vain +we went over our lists and cast out such bulky things as extra +handkerchiefs and silk socks and fancy neckties and toilet-silver. We +started with all five. It was boiling hot; the sun beat in at the +windows of the transcontinental train and stifled us. Over the prairies, +dust blew in great clouds, covering the window-sills with white. The Big +Boy and the Middle Boy and the Little Boy referred scornfully to the +flannels and sweaters on which I had been so insistent. The Head slept +across the continent. The Little Boy counted prairie-dogs. + +Then, almost suddenly, we were in the mountains--for the Rockies seem to +rise out of a great plain. The air was stimulating. There had been a +great deal of snow last winter, and the wind from the ice-capped peaks +overhead blew down and chilled us. We threw back our heads and breathed. + +Before going to Belton for our trip with the pack-outfit, we rode again +for two weeks with the Howard Eaton party through the east side of the +park, crossing again those great passes, for each one of which, like the +Indians, the traveler counts a _coup_--Mount Morgan, a mile high and the +width of an army-mule on top; old Piegan, under the shadow of the Garden +Wall; Mount Henry, where the wind blows always a steady gale. We had +scaled Dawson with the aid of ropes, since snowslides covered the trail, +and crossed the Cut Bank in a hailstorm. Like the noble Duke of York, +Howard Eaton had led us "up a hill one day and led us down again." Only, +he did it every day. + +Once, in my notebook, I wrote on top of a mountain my definition of a +mountain pass. I have used it before, but because it was written with +shaking fingers and was torn from my very soul, I cannot better it. This +is what I wrote:-- + + A pass is a blood-curdling spot up which one's + horse climbs like a goat and down the other side + of which it slides as you lead it, trampling ever + and anon on a tender part of your foot. A pass is + the highest place between two peaks. A pass is not + an opening, but a barrier which you climb with + chills and descend with prayer. A pass is a thing + which you try to forget at the time, and which you + boast about when you get back home. + +At last came the day when we crossed the Gunsight Pass and, under Sperry +Glacier, looked down and across to the north and west. It was sunset and +cold. The day had been a long and trying one. We had ridden across an +ice-field which sloped gently off--into China, I dare say. I did not +look over. Our horses were weary, and we were saddle-sore and hungry. + +Pete, our big guide, whose name is really not Pete at all, waved an airy +hand toward the massed peaks beyond--the land of our dreams. + +"Well," he said, "there it is!" + +And there it was. + + * * * * * + +Getting a pack-outfit ready for a long trip into the wilderness is a +serious matter. We were taking thirty-one horses, guides, packers, and +a cook. But we were doing more than that--we were taking two boats! This +was Bob's idea. Any highly original idea, such as taking boats where not +even tourists had gone before, or putting eggs on a bucking horse, or +carrying grapefruit for breakfast into the wilderness, was Bob's idea. + +"You see, I figure it out like this," he said, when, on our arrival at +Belton, we found the boats among our equipment: "If we can get those +boats up to the Canadian line and come down the Flathead rapids all the +way, it will only take about four days on the river. It's a stunt that's +never been pulled off." + +"Do you mean," I said, "that we are going to run four days of rapids +that have never been run?" + +"That's it." + +I looked around. There, in a group, were the Head and the Big Boy and +the Middle Boy and the Little Boy. And a fortune-teller at Atlantic City +had told me to beware of water! + +"At the worst places," the Optimist continued, "we can send Joe ahead +in one boat with the 'movie' outfit, and get you as you come along." + +"I dare say," I observed, with some bitterness. "Of course we may upset. +But if we do, I'll try to go down for the third time in front of the +camera." + +But even then the boats were being hoisted into a wagon-bed filled with +hay. And I knew that I was going to run four days of rapids. It was +written. + +It was a bright morning. In a corral, the horses were waiting to be +packed. Rolls of blankets, crates of food, and camping-utensils lay +everywhere. The Big Boy marshaled the fishing-tackle. Bill, the cook, +was searching the town for the top of an old stove to bake on. We had +provided two reflector ovens, but he regarded them with suspicion. They +would, he suspected, not do justice to his specialty, the corn-meal +saddle-bag, a sort of sublimated hot cake. + +I strolled to the corral and cast a horsewoman's eye on my mount. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY KISER PHOTO CO. + _Looking south from Pollock Pass, Glacier National Park_] + +"He looks like a very nice horse," I said. "He's quite handsome." + +Pete tightened up the cinch. + +"Yes," he observed; "he's all right. He's a pretty good mare." + +The Head was wandering around with lists in his hand. His conversation +ran something like this:-- + +"Pocket-flashes, chocolate, jam, medicine-case, reels, landing-nets, +cigarettes, tooth-powder, slickers, matches." + +He was always accumulating matches. One moment, a box of matches would +be in plain sight and the next it had disappeared. He became a sort of +match-magazine, so that if anybody had struck him violently, in almost +any spot, he would have exploded. + +Hours went by. The sun was getting high and hot. The crowd which had +been watching gradually disappeared about its business. The two +boats--big, sturdy river-boats they were--had rumbled along toward the +wilderness, one on top of the other, with George Locke and Mike Shannon +as pilots, watching for breakers ahead. In the corral, our supplies +were being packed on the horses, Bill Shea and Pete, Tom Sullivan and +Tom Farmer and their assistants working against time. In crates were our +cooking-utensils, ham, bacon, canned salmon, jam, flour, corn-meal, +eggs, baking-powder, flies, rods, and reels, reflector ovens, sunburn +lotion, coffee, cocoa, and so on. Cocoa is the cowboy's friend. +Innumerable blankets, "tarp" beds, and war-sacks lay rolled ready for +the pack-saddles. The cook was declaiming loudly that some one had +opened his pack and taken out his cleaver. + +For a pack-outfit, the west side of Glacier Park is ideal. The east side +is much the best so far for those who wish to make short trips along the +trails into the mountains, although as yet only a small part, +comparatively, of the eastern wonderland is open. There, one may spend a +day, or several days, in the midst of the wildest possible country and +yet return at night to excellent hotels. + +On the west side, however, a pack-outfit is necessary. There is but one +hotel, Lewis's, on Lake McDonald. To get to the Canadian line, there +must be camping facilities for at least eight days if there are no +stop-overs. And not to stop over is to lose the joy of the trip. It is +an ideal two to three weeks' jaunt with a pack-train. A woman who can +sit a horse--and every one can ride in a Western saddle--a woman can +make the land trip not only with comfort but with joy. That is, a woman +who likes the outdoors. + +What did we wear, that bright morning when, all ready at last, the cook +on the chuck-wagon, the boats ambling ahead, with Bill Hossick, the +teamster, driving the long line of heavily packed horses and our own +saddlers lined up for the adventure, we moved out on to the trail? + +Well, the men wore khaki riding-trousers and flannel shirts, +broad-brimmed felt hats, army socks drawn up over the cuff of the +breeches, and pack-shoes. A pack-shoe is one in which the leather of the +upper part makes the sole also, without a seam. On to this soft sole is +sewed a heavy leather one. The pack-shoe has a fastened tongue and is +waterproof. + +And I? I had not counted on the "movie"-man, and I was dressed for +comfort in the woods. I had buckskin riding-breeches and high boots, and +over my thin riding-shirt I wore a cloth coat. I had packed in my warbag +a divided skirt also, and a linen suit, for hot days, of breeches and +coat. But of this latter the least said the better. It betrayed me and, +in portions, deserted me. + +All of us carried tin drinking-cups, which vied with the bells on the +pack-animals for jingle. Most of us had sweaters or leather +wind-jammers. The guides wore "chaps" of many colors, boots with high +heels, which put our practical packs in the shade, and gay silk +handkerchiefs. + +Joe was to be a detachable unit. As a matter of fact, he became detached +rather early in the game, having been accidentally given a bucker. It +was on the second day, I think, that his horse buried his head between +his fore legs, and dramatized one of the best bits of the trip when Joe +was totally unable to photograph it. + +He had his own guide and extra horse for the camera. It had been our +expectation that, at the most hazardous parts of the journey, he would +perch on some crag and show us courageously risking our necks to have a +good time. But on the really bad places he had his own life to save, and +he never fully trusted Maud, I think, after the first day. Maud was his +horse. + +Besides, when he did climb to some aerie, and photographed me, for +instance, in a sort of Napoleon-crossing-the-Alps attitude, sitting my +horse on the brink of eternity and being reassured from safety by the +Optimist--outside the picture, of course--the developed film flattened +out the landscape. So that, although I was on the edge of a canon a mile +deep, I might as well have been posing on the bank of the Ohio River. + +On the east side of the Park I had ridden Highball. It is not +particularly significant that I started the summer on Highball and ended +it on Budweiser. Now I had Angel, a huge white mare with a pink nose, a +loving disposition, and a gait that kept me swallowing my tongue for +fear I would bite the end off it. The Little Boy had Prince, a small +pony which ran exactly like an Airedale dog, and in every canter beat +out the entire string. The Head had H----, and considered him well +indicated. One bronco was called "Bronchitis." The top horse of the +string was Bill Shea's Dynamite, according to Bill Shea. There were +Dusty, Shorty, Sally Goodwin, Buffalo Tom, Chalk-Eye, Comet, and +Swapping Tater--Swapping Tater being a pacer who, when he hit the +ground, swapped feet. Bob had Sister Sarah. + +At last, everything was ready. The pack-train got slowly under way. We +leaped into our saddles--"leaped" being a figurative term which grew +more and more figurative as time went on and we grew saddle-weary and +stiff--and, passing the pack-train on a canter, led off for the +wilderness. + +All that first day we rode, now in the sun, now in deep forest. +Luncheon-time came, but the pack-train was far behind. We waited, but +we could not hear so much as the tinkle of its bells. So we munched +cakes of chocolate from the pockets of our riding-coats and went grimly +on. + +The wagon with the boats had made good time. It was several miles along +the wagon-trail before we caught up with it. It had found a quiet harbor +beside the road, and the boatmen were demanding food. We tossed them +what was left of the chocolate and went on. + +The presence of a wagon-trail in that empty land, unvisited and unknown, +requires explanation. In the first place, it was not really a road. It +was a trail, and in places barely that. But, sixteen years before, a +road had been cleared through the forest by some people who believed +there was oil near the Canadian line. They cut down trees and built +corduroy bridges. But in sixteen years it has not been used. No wheels +have worn it smooth. It takes its leisurely way, now through wilderness, +now through burnt country where the trees stand stark and dead, now +through prairie or creek-bottom, now up, now down, always with the +range rising abruptly to the east, and with the Flathead River somewhere +to the west. + +It will not take much expenditure to make that old wagon-trail into a +good road. It has its faults. It goes down steep slopes--on the second +day out, the chuck-wagon got away, and, fetching up at the bottom, threw +out Bill the cook and nearly broke his neck. It climbs like a cat after +a young robin. It is rocky or muddy or both. But it is, potentially, a +road. + +The Rocky Mountains run northwest and southeast, and in numerous basins, +fed by melting glaciers and snow-fields, are deep and quiet lakes. These +lakes, on the west side, discharge their overflow through roaring and +precipitous streams to the Flathead, which flows south and east. While +our general direction was north, it was our intention to turn off east +and camp at the different lakes, coming back again to the wagon-trail to +resume our journey. + +[Illustration: _Lake Elizabeth from Ptarmigan Pass, Glacier National +Park_] + +Therefore, it became necessary, day after day, to take our boats off the +wagon-road and haul them along foot-trails none too good. The log of the +two boats is in itself a thrilling story. There were days and days +when the wagon was mired, when it stuck in the fords of streams or in +soft places on the trail. It was a land flotilla by day, and, with its +straw, a couch at night. And there came, toward the end of the journey, +that one nerve-racking day when, over a sixty-foot cliff down a +foot-trail, it was necessary to rope wagon, boats, and all, to get the +boats into the Flathead River. + +But all this was before us then. We only knew it was summer, that the +days were warm and the nights cool, that the streams were full of trout, +that such things as telegraphs and telephones were falling far in our +rear, and that before us was the Big Adventure. + + + + +III + +BRIDGE CREEK TO BOWMAN LAKE + + +The first night we camped at Bridge Creek on a river-flat. Beside us, +the creek rolled and foamed. The horses, in their rope corral, lay down +and rolled in sheer ecstasy when their heavy packs were removed. The +cook set up his sheet-iron stove beside the creek, built a wood fire, +lifted the stove over it, fried meat, boiled potatoes, heated beans, and +made coffee while the tents were going up. From a thicket near by came +the thud of an axe as branches were cut for bough beds. + +I have slept on all kinds of bough beds. They may be divided into three +classes. There is the one which is high in the middle and slopes down at +the side--there is nothing so slippery as pine-needles--so that by +morning you are quite likely to be not only off the bed but out of the +tent. And there is the bough bed made by the guide when he is in a great +hurry, which consists of large branches and not very many needles. So +that in the morning, on rising, one is as furrowed as a waffle off the +iron. And there is the third kind, which is the real bough bed, but +which cannot be tossed off in a moment, like a poem, but must be the +result of calculation, time, and much labor. It is to this bough bed +that I shall some day indite an ode. + +This is the way you go about it: First, you take a large and healthy +woodsman with an axe, who cuts down a tree--a substantial tree. Because +this is the frame of your bed. But on no account do this yourself. One +of the joys of a bough bed is seeing somebody else build it. + +The tree is an essential. It is cut into six-foot lengths--unless one is +more than six feet long. If the bed is intended for one, two side pieces +with one at the head and one at the foot are enough, laid flat on a +level place, making a sort of boxed-in rectangle. If the bed is intended +for two, another log down the center divides it into two bunks and +prevents quarreling. + +Now begins the real work of constructing the bough bed. If one is a good +manager, while the frame is being made, the younger members of the +family have been performing the loving task of getting the branches +together. When a sufficient number of small branches has been +accumulated, this number varying from one ton to three, judging by size +and labor, the bough bed is built by the simple expedient of sticking +the branches into the enclosed space like flowers into a vase. They must +be packed very closely, stem down. This is a slow and not particularly +agreeable task for one's loving family and friends, owing to the +tendency of pine-and balsam-needles to jag. Indeed, I have known it to +happen that, after a try or two, some one in the outfit is delegated to +the task of official bed-maker, and a slight coldness is noticeable when +one refers to dusk and bedtime. + +Over these soft and feathery plumes of balsam--soft and feathery only +through six blankets--is laid the bedding, and on this couch the wearied +and saddle-sore tourist may sleep as comfortably as in his grandaunt's +feather bed. + +But, dear traveler, it is much simpler to take an air-mattress and a +foot-pump. True, even this has its disadvantages. It is not safe to +stick pins into it while disrobing at night. Occasionally, a faulty +valve lets go, and the sleeper dreams he is falling from the Woolworth +Tower. But lacking a sturdy woodsman and a loving family to collect +branches, I advise the air-bed. + +Fishing at Bridge Creek, that first evening, was poor. We caught dozens +of small trout. But it would have taken hundreds to satisfy us after our +lunchless day, and there were other reasons. + +One casts for trout. There is no sitting on a mossy stone and watching a +worm guilefully struggling to attract a fish to the hooks. No; one +casts. + +Now, I have learned to cast fairly well. On the lawn at home, or in the +middle of a ten-acre lot, cleared, or the center of a lake, I can put +out quite a lot of line. In one cast out of three, I can drop a fly so +that it appears to be committing suicide--which is the correct way. But +in a thicket I am lost. I hold the woman's record for getting the hook +in my hair or the lobe of the Little Boy's ear. I have hung fish high in +trees more times than phonographs have hanged Danny Deever. I can, under +such circumstances (i.e., the thicket), leave camp with a rod, four +six-foot leaders, an expensive English line, and a smile, and return an +hour later with a six-inch trout, a bandaged hand, a hundred and eighty +mosquito bites, no leaders, and no smile. + +So we fished little that first evening, and, on the discovery that +candles had been left out of the cook's outfit, we retired early to our +bough beds, which were, as it happened that night, of class A. + +There was a deer-lick on our camp-ground there at Bridge Creek, and +during the night deer came down and strayed through the camp. One of the +guides saw a black bear also. We saw nothing. Some day I shall write an +article called: "Wild Animals I Have Missed." + +We had made fourteen miles the first day, with a late start. It was not +bad, but the next day we determined to do better. At five o'clock we +were up, and at five-thirty tents were down and breakfast under way. We +had had a visitor the night before--that curious anomaly, a young +hermit. He had been a very well-known pugilist in the light-weight class +and, his health failing, he had sought the wilderness. There he had +lived for seven years alone. + +We asked him if he never cared to see people. But he replied that trees +were all the company he wanted. Deer came and browsed around his tiny +shack there in the woods. All the trout he could use played in his front +garden. He had a dog and a horse, and he wanted nothing else. He came to +see us off the next morning, and I think we amused him. We seemed to +need so much. He stared at our thirty-one horses, sixteen of them packed +with things he had learned to live without. But I think he rather hated +to see us go. We had brought a little excitement into his quiet life. + +The first bough bed had been a failure. For--note you--I had not then +learned of the bough bed _de luxe_. This information, which I have given +you so freely, dear reader, what has it not cost me in sleepless nights +and family coldness and aching muscles! + +So I find this note in my daily journal, written that day on horseback, +and therefore not very legible:-- + + Mem: After this, must lie over the camp-ground + until I find a place that fits me to sleep on. + Then have the tent erected over it. + +There was a little dissension in the party that morning, Joe having +wakened in the night while being violently shoved out under the edge of +his tent by his companion, who was a restless sleeper. But ill-temper +cannot live long in the open. We settled to the swinging walk of the +trail. In the mountain meadows there were carpets of flowers. They +furnished highly esthetic if not very substantial food for our horses +during our brief rests. They were very brief, those rests. All too soon, +Pete would bring Angel to me, and I would vault into the +saddle--extremely figurative, this--and we would fall into line, Pete +swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the Optimist bouncing +freely, Joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies +of the trip, the Big Boy with long legs that almost touched the ground, +the Middle Boy with eyes roving for adventure, the Little Boy deadly +serious and hoping for a bear. And somewhere in the rear, where he could +watch all responsibilities and supply the smokers with matches, the +Head. + +That second day, we crossed Dutch Ridge and approached the Flathead. +What I have called here the Flathead is known locally as the North Fork. +The pack-outfit had started first. Long before we caught up with them, +we heard the bells on the lead horses ringing faintly. + +Passing a pack-outfit on the trail is a difficult matter. The wise +little horses, traveling free and looked after only by a wrangler or +two, do not like to be passed. One of two things happens when the +saddle-outfit tries to pass the pack. Either the pack starts on a smart +canter ahead, or it turns wildly off into the forest to the +accompaniment of much complaint by the drivers. A pack-horse loose on a +narrow trail is a dangerous matter. With its bulging pack, it worms its +way past anything on the trail, and bad accidents have followed. Here, +however, there was room for us to pass. + +Tiny gophers sat up beside the trail and squeaked at us. A coyote +yelped. Bumping over fallen trees, creaking and groaning and swaying, +came the boat-wagon. Mike had found a fishing-line somewhere, and +pretended to cast from the bow. + +"Ship ahoy!" he cried, when he saw us, and his instructions to the +driver were purely nautical. "Hard astern!" he yelled, going down a +hill, and instead of "Gee" or "Haw" he shouted "Port" or "Starboard." + +An acquaintance of George and Mike has built a boat which is intended to +go up-stream by the force of the water rushing against it and turning a +propeller. We had a spirited discussion about it. + +"Because," as one of the men objected, "it's all right until you get to +the head of the stream. Then what are you going to do?" he asked. +"She'll only go up--she won't go down." + +Pete, the chief guide, was a German. He was rather uneasy for fear we +intended to cross the Canadian line. But we reassured him. A big blond +in a wide-flapping Stetson, black Angora chaps, and flannel shirt with a +bandana, he led our little procession into the wilderness and sang as he +rode. The Head frequently sang with him. And because the only song the +Head knew very well in German was the "Lorelei," we had it hour after +hour. Being translated to one of the boatmen, he observed: "I have known +girls like that. I guess I'd leave most any boat for them. But I'd leave +this boat for most any girl." + +We were approaching the mountains, climbing slowly but steadily. We +passed through Lone Tree Prairie, where one great pine dominated the +country for miles around, and stopped by a small river for luncheon. + +Of all the meals that we took in the open, perhaps luncheon was the most +delightful. Condensed milk makes marvelous cocoa. We opened tins of +things, consulted maps, eased the horses' cinches, rested our own tired +bodies for an hour or so. For the going, while much better than we had +expected, was still slow. It was rare, indeed, to be able to get the +horses out of a walk. And there is no more muscle-racking occupation +than riding a walking horse hour after hour through a long day. + +By the end of the second day we were well away from even that remote +part of civilization from which we had started, and a terrible fact was +dawning on us. The cook did not like us! + +Now, we all have our small vanities, and mine has always been my success +with cooks. I like cooks. As time goes on, I am increasingly dependent +on cooks. I never fuss a cook, or ask how many eggs a cake requires, or +remark that we must be using the lard on the hardwood floors. I never +make any of the small jests on that order, with which most housewives +try to reduce the cost of living. + +No; I really go out of my way to ignore the left-overs, and not once on +this trip had I so much as mentioned dish-towels or anything unpleasant. +I had seen my digestion slowly going with a course of delicious but +indigestible saddle-bags, which were all we had for bread. + +But--I was failing. Bill unpacked and cooked and packed up again and +rode on the chuck-wagon. But there was something wrong. Perhaps it was +the fall out of the wagon. Perhaps we were too hungry. We were that, I +know. Perhaps he looked ahead through the vista of days and saw that +formidable equipment of fishing-tackle, and mentally he was counting the +fish to clean and cook and clean and cook and clean and-- + +The center of a camping-trip is the cook. If, in the spring, men's +hearts turn to love, in the woods they turn to food. And cooking is a +temperamental art. No unhappy cook can make a souffle. Not, of course, +that we had souffle. + +A camp cook should be of a calm and placid disposition. He has the +hardest job that I know of. He cooks with inadequate equipment on a +tiny stove in the open, where the air blows smoke into his face and +cinders into his food. He must cook either on his knees or bending over +to within a foot or so of the ground. And he must cook moving, as it +were. Worse than that, he must cook not only for the party but for a +hungry crowd of guides and packers that sits around in a circle and +watches him, and urges him, and gets under his feet, and, if he is +unpleasant, takes his food fairly out of the frying-pan under his eyes +if he is not on guard. He is the first up in the morning and the last in +bed. He has to dry his dishes on anything that comes handy, and then +pack all of his grub on an unreliable horse and start off for the next +eating-ground. + +So, knowing all this, and also that we were about a thousand miles from +the nearest employment-office and several days' hard riding from a +settlement, we went to Bill with tribute. We praised his specialties. We +gave him a college lad, turned guide for the summer, to assist him. We +gathered up our own dishes. We inquired for his bruise. But gloom +hung over him like a cloud. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _A mountain lake in Glacier National Park_] + +And he _could_ cook. Well-- + +We had made a forced trip that day, and the last five miles were +agonizing. In vain we sat sideways on our horses, threw a leg over the +pommel, got off, and walked and led them. Bowman Lake, our objective +point, seemed to recede. + +Very few people have ever seen Bowman Lake. Yet I believe it is one of +the most beautiful lakes in this country. It is not large, perhaps only +twelve miles long and from a mile to two miles in width. Save for the +lower end, it lies entirely surrounded by precipitous and inaccessible +peaks--old Rainbow, on whose mist-cap the setting sun paints a true +rainbow day after day, Square Peak, Reuter Peak, and Peabody, named with +the usual poetic instinct of the Geological Survey. They form a natural +wall, round the upper end of the lake, of solid-granite slopes which +rise over a mile in height above it. Perpetual snow covers the tops of +these mountains, and, melting in innumerable waterfalls, feeds the lake +below. + +So far as I can discover, we were taking the first boat, with the +possible exception of an Indian canoe long ago, to Bowman Lake. Not the +first boat, either, for the Geological Survey had nailed a few boards +together, and the ruin of this venture was still decaying on the shore. + +There was a report that Bowman Lake was full of trout. That was one of +the things we had come to find out. It was for Bowman Lake primarily +that all the reels and flies and other lure had been arranged. If it was +true, then twenty-four square miles of virgin lake were ours to fish +from. + + + + +IV + +A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE + + +After our first view of the lake, the instant decision was to make a +permanent camp there for a few days. And this we did. Tents were put up +for the luxurious-minded, three of them. Mine was erected over me, when, +as I had pre-determined, I had found a place where I could lie +comfortably. The men belonging to the outfit, of course, slept under the +stars. A packer, a guide, or the cook with an outfit like ours has, +outside of such clothing as he wears or carries rolled in his blankets, +but one possession--and that is his tarp bed. With such a bed, a can of +tomatoes, and a gun, it is said that a cow-puncher can go anywhere. + +Once or twice I was awake in the morning before the cook's loud call of +"Come and get it!" brought us from our tents. I never ceased to view +with interest this line of tarp beds, each with its sleeping occupant, +his hat on the ground beside him, ready, when the call came, to sit up +blinking in the sunlight, put on his hat, crawl out, and be ready for +the day. + +The boats had traveled well. The next morning, after a breakfast of ham +and eggs, fried potatoes, coffee, and saddle-bags, we were ready to try +them out. + +And here I shall be generous. For this means that next year we shall go +there and find other outfits there before us, and people in the latest +thing in riding-clothes, and fancy trout-creels and probably +sixty-dollar reels. + +Bowman Lake is a fisherman's paradise. The first day on the lake we +caught sixty-nine cut-throat trout averaging a pound each, and this +without knowing where to look. + +[Illustration: _Getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on Bowman +Lake_] + +In the morning, we could see them lying luxuriously on shelving banks in +the sunlight, only three to six feet below the surface. They rose, like +a shot, to the flies. For some reason, George Locke, our fisherman, +resented their taking the Parmachene Belle. Perhaps because the trout of +his acquaintance had not cared for this fly. Or maybe he considered +the Belle not sportsmanly. The Brown Hackle and Royal Coachman did +well, however, and, in later fishing on this lake, we found them more +reliable than the gayer flies. In the afternoon, the shallows failed us. +But in deep holes where the brilliant walls shelved down to incredible +depths, they rose again in numbers. + +It was perfectly silent. Doubtless, countless curious wild eyes watched +us from the mountain-slopes and the lake-borders. But we heard not even +the cracking of brushwood under cautious feet. The tracks of deer, where +they had come down to drink, a dead mountain-lion floating in a pool, +the slow flight of an eagle across the face of old Rainbow, and no sound +but the soft hiss of a line as it left the reel--that was Bowman Lake, +that day, as it lay among its mountains. So precipitous are the slopes, +so rank the vegetation where the forest encroaches, that we were put to +it to find a ridge large enough along the shore to serve as a foothold +for luncheon. At last we found a tiny spot, perhaps ten feet long by +three feet wide, and on that we landed. The sun went down; the rainbow +clouds gathered about the peaks above, and still the trout were rising. +When at last we turned for our ten-mile row back to camp, it was almost +dusk. + +Now and then, when I am tired and the things of this world press close +and hard, I think of those long days on that lonely lake, and the +home-coming at nightfall. Toward the pin-point of glow--the distant +camp-fire which was our beacon light--the boat moved to the long, tired +sweep of the oars; around us the black forest, the mountains overhead +glowing and pink, as if lighted from within. And then, at last, the +grating of our little boat on the sand--and night. + +During the day, our horses were kept in a rope corral. Sometimes they +were quiet; sometimes a spirit of mutiny seemed to possess the entire +thirty-one. There is in such a string always one bad horse that, with +ears back and teeth showing, keeps the entire bunch milling. When such a +horse begins to stir up trouble, the wrangler tries to rope him and get +him out. Mad excitement follows as the noose whips through the air. But +they stay in the corral. So curious is the equine mind that it seldom +realizes that it could duck and go under the rope, or chew it through, +or, for that matter, strain against it and break it. + +At night, we turned the horses loose. Almost always in the morning, some +were missing, and had to be rounded up. The greater part, however, +stayed close to the bell-mare. It was our first night at Bowman Lake, I +think, that we heard a mountain-lion screaming. The herd immediately +stampeded. It was far away, so that we could not hear the horses +running. But we could hear the agitated and rapid ringing of the bell, +and, not long after, the great cat went whining by the camp. In the +morning, the horses were far up the mountain-side. + +Sometime I shall write that article on "Wild Animals I Have Missed." We +were in a great game-country. But we had little chance to creep up on +anything but deer. The bells of the pack-outfit, our own jingling spurs, +the accouterments, the very tinkle of the tin cups on our saddles must +have made our presence known to all the wilderness-dwellers long before +we appeared. + +After we had been at Bowman Lake a day or two, while at breakfast one +morning, we saw two of the guides racing their horses in a mad rush +toward the camp. Just outside, one of the ponies struck a log, turned a +somersault, and threw his rider, who, nothing daunted, came hurrying up +on foot. They had seen a bull moose not far away. Instantly all was +confusion. The horses were not saddled. One of the guides gave me his +and flung me on it. The Little Boy made his first essay at bareback +riding. In a wild scamper we were off, leaping logs and dodging trees. +The Little Boy fell off with a terrific thud, and sat up, looking +extremely surprised. And when we had got there, as clandestinely as a +steam calliope in a circus procession, the moose was gone. I sometimes +wonder, looking back, whether there really was a moose there or not. Did +I or did I not see a twinkle in Bill Shea's eye as he described the +sweep of the moose's horns? I wonder. + +[Illustration: _The horses in the rope corral_] + +Birds there were in plenty; wild ducks that swam across the lake at +terrific speed as we approached; plover-snipe, tiny gray birds with long +bills and white breasts, feeding along the edge of the lake peacefully +at our very feet; an eagle carrying a trout to her nest. Brown squirrels +came into the tents and ate our chocolate and wandered over us +fearlessly at night. Bears left tracks around the camp. But we saw none +after we left the Lake McDonald country. + +Yet this is a great game-country. The warden reports a herd of +thirty-six moose in the neighborhood of Bowman Lake; mountain-lion, +lynx, marten, bear, and deer abound. A trapper built long ago a +substantial log shack on the north shore of the lake, and although it is +many years since it was abandoned, it is still almost weather-proof. All +of us have our dreams. Some day I should like to go back and live for a +little time in that forest cabin. In the long snow-bound days after he +set his traps, the trapper had busied himself fitting it up. A tin can +made his candle-bracket on the wall, axe-hewn planks formed a table and +a bench, and diagonally across a corner he had built his fireplace of +stones from the lakeside. + +He had a simple method of constructing a chimney; he merely left without +a roof that corner of the cabin and placed slanting boards in it. He had +made a crane, too, which swung out over the fireplace. All of the Rocky +Mountains were in his back garden, and his front yard was Bowman Lake. + +We had had fair weather so far. But now rain set in. Hail came first; +then a steady rain. The tents were cold. We got out our slickers and +stood out around the beach fire in the driving storm, and ate our +breakfast of hot cakes, fried ham, potatoes and onions cooked together, +and hot coffee. The cook rigged up a tarpaulin over his little stove and +stood there muttering and frying. He had refused to don a slicker, and +his red sweater, soaking up the rain, grew heavy with moisture and began +to stretch. Down it crept, down and down. + +The cook straightened up from his frying-pan and looked at it. Then he +said:-- + + "There, little sweater, don't you cry; + You'll be a blanket by and by." + +This little touch of humor on his part cheered us. Perhaps, seeing how +sporting we were about the weather, he was going to like us after all. +Well-- + +Our new tents leaked--disheartening little drips that came in and +wandered idly over our blankets, to lodge in little pools here and +there. A cold wind blew. I resorted to that camper's delight--a stone +heated in the camp-fire--to warm my chilled body. We found one or two +magazines, torn and dejected, and read them, advertisements and all. And +still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon. + +By afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. We ate supper after +dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in +our hands. The firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers. +The horses stood with their heads low against the storm. The men of the +outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their +faces. + +The next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. At eight +o'clock, the clouds began to lift. Their solidity broke. The lower edge +of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and +ominous, grew ragged. Shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off, +grew smaller, disappeared. Overhead, the pall was thinner. Finally it +broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. And, at last, old +Rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through +its vapory sheathings. Angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and +then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her +way out. The rain was over. + +The horses provided endless excitement. Whether at night being driven +off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into +the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. Getting +them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. As soon as a few +were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives escaped and +shot through the camp. There were times when the air seemed full of +flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language. + +On the last day at Bowman Lake, we realized that although the weather +had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. He was polite enough--he had +always been polite to the party. But he packed in a dejected manner. +There was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry +jam in sacking. + +The breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. The tents are taken +down at dawn almost over one's head. Blankets are rolled and strapped; +the pack-ponies groan and try to roll their packs off. + +Bill Shea quotes a friend of his as contending that the way to keep a +pack-pony cinched is to put his pack on him, throw the diamond hitch, +cinch him as tight as possible, and then take him to a drinking-place +and fill him up with water. However, we did not resort to this. + + + + +V + +TO KINTLA LAKE + + +We had washed at dawn in the cold lake. The rain had turned to snow in +the night, and the mountains were covered with a fresh white coating. +And then, at last, we were off, the wagons first, although we were soon +to pass them. We had lifted the boats out of the water and put them +lovingly in their straw again. And Mike and George formed the crew. The +guides were ready with facetious comments. + +"Put up a sail!" they called. "Never give up the ship!" was another +favorite. The Head, who has a secret conviction that he should have had +his voice trained, warbled joyously:-- + + "I'll stick to the ship, lads; + You save your lives. + I've no one to love me; + You've children and wives." + +And so, still in the cool of the morning, our long procession mounted +the rise which some great glacier deposited ages ago at the foot of +what is now Bowman Lake. We turned longing eyes back as we left the lake +to its winter ice and quiet. For never again, probably, will it be ours. +We have given its secret to the world. + +At two o'clock we found a ranger's cabin and rode into its enclosure for +luncheon. Breakfast had been early, and we were very hungry. We had gone +long miles through the thick and silent forest, and now we wanted food. +We wanted food more than we wanted anything else in the world. We sat in +a circle on the ground and talked about food. + +And, at last, the chuck-wagon drove in. It had had a long, slow trip. We +stood up and gave a hungry cheer, and then--_Bill was gone!_ Some miles +back he had halted the wagon, got out, taken his bed on his back, and +started toward civilization afoot. We stared blankly at the teamster. + +"Well," we said; "what did he say?" + +"All he said to me was, 'So long,'" said the teamster. + +And that was all there was to it. So there we were in the wilderness, +far, far from a cook. The hub of our universe had departed. Or, to make +the figure modern, we had blown out a tire. And we had no spare one. + +I made my declaration of independence at once. I could cook; but I would +not cook for that outfit. There were too many; they were too hungry. +Besides, I had come on a pleasure-trip, and the idea of cooking for +fifteen men and thirty-one horses was too much for me. I made some cocoa +and grumbled while I made it. We lunched out of tins and in savage +silence. When we spoke, it was to impose horrible punishments on the +defaulting cook. We hoped he would enjoy his long walk back to +civilization without food. + +"Food!" answered one of the boys. "He's got plenty cached in that bed of +his, all right. What you should have done," he said to the teamster, +"was to take his bed from him and let him starve." + +In silence we finished our luncheon; in silence, mounted our horses. In +black and hopeless silence we rode on north, farther and farther from +cooks and hotels and tables-d'hote. + +We rode for an hour--two hours. And, at last, sitting in a cleared spot, +we saw a man beside the trail. He was the first man we had seen in days. +He was sitting there quite idly. Probably that man to-day thinks that he +took himself there on his own feet, of his own volition. We know better. +He was directed there for our happiness. It was a direct act of +Providence. For we rode up to him and said:-- + +"Do you know of any place where we can find a cook?" + +And this man, who had dropped from heaven, replied: + +"_I am a cook._" + +So we put him on our extra saddle-horse and took him with us. He cooked +for us with might and main, day and night, until the trip was over. And +if you don't believe this story, write to Norman Lee, Kintla, Montana, +and ask him if it is true. What is more, Norman Lee could cook. He could +cook on his knees, bending over, and backward. He had been in Cuba, in +the Philippines, in the Boxer Rebellion in China, and was now a trapper; +is now a trapper, for, as I write this, Norman Lee is trapping marten +and lynx on the upper left-hand corner of Montana, in one of the empty +spaces of the world. + +We were very happy. We caracoled--whatever that may be. We sang and +whistled, and we rode. How we rode! We rode, and rode, and rode, and +rode, and rode, and rode, and rode. And, at last, just when the end of +endurance had come, we reached our night camp. + +Here and there upon the west side of Glacier Park are curious, sharply +defined treeless places, surrounded by a border of forest. On Round +Prairie, that night, we pitched our tents and slept the sleep of the +weary, our heads pillowed on war-bags in which the heel of a slipper, +the edge of a razor-case, a bottle of sunburn lotion, and the tooth-end +of a comb made sleeping an adventure. + +It was cold. It was always cold at night. But, in the morning, we +wakened to brilliant sunlight, to the new cook's breakfast, and to +another day in the saddle. We were roused at dawn by a shrill yell. + +Startled, every one leaped to the opening of his tent and stared out. It +proved, however, not to be a mountain-lion, and was, indeed, nothing +more than one of the packers struggling to get into a wet pair of socks, +and giving vent to his irritation in a wild fury of wrath. + +As Pete and Bill Shea and Tom Farmer threw the diamond hitch over the +packs that morning, they explained to me that all camp cooks are of two +kinds--the good cooks, who are evil of disposition, and the tin-can +cooks, who only need a can-opener to be happy. But I lived to be able to +refute that. Norman Lee was a cook, and he was also amiable. + +But that morning, in spite of the bright sunlight, started ill. For +seven horses were missing, and before they were rounded up, the guides +had ridden a good forty miles of forest and trail. But, at last, the +wanderers were brought in and we were ready to pack. + +On a pack-horse there are two sets of rope. There is a sling-rope, +twenty or twenty-five feet long, and a lash-rope, which should be +thirty-five feet long. The sling-rope holds the side pack; the top pack +is held by the lash-rope and the diamond hitch. When a cow-puncher on a +bronco yells for a diamond, he does not refer to a jewel. He means a +lash-rope. When the diamond is finally thrown, the packer puts his foot +against the horse's face and pulls. The packer pulls, and the horse +grunts. If the packer pulls a shade too much, the horse bucks, and there +is an exciting time in which everybody clears and the horse has the +field--every one, that is, but Joe, whose duty it was to be on the spot +in dangerous moments. Generally, however, by the time he got his camera +set up and everything ready, the bucker was feeding placidly and the +excitement was over. + +We rather stole away from Round Prairie that morning. A settler had +taken advantage of a clearing some miles away to sow a little grain. +When our seven truants were found that brilliant morning, they had eaten +up practically the grain-field and were lying gorged in the center of +it. + +[Illustration: _Bear-grass_] + +So "we folded our tents like the Arabs, and as silently stole away." +(This has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good +place for it.) + +We had come out on to the foothills again on our way to Kintla Lake. +Again we were near the Flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple +of the Kootenai Hills. The Kootenais on the left, the Rockies on the +right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin. + +The meadow-lands were full of flowers. There was rather less Indian +paint-brush than on the east side of the park. We were too low for much +bear-grass. But there were masses everywhere of June roses, true +forget-me-nots, and larkspur. And everywhere in the burnt areas was the +fireweed, that phoenix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead +trees. + +There were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish--everything but fresh +meat. We had had no fresh meat since the first day out. And now my soul +revolted at the sight of bacon. I loathed all ham with a deadly +loathing. I had eaten canned salmon until I never wanted to see it +again. And our provisions were getting low. + +Just to the north, where we intended to camp, was Starvation Ridge. It +seemed to be an ominous name. + +Norman Lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred +miles--they have no idea of distance there--who would kill a forty-pound +calf if we would send him word. But it seemed rather too much veal. We +passed it up. + +On and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. No little +rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the +mountains. We were tanned a blackish purple. We were saddle-sore. One of +the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested +rubbing it on the saddle. Packs slipped and were tightened. The mountain +panorama unrolled slowly to our right. And all day long the boatmen +struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now +hardly good enough for horses. + +Where the trail turned off toward the mountains and Kintla Lake, we met +a solitary horseman. He had ridden sixty miles down and sixty miles back +to get his mail. There is a sort of R.F.D. in this corner of the world, +but it is not what I should call in active operation. It was then +August, and there had been just two mails since the previous Christmas! + +Aside from the Geological Survey, very few people, except an occasional +trapper, have ever seen Kintla Lake. It lies, like Bowman Lake, in a +recess in the mountains. We took some photographs of Kintla Peak, taking +our boats to the upper end of the lake for the work. They are, so far as +I can discover, the only photographs ever taken of this great mountain +which towers, like Rainbow, a mile or so above the lake. + +Across from Kintla, there is a magnificent range of peaks without any +name whatever. The imagination of the Geological Survey seemed to die +after Starvation Ridge; at least, they stopped there. Kintla is a +curious lemon-yellow color, a great, flat wall tapering to a point and +frequently hidden under a cap of clouds. + +But Kintla Lake is a disappointment to the fisherman. With the exception +of one of the guides, who caught a four-pound bull-trout there, repeated +whippings of the lake with the united rods and energies of the entire +party failed to bring a single rise. No fish leaped of an evening; none +lay in the shallows along the bank. It appeared to be a dead lake. I +have a strong suspicion that that guide took away Kintla's only fish, +and left it without hope of posterity. + +We rested at Kintla,--for a strenuous time was before us,--rested and +fasted. For supplies were now very low. Starvation Ridge loomed over us, +and starvation stared us in the face. We had counted on trout, and there +were no trout. That night, we supped off our last potatoes and off cakes +made of canned salmon browned in butter. Breakfast would have to be a +repetition minus the potatoes. We were just a little low in our minds. + +[Illustration: _A Glacier Park lake_] + +The last thing I saw that night was the cook's shadowy figure as he +crouched working over his camp-fire. + +And we wakened in the morning to catastrophe. In spite of the fact that +we had starved our horses the day before, in order to keep them grazing +near camp that night, they had wandered. Eleven were missing, and eleven +remained missing. Up the mountain-slopes and through the woods the +wranglers rode like madmen, only to come in on dejected horses with +failure written large all over them. One half of the saddlers were gone; +my Angel had taken wings and flown away. + +We sat dejectedly on the bank and fished those dead waters. We wrangled +among ourselves. Around us was the forest, thick and close save for the +tiny clearing, perhaps forty feet by forty feet. There was no open +space, no place to walk, nothing to do but sit and wait. + +At last, some of us in the saddle and some afoot, we started. It looked +as though the walkers might have a long hike. But sometime about midday +there was a sound of wild cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up +with the truants. They had been far up on the mountain-side. + +It is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out +about such a trip as this. Of Kintla itself, I have no very vivid +memories. But standing out very sharply is that figure of the cook +crouched over his dying fire, with the black forest all about him. There +is a picture, too, of a wild deer that came down to the edge of the lake +to drink as we sat in the first boat that had ever been on Kintla Lake, +whipping a quiet pool. And there is a clear memory of the assistant +cook, the college boy who was taking his vacation in the wilds, +whistling the Dvo[vr]ak "Humoresque" as he dried the dishes on a piece +of clean sacking. + + + + +VI + +RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD + + +It was now approaching time for Bob's great idea to materialize. For +this, and to this end, had he brought the boats on their strange +land-journey--such a journey as, I fancy, very few boats have ever had +before. + +The project was, as I have said, to run the unknown reaches of the North +Fork of the Flathead from the Canadian border to the town of Columbia +Falls. + +"The idea is this," Bob had said: "It's never been done before, do you +see? It makes the trip unusual and all that." + +"Makes it unusually risky," I had observed. + +"Well, there's a risk in pretty nearly everything," he had replied +blithely. "There's a risk in crossing a city street, for that matter. +Riding these horses is a risk, if you come to that. Anyhow, it would +make a good story." + +So that is why I did it. And this is the story: + +We were headed now for the Flathead just south of the Canadian line. To +reach the river, it was necessary to take the boats through a burnt +forest, without a trail of any sort. They leaped and plunged as the +wagon scrambled, jerked, careened, stuck, detoured, and finally got +through. There were miles of such going--heart-breaking miles--and at +the end we paused at the top of a sixty-foot bluff and looked down at +the river. + +Now, I like water in a tub or drinking-glass or under a bridge. I am +very keen about it. But I like still water--quiet, well-behaved, +stay-at-home water. The North Fork of the Flathead River is a riotous, +debauched, and highly erratic stream. It staggers in a series of wild +zigzags for a hundred miles of waterway from the Canadian border to +Columbia Falls, our destination. And that hundred miles of whirlpools, +jagged rocks, and swift and deadly canons we were to travel. I turned +around and looked at the Family. It was my ambition that had brought +them to this. We might never again meet, as a whole. We were sure to +get to Columbia Falls, but not at all sure to get there in the boats. I +looked at the boats; they were, I believe, stout river-boats. But they +were small. Undeniably, they were very small. + +The river appeared to be going about ninety miles an hour. There was one +hope, however. Perhaps they could not get the boats down over the bluff. +It seemed a foolhardy thing even to try. I suggested this to Bob. But he +replied, rather tartly, that he had not brought those boats at the risk +of his life through all those miles of wilderness to have me fail him +now. + +He painted the joys of the trip. He expressed so strong a belief in them +that he said that he himself would ride with the outfit, thus permitting +most of the Family in the boats that first day. He said the river was +full of trout. I expressed a strong doubt that any trout could live in +that stream and hold their own. I felt that they had all been washed +down years ago. And again I looked at the Family. + +Because I knew what would happen. The Family would insist on going +along. It was not going to let mother take this risk alone; it was +going to drown with her if necessary. + +The Family jaws were set. _They were going._ + +The entire outfit lowered the wagon by roping it down. There was one +delicious moment when I thought boats and all were going over the edge. +But the ropes held. Nothing happened. + +_They put the boats in the water._ + +I had one last rather pitiful thought as I took my seat in the stern of +one of them. + +"This is my birthday," I said wistfully. "It's rather a queer way to +spend a birthday, I think." + +But this was met with stern silence. I was to have my story whether I +wanted it or not. + +Yet once in the river, the excitement got me. I had run brief spells of +rapids before. There had been a gasp or two and it was over. But this +was to be a prolonged four days' gasp, with intervals only to sleep at +night. + +Fortunately for all of us, it began rather quietly. The current was +swift, so that, once out into the stream, we shot ahead as if we had +been fired out of a gun. But, for all that, the upper reaches were +comparatively free of great rocks. Friendly little sandy shoals beckoned +to us. The water was shallow. But, even then, I noticed what afterward I +found was to be a delusion of the entire trip. + +This was the impression of riding downhill. I do not remember now how +much the Flathead falls per mile. I have an impression that it is ninety +feet, but as that would mean a drop of nine thousand feet, or almost two +miles, during the trip, I must be wrong somewhere. It was sixteen feet, +perhaps. + +But hour after hour, on the straight stretches, there was that +sensation, on looking ahead, of staring down a toboggan-slide. It never +grew less. And always I had the impression that just beyond that glassy +slope the roaring meant uncharted falls--and destruction. It never did. + +The outfit, following along the trail, was to meet us at night and have +camp ready when we appeared--if we appeared. Only a few of us could use +the boats. George Locke in one, Mike Shannon in the other, could carry +two passengers each. For the sake of my story, I was to take the entire +trip; the others were to alternate. + +I do not know, but I am very confident that no other woman has ever +taken this trip. I am fairly confident that no other men have ever taken +it. We could find no one who had heard of it being taken. All that we +knew was that it was the North Fork of the Flathead River, and that if +we stayed afloat long enough, we would come out at Columbia Falls. The +boatmen knew the lower part of the river, but not the upper two thirds +of it. + +[Illustration: _Still-water fishing_] + +Now that it is over, I would not give up my memory of that long run for +anything. It was one of the most unique experiences in a not uneventful +career. It was beautiful always, terrible occasionally. There were +dozens of places each day where the boatmen stood up, staring ahead for +the channel, while the boats dodged wildly ahead. But always these +skillful pilots of ours found a way through. And so fast did we go that +the worst places were always behind us before we had time to be +really terrified. + +The Flathead River in these upper reaches is fairly alive with trout. On +the second day, I think it was, I landed a bull-trout that weighed nine +pounds, and got it with a six-ounce rod. I am very proud of that. I have +eleven different pictures of myself holding the fish up. There were +trout everywhere. The difficulty was to stop the boat long enough to get +them. In fact, we did not stop, save in an occasional eddy in the midst +of the torrent. We whipped the stream as we flew along. Under great +boulders, where the water seethed and roared, under deep cliffs where it +flew like a mill-race, there were always fish. + +It was frightful work for the boatmen. It required skill every moment. +There was not a second in the day when they could relax. Only men +trained to river rapids could have done it, and few, even, of these. To +the eternal credit of George and Mike, we got through. It was nothing +else. + +On the evening of the first day, in the dusk which made the river +doubly treacherous, we saw our camp-fire far ahead. + +With the going-down of the sun, the river had grown cold. We were wet +with spray, cramped from sitting still and holding on. But friendly +hands drew our boats to shore and helped us out. + + + + +VII + +THE SECOND DAY ON THE FLATHEAD + + +In a way, this is a fairy-story. Because a good fairy had been busy +during our absence. Days before, at the ranger's cabin, unknown to most +of us, an order had gone down to civilization for food. During all those +days under Starvation Ridge, food had been on the way by +pack-horse--food and an extra cook. + +So we went up to camp, expecting more canned salmon and fried trout and +little else, and beheld-- + +A festive board set with candles--the board, however, in this case is +figurative; it was the ground covered with a tarpaulin--fried chicken, +fresh green beans, real bread, jam, potatoes, cheese, cake, candy, +cigars, and cigarettes. And--champagne! + +That champagne had traveled a hundred miles on horseback. It had been +cooled in the icy water of the river. We drank it out of tin cups. We +toasted each other. We toasted the Flathead flowing just beside us. We +toasted the full moon rising over the Kootenais. We toasted the good +fairy. The candles burned low in their sockets--this, also, is +figurative; they were stuck on pieces of wood. With due formality I was +presented with a birthday gift, a fishing-reel purchased by the Big and +the Middle and the Little Boy. + +Of all the birthdays that I can remember--and I remember quite a +few--this one was the most wonderful. Over mountain-tops, glowing deep +pink as they rose above masses of white clouds, came slowly a great +yellow moon. It turned the Flathead beside us to golden glory, and +transformed the evergreen thickets into fairy glades of light and +shadow. Flickering candles inside the tents made them glow in luminous +triangles against their background of forest. + +Behind us, in the valley lands at the foot of the Rockies, the horses +rested and grazed, and eased their tired backs. The men lay out in the +open and looked at the stars. The air was fragrant with pine and +balsam. Night creatures called and answered. + +And, at last, we went to our tents and slept. For the morning was a new +day, and I had not got all my story. + +That first day's run of the river we got fifty trout, ranging from one +half-pound to four pounds. We should have caught more, but they could +not keep up with the boat. We caught, also, the most terrific sunburn +that I have ever known anything about. We had thought that we were +thoroughly leathered, but we had not passed the primary stage, +apparently. In vain I dosed my face with cold-cream and talcum powder, +and with a liquid warranted to restore the bloom of youth to an aged +skin (mine, however, is not aged). + +My journal for the second day starts something like this:-- + + Cold and gray. Stood in the water fifteen minutes + in hip-boots for a moving picture. River looks + savage. + +Of that second day, one beautiful picture stands out with distinctness. + +The river is lovely; it winds and twists through deep forests with +always that marvelous background of purple mountains capped with snow. +Here and there, at long intervals, would come a quiet half-mile where, +although the current was incredibly swift, there were, at least, no +rocks. It was on coming round one of these bends that we saw, out from +shore and drinking quietly, a deer. He was incredulous at first, and +then uncertain whether to be frightened or not. He threw his head up and +watched us, and then, turning, leaped up the bank and into the forest. + +Except for fish, there was surprisingly little life to be seen. Bald +eagles sat by the river, as intent on their fishing as we were on ours. +Wild ducks paddled painfully up against the current. Kingfishers fished +in quiet pools. But the real interest of the river, its real life, lay +in its fish. What piscine tragedies it conceals, with those murderous, +greedy, and powerful assassins, the bull-trout, pursuing fish, as I have +seen them, almost into the landing-net! What joyous interludes where, in +a sunny shallow, tiny baby trout played tag while we sat and watched +them! + +[Illustration: _Mountains of Glacier National Park from the North Fork +of the Flathead River_] + +The danger of the river is not all in the current. There are quicksands +along the Flathead, sands underlain with water, apparently secure but +reaching up clutching hands to the unwary. Our noonday luncheon, taken +along the shore, was always on some safe and gravelly bank or tiny +island. + +Our second camp on the Flathead was less fortunate than the first. +Always, in such an outfit as ours, the first responsibility is the +horses. Camp must be made within reach of grazing-grounds for them, and +in these mountain and forest regions this is almost always a difficult +matter. Here and there are meadows where horses may eat their fill; but, +generally, pasture must be hunted. Often, long after we were settled for +the night, our horses were still ranging far, hunting for grass. + +So, on this second night, we made an uncomfortable camp for the sake of +the horses, a camp on a steep bluff sloping into the water in a dead +forest. It had been the intention, as the river was comparatively quiet +here, to swim the animals across and graze them on the other side. But, +although generally a horse can swim when put to it, we discovered too +late that several horses in our string could not swim at all. In the +attempt to get them across, one horse with a rider was almost drowned. +So we gave that up, and they were driven back five miles into the +country to pasture. + +There is something ominous and most depressing about a burnt forest. +There is no life, nothing green. It is a ghost-forest, filled with tall +tree skeletons and the mouldering bones of those that have fallen, and +draped with dry gray moss that swings in the wind. Moving through such a +forest is almost impossible. Fallen and rotten trees, black and charred +stumps cover every foot of ground. It required two hours' work with an +axe to clear a path that I might get to the little ridge on which my +tent was placed. The day had been gray, and, to add to our discomfort, +there was a soft, fine rain. The Middle Boy had developed an inflamed +knee and was badly crippled. Sitting in the drizzle beside the +camp-fire, I heated water in a tin pail and applied hot compresses +consisting of woolen socks. + +It was all in the game. Eggs tasted none the worse for being fried in a +skillet into which the rain was pattering. Skins were weather-proof, if +clothes were not. And heavy tarpaulins on the ground protected our +bedding from dampness. + +The outfit, coming down by trail, had passed a small store in a +clearing. They had bought a whole cheese weighing eleven pounds, a +difficult thing to transport on horseback, a wooden pail containing +nineteen pounds of chocolate chips, and six dozen eggs--our first eggs +in many days. + +In the shop, while making the purchase, the Head had pulled out a box of +cigarettes. The woman who kept the little store had never seen +machine-made cigarettes before, and examined them with the greatest +interest. For in that country every man is his own cigarette-maker. The +Middle Boy later reported with wide eyes that at her elbow she kept a +loaded revolver lying, in plain view. She is alone a great deal of the +time there in the wilderness, and probably she has many strange +visitors. + +It was at the shop that a terrible discovery was made. We had been in +the wilderness on the east side and then on the west side of the park +for four weeks. And days in the woods are much alike. No one had had a +calendar. The discovery was that we had celebrated my birthday on the +wrong day! + +That night, in the dead forest, we gathered round the camp-fire. I made +hot compresses. The packers and guides told stories of the West, and we +matched them with ones of the East. From across the river, above the +roaring, we could hear the sharp stroke of the axe as branches were +being cut for our beds. There was nothing living, nothing green about us +where we sat. + +I am aware that the camp-fire is considered one of the things about +which the camper should rave. My own experience of camp-fires is that +they come too late in the day to be more than a warming-time before +going to bed. We were generally too tired to talk. A little desultory +conversation, a cigarette or two, an outline of the next day's work, and +all were off to bed. Yet, in that evergreen forest, our fires were +always rarely beautiful. The boughs burned with a crackling white flame, +and when we threw on needles, they burst into stars and sailed far up +into the night. As the glare died down, each of us took his hot stone +from its bed of ashes and, carrying it carefully, retired with it. + + + + +VIII + +THROUGH THE FLATHEAD CANON + + +The next morning we wakened to sunshine, and fried trout and bacon and +eggs for breakfast. The cook tossed his flapjacks skillfully. As the +only woman in the party, I sometimes found an air of festivity about my +breakfast-table. Whereas the others ate from a tarpaulin laid on the +ground, I was favored with a small box for a table and a smaller one for +a seat. On the table-box was set my graniteware plate, knife, fork, and +spoon, a paper napkin, the Prince Albert and the St. Charles. Lest this +sound strange to the uninitiated, the St. Charles was the condensed milk +and the Prince Albert was an old tin can which had once contained +tobacco but which now contained the sugar. Thus, in our camp-etiquette, +one never asked for the sugar, but always for the Prince Albert; not for +the milk, but always for the St. Charles, sometimes corrupted to the +Charlie. + +I was late that morning. The men had gone about the business of +preparing the boats for the day. The packers and guides were out after +the horses. The cook, hot and weary, was packing up for the daily +exodus. He turned and surveyed that ghost-forest with a scowl. + +"Another camping-place like this, and I'll be braying like a blooming +burro." + +On the third day, we went through the Flathead River canon. We had +looked forward to this, both because of its beauty and its danger. +Bitterly complaining, the junior members of the family were exiled to +the trail with the exception of the Big Boy. + +It had been Joe's plan to photograph the boat with the moving-picture +camera as we came down the canon. He meant, I am sure, to be on hand if +anything exciting happened. But impenetrable wilderness separated the +trail from the edge of the gorge, and that evening we reached the camp +unphotographed, unrecorded, to find Joe sulking in a corner and inclined +to blame the forest on us. + +In one of the very greatest stretches of the rapids, a long +straightaway, we saw a pigmy figure, far ahead, hailing us from the +bank. "Pigmy" is a word I use generally with much caution, since a +friend of mine, in the excitement of a first baby, once published a poem +entitled "My Pigmy Counterpart," which a type-setter made, in the +magazine version, "My Pig, My Counterpart." + +Nevertheless, we will use it here. Behind this pigmy figure stretched a +cliff, more than one hundred feet in height, of sheer rock overgrown +with bushes. The figure had apparently but room on which to stand. +George stood up and surveyed the prospect. + +"Well," he said, in his slow drawl, "if that's lunch, I don't think we +can hit it." + +The river was racing at mad speed. Great rocks caught the current, +formed whirlpools and eddies, turned us round again and again, and sent +us spinning on, drenched with spray. That part of the river the boatmen +knew--at least by reputation. It had been the scene, a few years before, +of the tragic drowning of a man they knew. For now we were getting down +into the better known portions. + +[Illustration: _The beginning of the canon, Middle Fork of the Flathead +River_] + +To check a boat in such a current seemed impossible. But we needed food. +We were tired and cold, and we had a long afternoon's work still before +us. + +At last, by tremendous effort and great skill, the boatmen made the +landing. It was the college boy who had clambered down the cliff and +brought the lunch, and it was he who caught the boats as they were +whirling by. We had to cling like limpets--whatever a limpet is--to the +edge, and work our way over to where there was room to sit down. + +It reminded the Head of Roosevelt's expression about peace raging in +Mexico. He considered that enjoyment was raging here. + +Nevertheless, we ate. We made the inevitable cocoa, warmed beans, ate a +part of the great cheese purchased the day before, and, with gingersnaps +and canned fruit, managed to eke out a frugal repast. And shrieked our +words over the roar of the river. + +It was here that the boats were roped down. Critical examination and +long debate with the boatmen showed no way through. On the far side, +under the towering cliff, was an opening in the rocks through which the +river boiled in a drop of twenty feet. + +So it was fortunate, after all, that we had been hailed from the shore +and had stopped, dangerous as it had been. For not one of us would have +lived had we essayed that passage under the cliff. The Flathead River is +not a deep river; but the force of its flow is so great, its drop so +rapid, that the most powerful swimmer is hopeless in such a current. +Light as our flies were, again and again they were swept under and held +as though by a powerful hand. + +Another year, the Flathead may be a much simpler proposition to +negotiate. Owing to the unusually heavy snows of last winter, which had +not commenced to melt on the mountain-tops until July, the river was +high. In a normal summer, I believe that this trip could be +taken--although always the boatmen must be expert in river rapids--with +comparative safety and enormous pleasure. + +There is a thrill and exultation about running rapids--not for minutes, +not for an hour or two, but for days--that gets into the blood. And +when to that exultation is added the most beautiful scenery in America, +the trip becomes well worth while. However, I am not at all sure that it +is a trip for a woman to take. I can swim, but that would not have +helped at all had the boat, at any time in those four days, struck a +rock and turned over. Nor would the men of the party, all powerful +swimmers, have had any more chance than I. + +We were a little nervous that afternoon. The canon grew wilder; the +current, if possible, more rapid. But there were fewer rocks; the +river-bed was clearer. + +We were rapidly nearing the Middle Fork. Another day would see us there, +and from that point, the river, although swift, would lose much of its +danger. + +Late the afternoon of the third day we saw our camp well ahead, on a +ledge above the river. Everything was in order when we arrived. We +unloaded ourselves solemnly out of the boats, took our fish, our poles, +our graft-hooks and landing-nets, our fly-books, my sunburn lotion, and +our weary selves up the bank. Then we solemnly shook hands all round. We +had come through; the rest was easy. + +On the last day, the river became almost a smiling stream. Once again, +instead of between cliffs, we were traveling between great forests of +spruce, tamarack, white and yellow pine, fir, and cedar. A great golden +eagle flew over the water just ahead of our boat. And in the morning we +came across our first sign of civilization--a wire trolley with a cage, +extending across the river in lieu of a bridge. High up in the air at +each end, it sagged in the middle until the little car must almost have +touched the water. We had a fancy to try it, and landed to make the +experiment. But some ungenerous soul had padlocked it and had gone away +with the key. + +For the first time that day, it was possible to use the trolling-lines. +We had tried them before, but the current had carried them out far ahead +of the boat. Cut-throat trout now and then take a spoon. But it is the +bull-trout which falls victim, as a rule, to the troll. + +I am not gifted with the trolling-line. Sometime I shall write an +article on the humors of using it--on the soft and sibilant hiss with +which it goes out over the stern; on the rasping with which it grates on +the edge of the boat as it holds on, stanch and true, to water-weeds and +floating branches; on the low moan with which it buries itself under a +rock and dies; on the inextricable confusion into which it twists and +knots itself when, hand over hand, it is brought in for inspection. + +I have spent hours over a trolling-line, hours which, otherwise, I +should have wasted in idleness. There are thirty-seven kinds of knots +which, so far, I have discovered in a trolling-line, and I am but at the +beginning of my fishing career. + +"What are you doing," the Head said to me that last day, as I sat in the +stern busily working at the line. "Knitting?" + +We got few fish that day, but nobody cared. The river was wide and +smooth; the mountains had receded somewhat; the forest was there to the +right and left of us. But it was an open, smiling forest. Still far +enough away, but slipping toward us with the hours, were settlements, +towns, the fertile valley of the lower river. + +We lunched that night where, just a year before, I had eaten my first +lunch on the Flathead, on a shelving, sandy beach. But this time the +meal was somewhat shadowed by the fact that some one had forgotten to +put in butter and coffee and condensed milk. + +However, we were now in that part of the river which our boatmen knew +well. From a secret cache back in the willows, George and Mike produced +coffee and condensed milk and even butter. So we lunched, and far away +we heard a sound which showed us how completely our wilderness days were +over--the screech of a railway locomotive. + +Late that afternoon, tired, sunburned, and unkempt, we drew in at the +little wharf near Columbia Falls. It was weeks since we had seen a +mirror larger than an inch or so across. Our clothes were wrinkled from +being used to augment our bedding on cold nights. The whites of our eyes +were bloodshot with the sun. My old felt hat was battered and torn with +the fish-hooks that had been hung round the band. Each of us looked at +the other, and prayed to Heaven that he looked a little better himself. + + + + +IX + +THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL + + +Columbia Falls had heard of our adventure, and was prepared to do us +honor. Automobiles awaited us on the river-bank. In a moment we were +snatched from the jaws of the river and seated in the lap of luxury. If +this is a mixed metaphor, it is due to the excitement of the change. +With one of those swift transitions of the Northwest, we were out of the +wilderness and surrounded by great yellow fields of wheat. + +Cleared land or natural prairie, these valleys of the Northwest are +marvelously fertile. Wheat grows an incredible number of bushels to the +acre. Everything thrives. And on the very borders of the fields stands +still the wilderness to be conquered, the forest to be cleared. Untold +wealth is there for the man who will work and wait, land rich beyond the +dreams of fertilizer. But it costs about eighty dollars an acre, I am +told, to clear forest-land after it has been cut over. It is not a +project, this Northwestern farming, to be undertaken on a shoestring. +The wilderness must be conquered. It cannot be coaxed. And a good many +hearts have been broken in making that discovery. A little money--not +too little--infinite patience, cheerfulness, and red-blooded +effort--these are the factors which are conquering the Northwest. + +I like the Northwest. In spite of its pretensions, its large cities, its +wealth, it is still peopled by essential frontiersmen. They are still +pioneers--because the wilderness encroaches still so close to them. I +like their downrightness, their pride in what they have achieved, their +hatred of sham and affectation. + +And if there is to be real progress among us in this present generation, +the growth of a political and national spirit, that sturdy insistence on +better things on which our pioneer forefathers founded this nation, it +is likely to come, as a beginning, from these newer parts of our +country. These people have built for themselves. What we in the East +have inherited, they have made. They know its exact cost in blood and +sweat. They value it. And they will do their best by it. + +Perhaps, after all, this is the end of this particular adventure. And +yet, what Western story is complete without a round-up? + +There was to be a round-up the next day at Kalispell, farther south in +that wonderful valley. + +But there was a difficulty in the way. Our horses were Glacier Park +horses. Columbia Falls was outside of Glacier Park. Kalispell was even +farther outside of Glacier Park, and horses were needed badly in the +Park. For last year Glacier Park had the greatest boom in its history +and found the concessionnaires unprepared to take care of all the +tourists. What we should do, we knew, was to deadhead our horses back +into the Park as soon as they had had a little rest. + +But, on the other hand, there was Kalispell and the round-up. It would +make a difference of just one day. True, we could have gone to the +round-up on the train. But, for two reasons, this was out of the +question. First, it would not make a good story. Second, we had nothing +but riding-clothes, and ours were only good to ride in and not at all to +walk about in. + +After a long and serious conclave, it was decided that Glacier Park +would not suffer by the absence of our string for twenty-four hours +more. + +On the following morning, then, we set off down the white and dusty +road, a gay procession, albeit somewhat ragged. Sixteen miles in the +heat we rode that morning. It was when we were halfway there that one of +the party--it does not matter which one--revealed that he had received a +telegram from the Government demanding the immediate return of our +outfit. We halted in the road and conferred. + +It is notorious of Governments that they are short-sighted, detached, +impersonal, aloof, and haughty. We gathered in the road, a gayly +bandanaed, dusty, and highly indignant crowd, and conferred. + +The telegram had been imperative. It did not request. It commanded. It +unhorsed us violently at a time when it did not suit either ourselves or +our riding-clothes to be unhorsed. + +We conferred. We were, we said, paying two dollars and a half a day for +each of those horses. Besides, we were out of adhesive tape, which is +useful for holding on patches. Besides, also, we had the horses. If they +wanted them, let them come and get them. Besides, this was +discrimination. Ever since the Park was opened, horses had been taken +out of it, either on to the Reservation or into Canada, to get about to +other parts of the Park. Why should the Government pick on us? + +We were very bitter and abusive, and the rest of the way I wrote +mentally a dozen sarcastic telegrams. Yes; the rest of the way. Because +we went on. With a round-up ahead and the Department of the Interior in +the rear, we rode forward to our stolen holiday, now and then pausing, +an eye back to see if we were pursued. But nothing happened; no sheriff +in a buckboard drove up with a shotgun across his knees. The Government, +or its representative in Glacier Park, was contenting itself with +foaming at the mouth. We rode on through the sunlight, and sang as we +rode. + +Kalispell is a flourishing and attractive town of northwestern Montana. +It is notable for many other things besides its annual round-up. But it +remains dear to me for one particular reason. + +My hat was done. It had no longer the spring and elasticity of youth. It +was scarred with many rains and many fish-hooks. It had ceased to add +its necessary jaunty touch to my costume. It detracted. In its age, I +loved it, but the Family insisted cruelly on a change. So, sitting on +Angel, a new one was brought me, a chirky young thing, a cowgirl affair +of high felt crown and broad rim. + +And, at this moment, a gentleman I had never seen before, but who is +green in my memory, stepped forward and presented me with his own +hat-band. It was of leather, and it bore this vigorous and inspiriting +inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck." + +To-day, when I am low in my mind, I take that cowgirl hat from its +retreat and read its inscription: "Give 'er pep and let 'er buck." It is +a whole creed. + +Somewhere among my papers I have the programme of that round-up at +Kalispell. It was a very fine round-up. There was a herd of buffalo; +there were wild horses and long-horned Mexican steers. There was a +cheering crowd. There was roping, and marvelous riding. + +But my eyes were fixed on the grand-stand with a stony stare. + +I am an adopted Blackfoot Indian, known in the tribe as "Pi-ta-mak-an," +and only a few weeks before I had had a long conference with the chiefs +of the tribe, Two Guns, White Calf (the son of old White Calf, the great +chief who dropped dead in the White House during President Cleveland's +administration), Medicine Owl and Curly Bear and Big Spring and Bird +Plume and Wolf Plume and Bird Rattler and Bill Shute and +Stabs-by-Mistake and Eagle Child and Many Tail-Feathers--and many more. + +[Illustration: _Pi-ta-mak-an, or Running Eagle (Mrs. Rinehart), with two +other members of the Blackfoot Tribe_] + +And these Indians had all promised me that, as soon as our conference +was over, they were going back to the Reservation to get in their hay +and work hard for the great herd which the Government had promised to +give them. They were going to be good Indians. + +So I stared at the grand-stand with a cold and fixed eye. For there, +very many miles from where they should have been, off the Reservation +without permission of the Indian agent, painted and bedecked in all the +glory of their forefathers--paint, feathers, beads, strings of thimbles +and little mirrors--handsome, bland, and enjoying every instant to the +full in their childish hearts, were my chiefs. + +During the first lull in the proceedings, a delegation came to visit me +and to explain. This is what they said: First of all, they desired me to +make peace with the Indian agent. He was, they considered, most +unreasonable. There were many times when one could labor, and there was +but one round-up. They petitioned, then, that I intercede and see that +their ration-tickets were not taken away. + +And even as the interpreter told me their plea, one old brave caught my +hand and pointed across to the enclosure, where a few captive buffalo +were grazing. I knew what it meant. These, my Blackfeet, had been the +great buffalo-hunters. With bow and arrow they had followed the herds +from Canada to the Far South. These chiefs had been mighty hunters. But +for many years not a single buffalo had their eyes beheld. They who had +lived by the buffalo were now dying with them. A few full-bloods shut +away on a reservation, a few buffalo penned in a corral--children of the +open spaces and of freedom, both of them, and now dying and imprisoned. +For the Blackfeet are a dying people. + +They had come to see the buffalo. + +But they did not say so. An Indian is a stoic. He has both imagination +and sentiment, but the latter he conceals. And this was the explanation +they gave me for the Indian agent:-- + +I knew that, back in my home, when a friend asked me to come to an +entertainment, I must go or that friend would be offended with me. And +so it was with the Blackfeet Indians--they had been invited to this +round-up, and they felt that they should come or they would hurt the +feelings of those who had asked them. Therefore, would I, Pi-ta-mak-an, +go to the Indian agent and make their peace for them? For, after all, +summer was short and winter was coming. The old would need their +ration-tickets again. And they, the braves, would promise to go back to +the Reservation and get in the hay, and be all that good Indians should +be. + +And I, too, was as good an Indian as I knew how to be, for I scolded +them all roundly and then sat down at the first possible opportunity and +wrote to the agent. + +And the agent? He is a very wise and kindly man, facing one of the +biggest problems in our country. He gave them back their ration-tickets +and wiped the slate clean, to the eternal credit of a Government that +has not often to the Indian tempered justice with mercy. + + + + +X + +OFF FOR CASCADE PASS + + +How many secrets the mountains hold! They have forgotten things we shall +never know. And they are cruel, savagely cruel. What they want, they +take. They reach out a thousand clutching hands. They attack with +avalanche, starvation, loneliness, precipice. They lure on with green +valleys and high flowering meadows where mountain-sheep move sedately, +with sunlit peaks and hidden lakes, with silence for tired ears and +peace for weary souls. And then--they kill. + +Because man is a fighting animal, he obeys their call, his wit against +their wisdom of the ages, his strength against their solidity, his +courage against their cunning. And too often he loses. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _A high mountain meadow_] + +I am afraid of the mountains. I have always the feeling that they are +lying in wait. At night, their very silence is ominous. The crack of ice +as a bit of slow-moving glacier is dislodged, lightning, and the roar +of thunder somewhere below where I lie--these are the artillery of the +range, and from them I am safe. I am too small for their heavy guns. But +a shelving trail on the verge of a chasm, a slip on an ice-field, a +rolling stone under a horse's foot--these are the weapons I fear above +the timber-line. + +Even below there is danger--swamps and rushing rivers, but above all the +forest. In mountain valleys it grows thick on the bodies of dead forests +beneath. It crowds. There is barely room for a tent. And all through the +night the trees protest. They creak and groan and sigh, and sometimes +they burn. In a _cul-de-sac_, with only frowning cliffs about, the +forest becomes ominous, a thing of dreadful beauty. On nights when, +through the crevices of the green roof, there are stars hung in the sky, +the weight lifts. But there are other nights when the trees close in +like ranks of hostile men and take the spirit prisoner. + +The peace of the wilderness is not peace. It is waiting. + +On the Glacier Park trip, there had been one subject which came up for +discussion night after night round the camp-fire. It resolved itself, +briefly, into this: Should we or should we not get out in time to go +over to the State of Washington and there perform the thrilling feat +which Bob, the Optimist, had in mind? + +This was nothing more nor less than the organization of a second +pack-outfit and the crossing of the Cascade Mountains on horseback by a +virgin route. The Head, Bob, and Joe had many discussions about it. I do +not recall that my advice was ever asked. It is generally taken for +granted in these wilderness-trips of ours that I will be there, ready to +get a story when the opportunity presents itself. + +Owing to the speed with which the North Fork of the Flathead River +descends from the Canadian border to civilization, we had made very good +time. And, at last, the decision was made to try this new adventure. + +"It will be a bully story," said the Optimist, "and you can be dead sure +of this: it's never been done before." + +So, at last, it was determined, and we set out on that wonderful +harebrain excursion of which the very memory gives me a thrill. Yet, now +that I know it can be done, I may try it again some day. It paid for +itself over and over in scenery, in health, and in thrills. But there +were several times when it seemed to me impossible that we could all get +over the range alive. + +We took through thirty-one horses and nineteen people. When we got out, +our horses had had nothing to eat, not a blade of grass or a handful of +grain, for thirty-six hours, and they had had very little for five days. + +On the last morning, the Head gave his horse for breakfast one +rain-soaked biscuit, an apple, two lumps of sugar, and a raw egg. The +other horses had nothing. + +We dropped three pack-horses over cliffs in two days, but got them +again, cut and bruised, and we took out our outfit complete, after two +weeks of the most arduous going I have ever known anything about. When +the news that we had got over the pass penetrated to the settlements, a +pack-outfit started over Cascade Pass in our footsteps to take supplies +to a miner. They killed three horses on that same trail, and I believe +gave it up in the end. + +Doubtless, by next year, a passable trail will have been built up to +Doubtful Lake and another one up that eight-hundred-foot mountain-wall +above the lake, where, when one reaches the top, there is but room to +look down again on the other side. Perhaps, too, there will be a trail +down the Agnes Creek Valley, so that parties can get through easily. +When that is done,--and it is promised by the Forest Supervisor,--one of +the most magnificent horseback trips in the country will be opened for +the first time to the traveler. + +Most emphatically, the trip across the Cascades at Doubtful Lake and +Cascade Pass is not a trip for a woman in the present condition of +things, although any woman who can ride can cross Cloudy Pass and get +down Agnes Creek way. But perhaps before this is published, the Chelan +National Forest will have been made a National Park. It ought to be. It +is superb. There is no other word for it. And it ought not to be called +a forest, because it seems to have everything but trees. Rocks and +rivers and glaciers--more in one county than in all Switzerland, they +claim--and granite peaks and hair-raising precipices and lakes filled +with ice in midsummer. But not many trees, until, at Cascade Pass, one +reaches the boundaries of the Washington National Forest and begins to +descend the Pacific slope. + +The personnel of our party was slightly changed. Of the original one, +there remained the Head, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, Joe, +Bob, and myself. To these we added at the beginning six persons besides +our guides and packers. Two of them did not cross the pass, however--the +Forest Pathologist from Washington, who travels all over the country +watching for tree-diseases and tree-epidemics and who left us after a +few days, and the Supervisor of Chelan Forest, who had but just come +from Oregon and was making his first trip over his new territory. + +We were fortunate, indeed, in having four forest-men with us, men whose +lives are spent in the big timber, who know the every mood and tense of +the wilderness. For besides these two, the Pathologist and the Forest +Supervisor, there was "Silent Lawrie" Lindsley, naturalist, +photographer, and lover of all that is wild, a young man who has spent +years wandering through the mountains around Chelan, camera and gun at +hand, the gun never raised against the wild creatures, but used to shoot +away tree-branches that interfere with pictures, or, more frequently, to +trim a tree into such outlines as fit it into the photograph. + +And then there was the Man Who Went Ahead. For forty years this man, Mr. +Hilligoss, has lived in the forest. Hardly a big timber-deal in the +Northwest but was passed by him. Hardly a tree in that vast wilderness +but he knew it. He knew everything about the forest but fear--fear and +fatigue. And, with an axe and a gun, he went ahead, clearing trail, +blazing trees, and marking the detours to camp-sites by an arrow made of +bark and thrust through a slash in a tree. + +Hour after hour we would struggle on, seeing everywhere evidences of his +skill on the trail, to find, just as endurance had reached its limit, +the arrow that meant camp and rest. + +And--there was Dan Devore and his dog, Whiskers. Dan Devore was our +chief guide and outfitter, a soft voiced, bearded, big souled man, +neither very large nor very young. All soul and courage was Dan Devore, +and one of the proud moments of my life was when it was all over and he +told me I had done well. I wanted most awfully to have Dan Devore think +I had done well. + +He was sitting on a stone at the time, I remember, and Whiskers, his old +Airedale, had his head on Dan's knee. All of his thirteen years, +Whiskers had wandered through the mountains with Dan Devore, always +within call. To see Dan was to see Whiskers; to see Whiskers was to see +Dan. + +He slept on Dan's tarp bed at night, and in the daytime led our long and +winding procession. Indomitable spirit that he was, he traveled three +miles to our one, saved us from the furious onslaughts of many a marmot +and mountain-squirrel, and, in the absence of fresh meat, ate his salt +pork and scraps with the zest of a hungry traveler. + +Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Fred. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Fred, +because, like Joe, that was a part of their name. I will be frank about +Mrs. Fred. I was worried about her before I knew her. I was accustomed +to roughing it; but how about another woman? Would she be putting up her +hair in curlers every night, and whimpering when, as sometimes happens, +the slow gait of her horse became intolerable? Little did I know Mrs. +Fred. She was a natural wanderer, a follower of the trail, a fine and +sound and sporting traveling companion. And I like to think that she is +typical of the women of that Western country which bred her, feminine to +the core, but strong and sweet still. + +Both the Freds were great additions. Was it not after Mr. Fred that we +trailed on that famous game-hunt of ours, of which a spirited account is +coming later? Was it not Mr. Fred who, night after night, took the +junior Rineharts away from an anxious mother into the depths of the +forest or the bleakness of mountain-slopes, there to lie, armed to the +teeth, and wait for the first bears to start out for breakfast? + +Now you have us, I think, except the men of the outfit, and they deserve +space I cannot give them. They were a splendid lot, and it was by their +incessant labor that we got over. + +Try to see us, then, filing along through deep valleys, climbing cliffs, +stumbling, struggling, not talking much, a long line of horses and +riders. First, far ahead, Mr. Hilligoss. Then the riders, led by "Silent +Lawrie," with me just behind him, because of photographs. Then, at the +head of the pack-horses, Dan Devore. Then the long line of pack-ponies, +sturdy and willing, and piled high with our food, our bedding, and our +tents. And here, there, and everywhere, Joe, with the moving-picture +camera. + +We were determined, this time, to have no repetition of the Glacier Park +fiasco, where Bill, our cook, had deserted us at a bad time--although it +is always a bad time when the cook leaves. So now we had two cooks. +Much as I love the mountains and the woods, the purple of evening +valleys, the faint pink of sunrise on snow-covered peaks, the most +really thrilling sight of a camping-trip is two cooks bending over an +iron grating above a fire, one frying trout and the other turning +flapjacks. + +Our trail led us through one of the few remaining unknown portions of +the United States. It cannot long remain unknown. It is too superb, too +wonderful. And it has mineral in it, silver and copper and probably +coal. The Middle Boy, who is by way of being a chemist and has +systematically blown himself up with home-made explosives for years--the +Middle Boy found at least a dozen silver mines of fabulous value, +although the men in the party insisted that his specimens were iron +pyrites and other unromantic minerals. + + + + +XI + +LAKE CHELAN TO LYMAN LAKE + + +Now, as to where we were--those long days of fording rivers and beating +our way through jungle or of dizzy climbs up to the snow, those short +nights, so cold that six blankets hardly kept us warm, while our tired +horses wandered far, searching for such bits of grass as grew among the +shale. + +In the north-central part of the State of Washington, Nature has done a +curious thing. She has built a great lake in the eastern shoulders of +the Cascade Mountains. Lake Chelan, more than fifty miles long and +averaging a mile and a half in width, is ten hundred and seventy-five +feet above sea-level, while its bottom is four hundred feet below the +level of the ocean. It is almost completely surrounded by granite walls +and peaks which reach more than a mile and a half into the air. + +The region back from the lake is practically unknown. A small part of it +has never been touched by the Geological Survey, and, in one or two +instances, we were able to check up errors on our maps. Thus, a lake +shown on our map as belonging at the head of McAllister Creek really +belongs at the head of Rainbow Creek, while McAllister Lake is not shown +at all. Mr. Coulter, a forester who was with us for a time, last year +discovered three lakes at the head of Rainbow Creek which have never +been mapped, and, so far as could be learned, had never been seen by a +white man before. Yet Lake Chelan itself is well known in the Northwest. +It is easily reached, its gateway being the famous Wenatchee Valley, +celebrated for its apples. + +It was from Chelan that we were to make our start. Long before we +arrived, Dan Devore and the packers were getting the outfit ready. + +[Illustration: _Sitting Bull Mountain, Lake Chelan_] + +Yet the first glimpse of Chelan was not attractive. We had motored half +a day through that curious, semi-arid country, which, when irrigated, +proves the greatest of all soils in the world for fruit-raising. The +August sun had baked the soil into yellow dust which covered +everything. Arid hillsides without a leaf of green but dotted thickly +with gray sagebrush, eroded valleys, rocks and gullies--all shone a +dusty yellow in the heat. The dust penetrated everything. Wherever water +could be utilized were orchards, little trees planted in geometrical +rows and only waiting the touch of irrigation to make their owners +wealthy beyond dreams. + +The lower end of Lake Chelan was surrounded by these bleak hillsides, +desert without the great spaces of the desert. Yet unquestionably, in a +few years from now, these bleak hillsides will be orchard land. Only the +lower part, however, is bleak--only an end, indeed. There is nothing +more beautiful and impressive than the upper part of that strangely deep +and quiet lake lying at the foot of its enormous cliffs. + +By devious stages we reached the head of Lake Chelan, and there for four +days the outfitting went on. Horses were being brought in, saddles +fitted; provisions in great cases were arriving. To outfit a party of +our size for two weeks means labor and generous outlay. And we were +going to be comfortable. We were willing to travel hard and sleep hard. +But we meant to have plenty of food. I think we may claim the unique +distinction of being the only people who ever had grapefruit regularly +for breakfast on the top of that portion of the Cascade Range. + +While we waited, we learned something about the country. It is volcanic +ash, disintegrated basalt, this great fruit-country to the right of the +range. And three things, apparently, are responsible for its marvelous +fruit-growing properties. First, the soil itself, which needs only water +to prove marvelously fertile; second, the length of the growing-season, +which around Lake Chelan is one hundred and ninety-two days in the year. +And this just south of the Canadian border! There is a third reason, +too: the valleys are sheltered from frost. Even if a frost comes,--and I +believe it is almost unknown,--the high mountains surrounding these +valleys protect the blossoms so that the frost has evaporated before the +sun strikes the trees. There is no such thing known as a killing frost. + +But it is irrigation on a virgin and fertile soil that is primarily +responsible. They run the water to the orchards in conduits, and then +dig little trenches, running parallel among the trees. Then they turn it +on, and the tree-roots are bathed, soaked. And out of the desert spring +such trees of laden fruit that each branch must be supported by wires! + +So we ate such apples as I had never dreamed of, and waited. Joe got his +films together. The boys practiced shooting. I rested and sharpened +lead-pencils. Bob had found a way to fold his soft hat into what he +fondly called the "Jennings do," which means a plait in the crown to +shed the rain, and which turned an amiable _ensemble_ into something +savage and extremely flat on top. The Head played croquet. + +And then into our complacency came, one night, a bit of tragedy. + +A man staggered into the little hotel at the head of the lake, carrying +another man on his back. He had carried him for forty hours, lowering +him down, bit by bit, from that mountain highland where he had been +hurt--forty hours of superhuman effort and heart-breaking going, over +cliffs and through wilderness. + +The injured man was a sheep-herder. He had cut his leg with his +wood-axe, and blood-poisoning had set in. I do not know the rest of that +story. The sheep-herder was taken to a hospital the next day, traveling +a very long way. But whether he traveled still farther, to the land of +the Great Shepherd, I do not know. Only this I do know: that this +Western country I love is full of such stories, and of such men as the +hero of this one. + +At last we were ready. Some of the horses were sent by boat the day +before, for this strange lake has little or no shore-line. Granite +mountains slope stark and sheer to the water's edge, and drop from there +to frightful depths below. There are, at the upper end, no roads, no +trails or paths that border it. So the horses and all of us went by boat +to the mouth of Railroad Creek,--so called, I suppose, because the +nearest railroad is more than forty miles away,--up which led the trail +to the great unknown. All around and above us were the cliffs, towering +seven thousand feet over the lake. And beyond those cliffs lay +adventure. + +For it _was_ adventure. Even Dan Devore, experienced mountaineer and +guide that he was, had only been to Cascade Pass once, and that was +sixteen years before. He had never been across the divide. "Silent +Lawrie" Lindsley, the naturalist, had been only part-way down the Agnes +Creek Valley, which we intended to follow. Only in a general way had we +any itinerary at all. + +Now a National Forest is a happy hunting-ground. Whereas in the National +Parks game is faithfully preserved, hunting is permitted in the forests. +To this end, we took with us a complete arsenal. The naturalist carried +a Colt's revolver; the Big Boy had a twelve-gauge hammerless, called a +"howitzer." We had two twenty-four-gauge shotguns in case we met an +elephant or anything similarly large and heavy, and the Little Boy +proudly carried, strapped to his saddle, a twenty-two high-power rifle, +shooting a steel-jacketed, soft-nose bullet, an express-rifle of high +velocity and great alarm to mothers. In addition to this, we had a +Savage repeater and two Winchester thirties, and the Forest Supervisor +carried his own Winchester thirty-eight. We were entirely prepared to +meet the whole German army. + +It is rather sad to relate that, with all this preparation, we killed +nothing whatever. Although it is not true that, on the day we +encountered a large bear, and the three junior members of the family +were allowed to turn the artillery loose on him, at the end of the +firing the bear pulled out a flag and waved it, thinking it was the +Fourth of July. + +As we started, that August midday, for the long, dusty ride up the +Railroad Creek Trail, I am sure that the three junior Rineharts had +nothing less in mind than two or three bearskins apiece for school +bedrooms. They deserved better luck than they had. Night after night, +sitting in the comparative safety of the camp-fire, I have seen my three +sons, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, starting off, armed to +the teeth with deadly weapons, to sleep out under the stars and catch +the first unwary bear on his way to breakfast in the morning. + +Morning after morning, I have sat breakfastless and shaken until the +weary procession of young America toiled into camp, hungry and bearless, +but, thank Heaven, whole of skin save where mosquitoes and black flies +had taken their toll of them. They would trudge five miles, sleep three +hours, hunt, walk five miles back, and then ride all day. + + * * * * * + +The first day was the least pleasant. We were still in the Railroad +Creek Valley; the trail was dusty; packs slipped on the sweating horses +and had to be replaced. The bucking horse of the outfit had, as usual, +been given the eggs, and, burying his head between his fore legs, threw +off about a million dollars' worth before he had been on the trail an +hour. + +On that first part of the trip, we had three dogs with us--Chubb and +Doc, as well as Whiskers. They ran in the dust with their tongues out, +and lay panting under bushes at each stop. Here and there we found the +track of sheep driven into the mountain to graze. For a hundred or two +hundred feet in width, it was eaten completely clean, for sheep have a +way of tearing up even the roots of the grass so that nothing green +lives behind them. They carry blight into a country like this. + +Then, at last, we found the first arrow of the journey, and turned off +the trail to camp. + +On that first evening, the arrow landed us in a great spruce grove where +the trees averaged a hundred and twenty-five feet in height. Below, the +ground was cleared and level and covered with fine moss. The great gray +trunks rose to Gothic arches of green. It was a churchly place. And +running through it were little streams living with trout. + +And in this saintly spot, quiet and peaceful, its only noise the +babbling of little rivers, dwelt billions on billions of mosquitoes that +were for the first time learning the delights of the human frame as +food. + +There was no getting away from them. Open our mouths and we inhaled +them. They hung in dense clouds about us and fought over the best +locations. They held loud and noisy conversations about us, and got in +our ears and up our nostrils and into our coffee. They went +trout-fishing with us and put up the tents with us; dined with us and on +us. But they let us alone at night. + +It is a curious thing about the mountain mosquito as I know him. He is a +lazy insect. He retires at sundown and does not begin to get in any +active work until eight o'clock the following morning. He keeps union +hours. + +Something of this we had anticipated, and I had ordered +mosquito-netting, to be worn as veils. When it was unrolled, it proved +to be a brilliant scarlet, a scarlet which faded in hot weather on to +necks and faces and turned us suddenly red and hideous. + +Although it was late in the afternoon when we reached that first camp, +Camp Romany, two or three of us caught more than a hundred trout before +sundown. We should have done better had it not been necessary to stop +and scratch every thirty seconds. + +That night, the Woodsman built a great bonfire. We huddled about it, +glad of its warmth, for although the days were hot, the nights, with the +wind from the snow-covered peaks overhead, were very cold. The tall, +unbranching gray spruce-trunks rose round it like the pillars of a +colonnade. The forester blew up his air bed. In front of the +supper-fire, the shadowy figures of the cooks moved back and forward. +From a near-by glacier came an occasional crack, followed by a roar +which told of ice dropping into cavernous depths below. The Little Boy +cleaned his gun and dreamed of mighty exploits. + +We rested all the next day at Camp Romany--rested and fished, while +three of the more adventurous spirits climbed a near-by mountain. Late +in the afternoon they rode in, bringing in their midst Joe, who had, at +the risk of his life, slid a distance which varied in the reports from +one hundred yards to a mile and a half down a snow-field, and had hung +fastened on the brink of eternity until he was rescued. + +Very white was Joe that evening, white and bruised. It was twenty-four +hours before he began to regret that the camera had not been turned on +him at the time. + +Not until we left Camp Romany did we feel that we were really off for +the trip. And yet that first day out from Romany was not agreeable +going. The trail was poor, although there came a time when we looked +back on it as superlative. The sun was hot, and there was no shade. +Years ago, prospectors hunting for minerals had started forest-fires to +level the ridges. The result was the burning-over of perhaps a hundred +square miles of magnificent forest. The second growth which has come up +is scrubby, a wilderness of young trees and chaparral, through which +progress was difficult and uninteresting. + +Up the bottom of the great glacier-basin toward the mountain at its +head, we made our slow and painful way. More dust, more mosquitoes. Even +the beauty of the snow-capped peaks overhead could not atone for the +ugliness of that destroyed region. Yet, although it was not lovely, it +was vastly impressive. Literally, hundreds of waterfalls cascaded down +the mountain wall from hidden lakes and glaciers above, and towering +before us was the mountain wall which we were to climb later that day. + +We had seen no human creature since leaving the lake, but as we halted +for luncheon by a steep little river, we suddenly found that we were not +alone. Standing beside the trail was an Italian bandit with a knife two +feet long in his hands. + +Ha! Come adventure! Come romance! Come rifles and pistols and all the +arsenal, including the Little Boy, with pure joy writ large over him! A +bandit, armed to the teeth! + +But this is a disappointing world. He was the cook from a mine--strange, +the way we met cooks, floating around loose in a world that seems to be +growing gradually cookless. And he carried with him his knife and his +bread-pan, which was, even then, hanging to a branch of a tree. + +We fed him, and he offered to sing. The Optimist nudged me. + +"Now, listen," he said; "these fellows can _sing_. Be quiet, everybody!" + +The bandit twisted up his mustachios, smiled beatifically, and took up a +position in the trail, feet apart, eyes upturned. + +And then--he stopped. + +"I start a leetle high," he said; "I start again." + +So he started again, and the woods receded from around us, and the +rushing of the river died away, and nothing was heard in that lonely +valley but the most hideous sounds that ever broke a primeval silence +into rags and tatters. + +When, at last, he stopped, we got on our horses and rode on, a bitter +and disillusioned party of adventurers whose first bubble of enthusiasm +had been pricked. + +It was four o'clock when we began the ascent of the switchback at the +top of the valley. Up and up we went, dismounting here and there, going +slowly but eagerly. For, once over the wall, we were beyond the reach +of civilization. So strange a thing is the human mind! We who were for +most of the year most civilized, most dependent on our kind and the +comforts it has wrought out of a primitive world, now we were savagely +resentful of it. We wanted neither men nor houses. Stirring in us had +commenced that primeval call that comes to all now and then, the longing +to be alone with Mother Earth, savage, tender, calm old Mother Earth. + +And yet we were still in touch with the world. For even here man had +intruded. Hanging to the cliff were the few buildings of a small mine +which sends out its ore by pack-pony. I had already begun to feel the +aloofness of the quiet places, so it was rather disconcerting to have a +miner with a patch over one eye come to the doorway of one of the +buildings and remark that he had read some of my political articles and +agreed with them most thoroughly. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _Looking out of ice-cave, Lyman Glacier_] + +That was a long day. We traveled from early morning until long after +late sundown. Up the switchback to a green plateau we went, meeting +our first ice there, and here again that miracle of the mountains, +meadow flowers and snow side by side. + +Far behind us strung the pack-outfit, plodding doggedly along. From the +rim we could look back down that fire-swept valley toward Heart Lake and +the camp we had left. But there was little time for looking back. +Somewhere ahead was a brawling river descending in great leaps from +Lyman Lake, which lay in a basin above and beyond. Our camp, that night, +was to be on the shore of Lyman Lake, at the foot of Lyman Glacier. And +we had still far to go. + +Mr. Hilligoss met us on the trail. He had found a camp-site by the lake +and had seen a bear and a deer. There were wild ducks also. + +Now and then there are scenes in the mountains that defy the written +word. The view from Cloudy Pass is one; the outlook from Cascade Pass is +another. But for sheer loveliness there are few things that surpass +Lyman Lake at sunset, its great glacier turned to pink, the towering +granite cliffs which surround it dark purple below, bright rose at the +summits. And lying there, still with the stillness of the ages, the +quiet lake. + +There was, as a matter of fact, nothing to disturb its quiet. Not a +fish, so far as we could discover, lived in its opalescent water, cloudy +as is all glacial water. It is only good to look at, is Lyman Lake, and +there are no people to look at it. + +Set in its encircling, snow-covered mountains, it lies fifty-five +hundred feet above sea-level. We had come up in two days from eleven +hundred feet, a considerable climb. That night, for the first time, we +saw the northern lights--at first, one band like a cold finger set +across the sky, then others, shooting ribbons of cold fire, now bright, +now dim, covering the northern horizon and throwing into silhouette the +peaks over our heads. + + + + +XII + +CLOUDY PASS AND THE AGNES CREEK VALLEY + + +I think I have said that one of the purposes of our expedition was to +hunt. We were to spend a day or two at Lyman Lake, and the sportsmen +were busy by the camp-fire that evening, getting rifles and shotguns in +order and preparing fishing-tackle. + +At dawn the next morning, which was at four o'clock, one of the packers +roused the Big Boy with the information that there were wild ducks on +the lake. He was wakened with extreme difficulty, put on his bedroom +slippers, picked up his shotgun, and, still in his sleeping-garments, +walked some ten feet from the mouth of his tent. There he yawned, +discharged both barrels of his gun in the general direction of the +ducks, yawned again, and went back to bed. + +I myself went on a hunting-excursion on the second day at Lyman Lake. +Now, theoretically, I am a mighty hunter. I have always expected to +shoot something worth while and be photographed with my foot on it, and +a "bearer"--whatever that may be--holding my gun in the background. So +when Mr. Fred proposed an early start and a search along the side of +Chiwawa Mountain for anything from sheep to goats, including a grizzly +if possible, my imagination was roused. So jealous were we that the +first game should be ours that the party was kept a profound secret. Mr. +Fred and Mrs. Fred, the Head, and I planned it ourselves. + +We would rise early, and, armed to the teeth, would stalk the skulking +bear to his den. + +Rising early is also a theory of mine. I approve of it. But I do not +consider it rising early to get up at three o'clock in the morning. +Three o'clock in the morning is late at night. The moon was still up. It +was frightfully cold. My shoes were damp and refused to go on. I could +not find any hairpins. And I recalled a number of stories of the extreme +disagreeableness of bears when not shot in a vital spot. + +With all our hurry, it was four o'clock when we were ready to start. No +sun was in sight, but already a faint rose-colored tint was on the tops +of the mountains. Whiskers raised a sleepy head and looked at us from +Dan's bed. We tiptoed through the camp and started. + +We climbed. Then we climbed some more. Then we kept on climbing. Mr. +Fred led the way. He had the energy of a high-powered car and the +hopefulness of a pacifist. From ledge to ledge he scrambled, turning now +and then to wave an encouraging hand. It was not long before I ceased to +have strength to wave back. Hours went on. Five hundred feet, one +thousand feet, fifteen hundred feet above the lake. I confided to the +Head, between gasps, that I was dying. We had seen no living thing; we +continued to see no living thing. Two thousand feet, twenty-five hundred +feet. There was not enough air in the world to fill my collapsed lungs. + +Once Mr. Fred found a track, and scurried off in a new direction. Still +no result. The sun was up by that time, and I judged that it was about +noon. It was only six-thirty. + +A sort of desperation took possession of us all. We would keep up with +Mr. Fred or die trying. And then, suddenly, we were on the very roof of +the world, on the top of Cloudy Pass. All the kingdoms of the earth lay +stretched out around us, and all the kingdoms of the earth were empty. + +Now, the usual way to climb Cloudy Pass is to take a good businesslike +horse and sit on his back. Then, by devious and circuitous routes, with +frequent rests, the horse takes you up. When there is a place the horse +cannot manage, you get off and hold his tail, and he pulls you. Even at +that, it is a long business and a painful one. But it is better--oh, +far, far better!--than the way we had taken. + +Have you ever reached a point where you fix your starting eyes on a +shrub or a rock ten feet ahead and struggle for it? And, having achieved +it, fix on another five feet farther on, and almost fail to get it? +Because, if you have not, you know nothing of this agony of tearing +lungs and hammering heart and throbbing muscles that is the +mountain-climber's price for achievement. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY L. D. LINDSLEY + _Looking southeast from Cloudy Pass_] + +And then, after all, while resting on the top of the world with our feet +hanging over, discussing dilated hearts, because I knew mine would never +go back to normal, to see a ptarmigan, and have Mr. Fred miss it because +he wanted to shoot its head neatly off! + +Strange birds, those ptarmigan. Quite fearless of man, because they know +him not or his evil works, on alarm they have the faculty of almost +instantly obliterating themselves. I have seen a mother bird and her +babies, on an alarm, so hide themselves on a bare mountain-side that not +so much as a bit of feather could be seen. But unless frightened, they +will wander almost under the hunter's feet. + +I dare say they do not know how very delicious they are, especially +after a diet of salt meat. + +As we sat panting on Cloudy Pass, the sun rose over the cliff of the +great granite bowl. The peaks turned from red to yellow. It was +absolutely silent. No trees rustled in the morning air. There were no +trees. Only, here and there, a few stunted evergreens, two or three feet +high, had rooted on the rock and clung there, gnarled and twisted from +their winter struggles. + +Ears that had grown tired of the noises of cities grew rested. But our +ears were more rested than our bodies. + +I have always believed that it is easier to go downhill than to go up. +This is not true. I say it with the deepest earnestness. After the first +five hundred feet of descent, progress down became agonizing. The +something that had gone wrong with my knees became terribly wrong; they +showed a tendency to bend backward; they shook and quivered. + +The last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful +experiences of my life. A broken thing, I crept into camp and tendered +mute apologies to Budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "Buddy." +(Although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.) + +The remainder of that day, Mrs. Fred and I lay under a mosquito-canopy, +played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. The Forest Supervisor +climbed Lyman Glacier. The Head and the Little Boy made the circuit of +the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its +outlet. And the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which +was about to commence. + +One thing should be a part of the equipment of every one who intends to +camp in the mountains near the snow-fields. This is a mosquito-tent. +Ours was brought by that experienced woodsman and mountaineer, Mr. +Hilligoss, and was made with a light-muslin top three feet long by the +width of double-width muslin. To this was sewed sides of cheese-cloth, +with double seams and reinforced corners. At the bottom it had an extra +piece of netting two feet wide, to prevent the insects from crawling +under. + +Erecting such a shelter is very simple. Four stakes, five feet high, +were driven into the ground and the mosquito-canopy simply hung over +them. + +We had no face-masks, except the red netting, but, for such a trip, a +mask is simple to make and occasionally most acceptable. The best one I +know--and it, too, is the Woodsman's invention--consists of a four-inch +band of wire netting; above it, whipped on, a foot of light muslin to be +tied round the hat, and, below, a border of cheese-cloth two feet deep, +with a rubber band. Such a mask does not stick to the face. Through the +wire netting, it is possible to shoot with accuracy. The rubber band +round the neck allows it to be lifted with ease. + +I do not wish to give the impression that there were mosquitoes +everywhere. But when there were mosquitoes, there was nothing +clandestine about it. + +The next day we crossed Cloudy Pass and started down the Agnes Creek +Valley. It was to be a forced march of twenty-five miles over a trail +which no one was sure existed. There had, at one time, been a trail, but +avalanches have a way, in these mountain valleys, of destroying all +landmarks, and rock-slides come down from the great cliffs, fill +creek-beds, and form swamps. Whether we could get down at all or not was +a question. To the eternal credit of our guides, we made it. For the +upper five miles below Cloudy Pass it was touch and go. Even with the +sharp hatchet of the Woodsman ahead, with his blazes on the trees where +the trail had been obliterated, it was the hardest kind of going. + +Here were ditches that the horses leaped; here were rushing streams +where they could hardly keep their footing. Again, a long mile or two of +swamp and almost impenetrable jungle, where only the Woodsman's +axe-marks gave us courage to go on. We were mired at times, and again +there were long stretches over rock-slides, where the horses scrambled +like cats. + +But with every mile there came a sense of exhilaration. We were making +progress. + +There was little or no life to be seen. The Woodsman, going ahead of us, +encountered a brown bear reaching up for a cluster of salmon-berries. He +ambled away, quite unconcerned, and happily ignorant of that desperate +trio of junior Rineharts, bearing down on him with almost the entire +contents of the best gun shop in Spokane. + +It should have been a great place for bears, that Agnes Creek Valley. +There were ripe huckleberries, service-berries, salmon-and +manzanita-berries. There were plenty of places where, if I had been a +bear, I should have been entirely happy--caves and great rocks, and +good, cold water. And I believe they were there. But thirty-one horses +and a sort of family tendency to see if there is an echo anywhere about, +and such loud inquiries as, "Are you all right, mother?" and "Who the +dickens has any matches?"--these things are fatal to seeing wild life. + +Indeed, the next time I am overcome by one of my mad desires to see a +bear, I shall go to the zoo. + +It was fifteen years, I believe, since Dan Devore had seen the Agnes +Creek Valley. From the condition of the trail, I am inclined to think +that Dan was the last man who had ever used it. And such a wonderland +as it is! Such marvels of flowers as we descended, such wild +tiger-lilies and columbines and Mariposa lilies! What berries and +queen's-cup and chalice-cup and bird's-bill! There was trillium, too, +although it was not in bloom, and devil's-club, a plant which stings and +sets up a painful swelling. There were yew trees, those trees which the +Indians use for making their bows, wild white rhododendron and spirea, +cottonwood, white pine, hemlock, Douglas spruce, and white fir. +Everywhere there was mountain-ash, the berries beloved of bears. And +high up on the mountain there was always heather, beautiful to look at +but slippery, uncertain footing for horse and man. + +Twenty-five miles, broken with canter and trot, is not more than I have +frequently taken on a brisk sunny morning at home. But twenty-five miles +at a slow walk, now in a creek-bed, now on the edge of a cliff, is a +different matter. The last five miles of the Agnes Creek trip were a +long despair. We found and located new muscles that the anatomists have +overlooked.--A really first-class anatomist ought never to make a chart +without first climbing a high mountain and riding all day on the +creature alluded to in this song of Bob's, which gained a certain +popularity among the male members of the party. + + "A sailor's life is bold and free. + He lives upon the bright blue sea. + He has to work like h----, of course, + But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." + +It was dark when we reached our camp-ground at the foot of the valley. A +hundred feet below, in a gorge, ran the Stehekin River, a noisy and +turbulent stream full of trout. We groped through the darkness for our +tents that night and fell into bed more dead than alive. But at three +o'clock the next morning, the junior Rineharts, following Mr. Fred, were +off for bear, reappearing at ten, after breakfast was over, with an +excited story of having seen one very close but having unaccountably +missed it. + +There was no water for the horses at camp that night, and none for them +in the morning. There was no way to get them down to the river, and the +poor animals were almost desperate with thirst. They were having little +enough to eat even then, at the beginning of the trip, and it was hard +to see them without water, too. + + + + +XIII + +CANON FISHING AND A TELEGRAM + + +It was eleven o'clock the next morning before I led Buddy--I had +abandoned "Budweiser" in view of the drought--into a mountain stream and +let him drink. He would have rolled in it, too, but I was on his back +and I fiercely restrained him. + +The next day was a comparatively short trip. There was a trapper's cabin +at the fork of Bridge Creek in the Stehekin River. There we were to +spend the night before starting on our way to Cascade Pass. As it turned +out, we spent two days there. There was a little grass for the horses, +and we learned of a canon, some five or six miles off our trail, which +was reported as full of fish. + +The most ardent of us went there the next day--Mr. Hilligoss, Weaver, +and "Silent Lawrie" and the Freds and Bob and the Big Boy and the Little +Boy and Joe. And, without expecting it, we happened on adventure. + +Have you ever climbed down a canon with rocky sides, a straight and +precipitous five hundred feet, clinging with your finger nails to any +bit of green that grows from the cliff, and to footholds made by an axe, +and carrying a fly-book and a trout-rod which is an infinitely precious +trout-rod? Also, a share of the midday lunch and twenty pounds more +weight than you ought to have by the beauty-scale? Because, unless you +have, you will never understand that trip. + +It was a series of wild drops, of blood-curdling escapes, of slips and +recoveries, of bruises and abrasions. But at last we made it, and there +was the river! + +I have still in mind a deep pool where the water, rushing at tremendous +speed over a rocky ledge, fell perhaps fifteen feet. I had fixed my eyes +on that pool early in the day, but it seemed impossible of access. To +reach it it was necessary again to scale a part of the cliff, and, +clinging to its face, to work one's way round along a ledge perhaps +three inches wide. When I had once made it, with the aid of friendly +hands and a leather belt, by which I was lowered, I knew one thing--knew +it inevitably. I was there for life. Nothing would ever take me back +over that ledge. + +However, I was there, and there was no use wasting time. For there were +fish there. Now and then they jumped. But they did not take the fly. The +water seethed and boiled, and I stood still and fished, because a slip +on that spray-covered ledge and I was gone, to be washed down to Lake +Chelan, and lie below sea-level in the Cascade Mountains. Which might be +a glorious sort of tomb, but it did not appeal to me. + +I tried different flies with no result. At last, with a weighted line +and a fish's eye, I got my first fish--the best of the day, and from +that time on I forgot the danger. + +Some day, armed with every enticement known to the fisherman, I am going +back to that river. For there, under a log, lurks the wiliest trout I +have ever encountered. In full view he stayed during the entire time of +my sojourn. He came up to the fly, leaped over it, made faces at it. +Then he would look up at me scornfully. + +[Illustration: _Stream fishing_] + +"Old tricks," he seemed to say. "Old stuff--not good enough." I dare say +he is still there. + +Late in the day, we got out of that canon. Got out at infinite peril and +fatigue, climbed, struggled, stumbled, held on, pulled. I slipped once +and had a bad knee for six weeks. Never once did I dare to look back and +down. It was always up, and the top was always receding. And when we +reached camp, the Head, who had been on an excursion of his own, refused +to be thrilled, and spent the evening telling how he had been climbing +over the top of the world on his hands and knees. In sheer scorn, we let +him babble. + +But my hat is off to him, after all, for he had ready for us, and swears +to this day to its truth, the best fish-story of the trip. + +Lying on the top of one of our packing-cases was a great bull-trout. Now +a bull-trout has teeth, and held in a vise-like grip in the teeth of +this one was a smaller trout. In the mouth of the small trout was a +gray-and-black fly. The Head maintained that he had hooked the small +fish and was about to draw it to shore when the bull-trout leaped out of +the water, caught the small fish, and held on grimly. The Head thereupon +had landed them both. + +In proof of this, as I have said, he had the two fish on top of a +packing-case. But it is not a difficult matter to place a small trout +cross-wise in the jaws of a bull-trout, and to this day we are not quite +certain. + +There _were_ tooth-marks on the little fish, but, as one of the guides +said, he wouldn't put it past the Head to have made them himself. + +That night we received a telegram. I remember it with great +distinctness, because the man who brought it in charged fifteen dollars +for delivering it. He came at midnight, and how he had reached us no one +will ever know. The telegram notified us that a railroad strike was +about to take place and that we should get out as soon as possible. + +Early the next morning we held a conference. It was about as far back as +it was to go ahead over the range. And before us still lay the Great +Adventure of the pass. + +We took a vote on it at last and the "ayes" carried. We would go ahead, +making the best time we could. If the railroads had stopped when we got +out, we would merely turn our pack-outfit toward the east and keep on +moving. We had been all summer in the saddle by that time, and a matter +of thirty-five hundred miles across the continent seemed a trifle. + +Dan Devore brought us other news that morning, however. Cascade Pass was +closed with snow. A miner who lived alone somewhere up the gorge had +brought in the information. It was a serious moment. We could get to +Doubtful Lake, but it was unlikely we could get any farther. The +comparatively simple matter thus became a complicated one, for Doubtful +Lake was not only a detour; it was almost inaccessible, especially for +horses. But we hated to acknowledge defeat. So again we voted to go +ahead. + +That day, while the pack-outfit was being got ready, I had a long talk +with the Forest Supervisor. He told me many things about our National +Forests, things which are worth knowing and which every American, whose +playgrounds the forests are, should know. + +In the first place, the Forestry Department welcomes the camper. He is +given his liberty, absolutely. He is allowed to hunt such game as is in +season, and but two restrictions are placed on him. He shall leave his +camp-ground clean, and he shall extinguish every spark of fire before he +leaves. Beyond that, it is the policy of the Government to let campers +alone. It is possible in a National Forest to secure a special permit to +put up buildings for permanent camps. An act passed on the 4th of March, +1915, gives the camper a permit for a definite period, although until +that time the Government could revoke the permit at will. + +The rental is so small that it is practically negligible. All roads and +trails are open to the public; no admission can be charged to a National +Forest, and no concession will be sold. The whole idea of the National +Forest as a playground is to administer it in the public interest. Good +lots on Lake Chelan can be obtained for from five to twenty-five dollars +a year, depending on their locality. It is the intention of the +Government to pipe water to these allotments. + +For the hunters, there is no protection for bear, cougar, coyotes, +bobcats, and lynx. No license is required to hunt them. And to the +persistent hunter who goes into the woods, not as we did, with an outfit +the size of a cavalry regiment, there is game to be had in abundance. We +saw goat-tracks in numbers at Cloudy Pass and the marks of Bruin +everywhere. + +The Chelan National Forest is well protected against fires. A +fire-launch patrols the lake and lookouts are stationed all the time on +Strong Mountain and Crow's Hill. They live there on the summits, where +provisions and water must be carried up to them. These lookouts now have +telephones, but until last summer they used the heliograph instead. + +So now we prepared, having made our decision to go on. That night, if +the trail was possible, we would camp at Doubtful Lake. + + + + +XIV + +DOING THE IMPOSSIBLE + + +The first part of that adventurous day was quiet. We moved sedately +along on an overgrown trail, mountain walls so close on each side that +the valley lay in shadow. I rode next to Dan Devore that day, and on the +trail he stopped his horse and showed me the place where Hughie McKeever +was found. + +Dan Devore and Hughie McKeever went out one November to go up to +Horseshoe Basin. Dan left before the heaviest snows came, leaving +McKeever alone. When McKeever had not appeared by February, Dan went in +for him. His cabin was empty. + +He had kept a diary up to the 24th of December, when it stopped +abruptly. There were a few marten skins in the cabin, and his outfit. +That was all. In some cottonwoods, not far from the camp, they found his +hatchet and his bag hanging to a tree. + +It looked for a time, as though the mystery of Hughie McKeever's +disappearance would be one of the unsolved tragedies of the mountains. +But a trapper, whose route took him along Thunder Creek that spring, +noticed that his dog made a side trip each time, away from the trail. At +last he investigated, and found the body of Hughie McKeever. He had +probably been caught in a snow-slide, for his leg was broken below the +knee. Unable to walk, he had put his snowshoes on his hands and, +dragging the broken leg, had crawled six miles through the snow and ice +of the mountain winter. When he was found, he was only a mile and a half +from his cabin and safety. + +There are many other tragedies of that valley. There was a man who went +up Bridge Creek to see a claim he had located there. He was to be out +four days. But in ten days he had not appeared, which was not +surprising, for there was twenty-five feet of snow, and when the snow +had frozen so that rescuers could travel over the crust, they went up +after him. He was lying in one of the bunks of his cabin with a +mattress over him, frozen to death. + +So, Dan said, they covered him in the snow with a mattress, and went +back in the spring to bury him. + +Every winter, in those mountain valleys, men who cannot get their +outfits out before the snow shoot their horses or cut their throats +rather than let them freeze or starve to death. It is a grim country, +the Cascade country. One man shot nine in this very valley last winter. + +Our naturalist had been caught the winter before in the first snowstorm +of the season. He was from daylight until eight o'clock at night making +two miles of trail. He had to break it, foot by foot, for the horses. + +As we rode up the gorge toward the pass, it was evident, from the amount +of snow in the mountains, that stories had not been exaggerated. The +packers looked dubious. Even if we could make the climb to Doubtful +Lake, it seemed impossible that we could get farther. But the monotony +of the long ride was broken that afternoon by our first sight, as a +party, of a bear. + +[Illustration: _Mountain miles: The trail up Swiftcurrent Pass, Glacier +National Park_] + +It came out on a ledge of the mountain, perhaps three hundred yards +away, and proceeded, with great deliberation, to walk across a +rock-slide. It paid no attention whatever to us and to the wild +excitement which followed its discovery. Instantly, the three junior +Rineharts were off their horses, and our artillery attack was being +prepared. At the first shot, the pack-ponies went crazy. They lunged and +jumped, and even Buddy showed signs of strain, leaping what I imagine to +be some eleven feet in the air and coming back on four rigid knees. +Followed such a peppering of that cliff as it had never had before. +Little clouds of rock-dust rose above the bear, in front of him, behind +him, and below him. He stopped, mildly astonished, and looked around. +More noise, more bucking on the trail, more dust. The bear walked on a +trifle faster. + +It had been arranged that the first bear was to be left for the juniors. +So the packers and the rest of the party watched and advised. + +But, as I have related elsewhere in this narrative, there were no +casualties. The bear, as far as I know, is living to-day, an honored +member of his community, and still telling how he survived the great +war. At last he disappeared into a cave, and we went on without so much +as a single skin to decorate a college room. + +We went on. + +What odds and ends of knowledge we picked up on those long days in the +saddle! That if lightning strikes a pine even lightly, it kills, but +that a fir will ordinarily survive; that mountain miles are measured +air-line, so that twenty-five miles may really be forty, and that, even +then, they are calculated on the level, so that one is credited with +only the base of the triangle while he is laboriously climbing up its +hypotenuse. I am personally acquainted with the hypotenuses of a good +many mountains, and there is no use trying to pretend that they are +bases. They are not. + +Then we learned that the purpose of the National Forests is not to +preserve timber but to conserve it. The idea is to sell and reseed. +About twenty-five per cent of the timber we saw was yellow pine. But +most of the timber we saw on the east side of the Cascades will be safe +for some time. I wouldn't undertake to carry out, from most of that +region, enough pine-needles to make a sofa-cushion. It is quite enough +to get oneself out. + +Up to now it had been hard going, but not impossible. Now we were to do +the impossible. + +It is a curious thing about mountains, but they have a hideous tendency +to fall down. Whole cliff-faces, a mile or so high, are suddenly seized +with a wandering disposition. Leaving the old folks at home and sliding +down into the valleys, they come awful croppers and sustain about eleven +million compound comminuted fractures. + +These family breaks are known as rock-slides. + +Now to travel twenty feet over a rock-slide is to twist an ankle, bruise +a shin-bone, utterly discourage a horse, and sour the most amiable +disposition. + +There is no flat side to these wandering rocks. With the diabolical +ingenuity that nature can show when she goes wrong, they lie edge up. Do +you remember the little mermaid who wished to lose her tail and gain +legs so she could follow the prince? And how her penalty was that every +step was like walking on the edges of swords? That is a mountain +rock-slide, but I do not recall that the little mermaid had to drag a +frightened and slipping horse, which stepped on her now and then. Or +wear riding-boots. Or stop every now and then to be photographed, and +try to persuade her horse to stop also. Or keep looking up to see if +another family jar threatened. Or look around to see if any of the party +or the pack was rolling down over the spareribs of that ghastly +skeleton. No; the little mermaid's problem was a simple and +uncomplicated one. + +We were climbing, too. Only one thing kept us going. The narrow valley +twisted, and around each cliff-face we expected the end--either death or +solid ground. But not so, or, at least, not for some hours. +Riding-boots peeled like a sunburnt face; stones dislodged and rolled +down; the sun beat down in early September fury, and still we went on. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY A. J. BAKER, KALISPELL, MONT. + _Where the rock-slides start_ (_Glacier National Park_)] + +Only three miles it was, but it was as bad a three miles as I have ever +covered. Then--the naturalist turned and smiled. + +"Now we are all right," he said. "_We start to climb soon!_" + + + + +XV + +DOUBTFUL LAKE + + +Of all the mountain-climbing I have ever done the switchback up to +Doubtful Lake is the worst. We were hours doing it. There were places +when it seemed no horse could possibly make the climb. Back and forth, +up and up, along that narrow rock-filled trail, which was lost here in a +snow-bank, there in a jungle of evergreen that hung out from the +mountain-side, we were obliged to go. There was no going back. We could +not have turned a horse around, nor could we have reversed the +pack-outfit without losing some of the horses. + +As a matter of fact, we dropped two horses on that switchback. With +infinite labor the packers got them back to the trail, rolling, +tumbling, and roping them down to the ledge below, and there salvaging +them. It was heart-breaking, nerve-racking work. Near the top was an +ice-patch across a brawling waterfall. To slip on that ice-patch meant a +drop of incredible distance. From broken places in the crust it was +possible to see the stream below. Yet over the ice it was necessary to +take ourselves and the pack. + +"Absolutely no riding here," was the order, given in strained tones. For +everybody's nerves were on edge. + +Somehow or other, we got over. I can still see one little pack-pony +wandering away from the others and traveling across that tiny ice-field +on the very brink of death at the top of the precipice. The sun had +softened the snow so that I fell flat into it. And there was a dreadful +moment when I thought I was going to slide. + +Even when I was safely over, my anxieties were just beginning. For the +Head and the Juniors were not yet over. And there was no space to stop +and see them come. It was necessary to move on up the switchback, that +the next horse behind might scramble up. Buddy went gallantly on, +leaping, slipping, his flanks heaving, his nostrils dilated. Then, at +last, the familiar call,-- + +"Are you all right, mother?" + +And I knew it was all right with them--so far. + +Three thousand feet that switchback went straight up in the air. How +many thousand feet we traveled back and forward, I do not know. + +But these things have a way of getting over somehow. The last of the +pack-horses was three hours behind us in reaching Doubtful Lake. The +weary little beasts, cut, bruised, and by this time very hungry, looked +dejected and forlorn. It was bitterly cold. Doubtful Lake was full of +floating ice, and a chilling wind blew on us from the snow all about. A +bear came out on the cliff-face across the valley. But no one attempted +to shoot at him. We were too tired, too bruised and sore. We gave him no +more than a passing glance. + +It had been a tremendous experience, but a most alarming one. From the +brink of that pocket on the mountain-top where we stood the earth fell +away to vast distances beneath. The little river which empties Doubtful +Lake slid greasily over a rock and disappeared without a sound into +the void. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _Switchbacks on the trail_ (_Glacier National Park_)] + +Until the pack-outfit arrived, we could have no food. We built a fire +and huddled round it, and now and then one of us would go to the edge of +the pit which lay below to listen. The summer evening was over and night +had fallen before we heard the horses coming near the top of the cliff. +We cheered them, as, one by one, they stumbled over the edge, dark +figures of horses and men, the animals with their bulging packs. They +had put up a gallant fight. + +And we had no food for the horses. The few oats we had been able to +carry were gone, and there was no grass on the little plateau. There was +heather, deceptively green, but nothing else. And here, for the benefit +of those who may follow us along the trail, let me say that oats should +be carried, if two additional horses are required for the +purpose--carried, and kept in reserve for the last hard days of the +trip. + +The two horses that had fallen were unpacked first. They were cut, and +on their cuts the Head poured iodine. But that was all we could do for +them. One little gray mare was trembling violently. She went over a +cliff again the next day, but I am glad to say that we took her out +finally, not much the worse except for a badly cut shoulder. The other +horse, a sorrel, had only a day or two before slid five hundred feet +down a snow-bank. He was still stiff from his previous accident, and if +ever I saw a horse whose nerve was gone, I saw one there--a poor, +tragic, shaken creature, trembling at a word. + +That night, while we lay wrapped in blankets round the fire while the +cooks prepared supper at another fire near by, the Optimist produced a +bottle of claret. We drank it out of tin cups, the only wine of the +journey, and not until long afterward did we know its history--that a +very great man to whose faith the Northwest owes so much of its +development had purchased it, twenty-five years before, for the visit to +this country of Albert, King of the Belgians. + +That claret, taken so casually from tin cups near the summit of the +Cascades, had been a part of the store of that great dreamer and most +abstemious of men, James J. Hill, laid in for the use of that other +great dreamer and idealist, Albert, when he was his guest. While we ate, +Weaver said suddenly,-- + +"Listen!" + +His keen ears had caught the sound of a bell. He got up. + +"Either Johnny or Buck," he said, "starting back home!" + +Then commenced again that heart-breaking task of rounding up the horses. +That is a part of such an expedition. And, even at that, one escaped and +was found the next morning high up the cliffside, in a basin. + +It was too late to put up all the tents that night. Mrs. Fred and I +slept in our clothes but under canvas, and the men lay out with their +faces to the sky. + +Toward dawn a thunder-storm came up. For we were on the crest of the +Cascades now, where the rain-clouds empty themselves before traveling +to the arid country to the east. Just over the mountain-wall above us +lay the Pacific Slope. + +The rain came down, and around the peaks overhead lightning flashed and +flamed. No one moved except Joe, who sat up in his blankets, put his hat +on, said, "Let 'er rain," and lay down to sleep again. Peanuts, the +naturalist's horse, sought human companionship in the storm, and +wandered into camp, where one of the young bear-hunters wakened to find +him stepping across his prostrate and blanketed form. + +Then all was still again, except for the solid beat of the rain on +canvas and blanket, horse and man. + +It cleared toward morning, and at dawn Dan was up and climbed the wall +on foot. At breakfast, on his return, we held a conference. He reported +that it was possible to reach the top--possible but difficult, and that +what lay on the other side we should have to discover later on. + +A night's sleep had made Joe all business again. On the previous day he +had been too busy saving his camera and his life--camera first, of +course--to try for pictures. But now he had a brilliant idea. + +"Now see here," he said to me; "I've got a great idea. How's Buddy about +water?" + +"He's partial to it," I admitted, "for drinking, or for lying down and +rolling in it, especially when I am on him. Why?" + +"Well, it's like this," he observed: "I'm set up on the bank of the +lake. See? And you ride him into the water and get him to scramble up on +one of those ice-cakes. Do you get it? It'll be a whale of a picture." + +"Joe," I said, in a stern voice, "did you ever try to make a horse go +into an icy lake and climb on to an ice-cake? Because if you have, you +can do it now. I can turn the camera all right. Anyhow," I added firmly, +"I've been photographed enough. This film is going to look as if I'd +crossed the Cascades alone. Some of you other people ought to have a +chance." + +But a moving-picture man after a picture is as determined as a cook who +does not like the suburbs. + +I rode Buddy to the brink of the lake, and there spoke to him in +friendly tones. I observed that this lake was like other lakes, only +colder, and that it ought to be mere play after the day before. I also +selected a large ice-cake, which looked fairly solid, and pointed Buddy +at it. + +Then I kicked him. He took a step and began to shake. Then he leaped six +feet to one side and reared, still shaking. Then he turned round and +headed for the camp. + +By that I was determined on the picture. There is nothing like two wills +set in opposite directions to determine a woman. Buddy and I again and +again approached the lake, mostly sideways. But at last he went in, took +twenty steps out, felt the cold on his poor empty belly, and--refused +the ice-cake. We went out much faster than we went in, making the bank +in a great bound and a very bad humor--two very bad humors. + + + + +XVI + +OVER CASCADE PASS + + +To get out of the Doubtful Lake plateau to Cascade Pass it was necessary +to climb eight hundred feet up a steep and very slippery cliffside. On +the other side lay the pass, but on the level of the lake. It was here +that we "went up a hill one day and then went down again" with a +vengeance. And on this cliffside it was that the little gray mare went +over again, falling straight on to a snow-bank, which saved her, and +then rolling over and over shedding parts of our equipment, and landing +far below dazed and almost senseless. + +It was on the top of that wall above Doubtful Lake that I had the +greatest fright of the trip. + +That morning, as a special favor, the Little Boy had been allowed to go +ahead with Mr. Hilligoss, who was to clear trail and cut footholds where +they were necessary. When we were more than halfway to the top of the +wall above the lake, two alternative routes to the top offered +themselves, one to the right across a snow-field that hugged the edge of +a cliff which dropped sheer five hundred feet to the water, another to +the left over slippery heather which threatened a slide and a casualty +at every step. The Woodsman had left no blazes, there being no tree to +mark. Holding on by clutching to the heather with our hands, we debated. +Finally, we chose the left-hand route as the one they had probably +taken. But when we reached the top, the Woodsman and the Little Boy were +not there. We hallooed, but there was no reply. And, suddenly, the +terrible silence of the mountains seemed ominous. Had they ventured +across the snow-bank and slipped? + +I am not ashamed to say that, sitting on my horse on the top of that +mountain-wall, I proceeded to have a noiseless attack of hysterics. +There were too many chances of accident for any of the party to take the +matter lightly. There we gathered on that little mountain meadow, not +much bigger than a good-sized room, and waited. There was snow and ice +and silence everywhere. Below, Doubtful Lake lay like a sapphire set in +granite, and far beneath it lay the valley from which we had climbed the +day before. But no one cared for scenery. + +Then it was that "Silent Lawrie" turned his horse around and went back. +Soon he hallooed, and, climbing back to us, reported that they had +crossed the ice-bank. He had found the marks of the axe making +footholds. And soon afterward there was another halloo from below, and +the missing ones rode into sight. They were blithe and gay. They had +crossed the ice-field and had seen a view which they urged we should not +miss. But I had had enough view. All I wanted was the level earth. There +could be nothing after that flat enough to suit me. + +Sliding, stumbling, falling, leading our scrambling horses, we got down +the wall on the other side. It was easier going, but slippery with +heather and that green moss of the mountains, which looks so tempting +but which gives neither foothold nor nourishment. Then, at last, the +pass. + +It was thirty-six hours since our horses had had anything to eat. We had +had food and sleep, but during the entire night the poor animals had +been searching those rocky mountain-sides for food and failing to find +it. They stood in a dejected group, heads down, feet well braced to +support their weary bodies. + +But last summer was not a normal one. Unusually heavy snowfalls the +winter before had been followed by a late, cold spring. The snow was +only beginning to melt late in July, and by September, although almost +gone from the pass itself, it still covered deep the trail on the east +side. + +So, some of those who read this may try the same great adventure +hereafter and find it unnecessary to make the Doubtful Lake detour. I +hope so. Because the pass is too wonderful not to be visited. Some day, +when this magnificent region becomes a National Park, and there is +something more than a dollar a mile to be spent on trails, a thousand +dollars or so invested in trail-work will put this roof of the world +within reach of any one who can sit a horse. And those who go there will +be the better for the going. Petty things slip away in the silent high +places. It is easy to believe in God there. And the stars and heaven +seem very close. + +One thing died there forever for me--my confidence in the man who writes +the geography and who says that, representing the earth by an orange, +the highest mountains are merely as the corrugations on its skin. + +On Cascade Pass is the dividing-line between the Chelan and the +Washington National Forests. For some reason we had confidently believed +that reaching the pass would see the end of our difficulties. The only +question that had ever arisen was whether we could get to the pass or +not. And now we were there. + +We were all perceptibly cheered; even the horses seemed to feel that the +worst was over. Tame grouse scudded almost under our feet. They had +never seen human beings, and therefore had no terror of them. + +And here occurred one of the small disappointments that the Middle Boy +will probably remember long after he has forgotten the altitude in feet +of that pass and other unimportant matters. For he scared up some +grouse, and this is the tragedy. The open season for grouse is September +1st in Chelan and September 15th across the line. And the birds would +not cross the line. They were wise birds, and must have had a calendar +about them, for, although we were vague as to the date, we knew it was +not yet the 15th. So they sat or fluttered about, and looked most +awfully good to eat. But they never went near the danger-zone or the +enemy's trenches. + +We lay about and rested, and the grouse laughed at us, and a great +marmot, sentinel of his colony, sat on a near-by rock and whistled +reports of what we were doing. Joe unlimbered the moving-picture camera, +and the Head used the remainder of his small stock of iodine on the +injured horses. The sun shone on the flowers and the snow, on the pail +in which our cocoa was cooking, on the barrels of our unused guns and +the buckles of the saddles. We watched the pack-horses coming down, tiny +pin-point figures, oddly distorted by the great packs. And we rested for +the descent. + +I do not know why we thought that descent from Cascade Pass on the +Pacific side was going to be easy. It was by far the most nerve-racking +part of the trip. Yet we started off blithely enough. Perhaps Buddy knew +that he was the first horse to make that desperate excursion. He +developed a strange nervousness, and took to leaping off the trail in +bad places, so that one moment I was a part of the procession and the +next was likely to be six feet above the trail on a rocky ledge, with no +apparent way to get down. + +We had expected that there would be less snow on the western slope, but +at the beginning of the trip we found snow everywhere. And whereas +before the rock-slides had been wretchedly uncomfortable but at +comparatively low altitudes, now we found ourselves climbing across +slides which hugged the mountain thousands of feet above the valley. + +Our nerves began to go, too, I think, on that last day. We were plainly +frightened, not for ourselves but each for the other. There were many +places where to dislodge a stone was to lose it as down a bottomless +well. There was one frightful spot where it was necessary to go through +a waterfall on a narrow ledge slippery with moss, where the water +dropped straight, uncounted feet to the valley below. + +The Little Boy paused blithely, his reins over his arm, and surveyed the +scenery from the center of this death-trap. + +"If anybody slipped here," he said, "he'd fall quite a distance." Then +he kicked a stone to see it go. + +"_Quit that!_" said the Head, in awful tones. + +Midway of the descent, we estimated that we should lose at least ten +horses. The pack was behind us, and there was no way to discover how +they were faring. But as the ledges were never wide enough for a horse +and the one leading him to move side by side, it seemed impossible that +the pack-ponies with their wide burdens could edge their way along. + +[Illustration: _Watching the pack-train coming down at Cascade Pass_] + +I had mounted Buddy again. I was too fatigued to walk farther, and, +besides, I had fallen so often that I felt he was more sure-footed than +I. Perhaps my narrowest escape on that trip was where a huge stone had +slipped across the ledge we were following. Buddy, afraid to climb its +slippery sides, undertook to leap it. There was one terrible moment when +he failed to make a footing with his hind feet and we hung there over +the gorge. After that, Dan Devore led him. + +In spite of our difficulties, we got down to the timber-line rather +quickly. But there trouble seemed to increase rather than diminish. +Trees had fallen across the way, and dangerous detours on uncertain +footing were necessary to get round them. The warm rains of the Pacific +Slope had covered the mountain-sides with thick vegetation also. Our +way, hardly less steep than on the day before, was overgrown with +greenery that was often a trap for the unwary. And even when, at last, +we were down beyond the imminent danger of breaking our necks at every +step, there were more difficulties. The vegetation was rank, +tremendously high. We worked our way through it, lost to each other and +to the world. Wilderness snows had turned the small streams to roaring +rivers and spread them over flats through which we floundered. So long +was it since the trail had been used that it was often difficult to tell +where it took off from the other side of the stream. And our horses were +growing very weary. They had made the entire trip without grain and with +such bits of pasture as they could pick up in the mountains. Now it was +a long time since they had had even grass. + +It will never be possible to know how many miles we covered in that +Cascade Pass trip. As Mr. Hilligoss said, mountain miles were measured +with a coonskin, and they threw in the tail. Often to make a mile's +advance we traveled four on the mountain-side. + +So when they tell me that it was a trifle of sixteen miles from the top +of Cascade Pass to the camp-site we made that night, I know that it was +nearer thirty. In point of difficulties, it was a thousand. + +Yet the last part of the trip, had we not been too weary to enjoy it, +was superbly beautiful. There was a fine rain falling. The undergrowth +was less riotous and had taken on the form of giant ferns, ten feet +high, which overhung the trail. Here were great cypress trees thirty-six +feet in circumference--a forest of them. We rode through green aisles +where even the death of the forest was covered by soft moss. Out of the +green and moss-covered trunks of dead giants, new growth had sprung, new +trees, hanging gardens of ferns. + +There had been much talk of Mineral Park. It was our objective point for +camp that night, and I think I had gathered that it was to be a +settlement. I expected nothing less than a post-office and perhaps some +miners' cabins. When, at the end of that long, hard day, we reached +Mineral Park at twilight and in a heavy rain, I was doomed to +disappointment. + +Mineral Park consists of a deserted shack in a clearing perhaps forty +feet square, on the bank of a mountain stream. All around it is +impenetrable forest. The mountains converge here so that the valley +becomes a canon. So dense was the growth that we put up our tents on the +trail itself. + +In the little clearing round the empty shack, the horses were tied in +the cold rain. It was impossible to let them loose, for we could never +have found them again. Our hearts ached that night for the hungry +creatures; the rain had brought a cold wind and they could not even move +about to keep warm. + +I was too tired to eat that night. I went to bed and lay in my tent, +listening to the sound of the rain on the canvas. The camp-stove was set +up in the trail, and the others gathered round it, eating in the rain. +But, weary as I was, I did not sleep. For the first time, terror of the +forest gripped me. It menaced; it threatened. + +The roar of the river sounded like the rush of flame. I lay there and +wondered what would happen if the forest took fire. For the gentle +summer rain would do little good once a fire started. There would be no +way out. The giant cliffs would offer no refuge. We could not even have +reached them through the jungle had we tried. And forest-fires were +common enough. We had ridden over too many burned areas not to realize +that. + + + + +XVII + +OUT TO CIVILIZATION + + +It was still raining in the morning. The skies were gray and sodden and +the air was moist. We stood round the camp-fire and ate our fried ham, +hot coffee, and biscuits. It was then that the Head, prompted by +sympathy, fed his horse the rain-soaked biscuit, the apple, the two +lumps of sugar, and the raw egg. + +Yet, in spite of the weather, we were jubilant. The pack-train had come +through without the loss of a single horse. Again the impossible had +become possible. And that day was to see us out of the mountains and in +peaceful green valleys, where the horses could eat their fill. + +The sun came out as we started. Had it not been for the horses, we +should have been entirely happy. But sympathy for them had become an +obsession. We rode slowly to save them; we walked when we could. It was +strange to go through that green wonderland and find not a leaf the +horses could eat. It was all moss, ferns, and evergreens. + +From the semi-arid lands east of the Cascades to the rank vegetation of +the Pacific side was an extraordinary change. Trees grew to enormous +sizes. In addition to the great cedars, there were hemlocks fifteen and +eighteen feet in circumference. Only the strong trees survive in these +valleys, and by that ruthless selection of nature weak young saplings +die early. So we found cedar, hemlock, lodge-pole pine, white and +Douglas fir, cottonwood, white pine, spruce, and alder of enormous size. + +The brake ferns were the most common, often growing ten feet tall. We +counted five varieties of ferns growing in profusion, among them brake +ferns, sword-ferns, and maidenhair, most beautiful and luxuriant. The +maidenhair fern grew in masses, covering dead trunks of trees and making +solid walls of delicate green beside the trail. + +"Silent Lawrie" knew them all. He knew every tiniest flower and plant +that thrust its head above the leaf-mould. He saw them all, too. +Peanuts, his horse, made his own way now, and the naturalist sat a +trifle sideways in his saddle and showed me his discoveries. + +I am no naturalist, so I rode behind him, notebook in hand, and I made a +list something like this. If there are any errors they are not the +naturalist's, but mine, because, although I have written a great deal on +a horse's back, I am not proof against the accident of Whiskers stirring +a yellow-jackets' nest on the trail, or of Buddy stumbling, weary beast +that he was, over a root on the path. + +This is my list: red-stemmed dogwood; bunchberries, in blossom on the +higher reaches, in bloom below; service-berries, salmon-berries; +skunk-cabbage, beloved by bears, and the roots of which the Indians +roast and eat; above four thousand feet, white rhododendrons, and, above +four thousand five hundred feet, heather; hellebore also in the high +places; thimble-berries and red elderberries, tag-alder, red +honeysuckle, long stretches of willows in the creek-bottoms; vining +maples, too, and yew trees, the wood of which the Indians use for +making bows. + +[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON + _A field of bear-grass_] + +Around Cloudy Pass we found the red monkey-flower. In different places +there was the wild parsnip; the ginger-plant, with its heart-shaped leaf +and blossom, buried in the leaf-mould, its crushed leaves redolent of +ginger; masses of yellow violets, twinflowers, ox-eye daisies, and +sweet-in-death, which is sold on the streets in the West as we sell +sweet lavender. There were buttercups, purple asters, bluebells, +goat's-beard, columbines, Mariposa lilies, bird's-bill, trillium, +devil's-club, wild white heliotrope, brick-leaved spirea, wintergreen, +everlasting. + +And there are still others, where Buddy collided with the yellow-jacket, +that I find I cannot read at all. + +Something lifted for me that day as Buddy and I led off down that fat, +green valley, with the pass farther and farther behind--a weight off my +spirit, a deadly fear of accident, not to myself but to the Family, +which had obsessed me for the last few days. But now I could twist in +my saddle and see them all, ruddy and sound and happy, whistling as they +rode. And I knew that it was all right. It had been good for them and +good for me. It is always good to do a difficult thing. And no one has +ever fought a mountain and won who is not the better for it. The +mountains are not for the weak or the craven, or the feeble of mind or +body. + +We went on, to the distant tinkle of the bell on the lead-horse of the +pack-train. + +It was that day that "Silent Lawrie" spoke I remember, because he had +said so little before, and because what he said was so well worth +remembering. + +"Why can't all this sort of thing be put into music?" he asked. "It _is_ +music. Think of it, the drama of it all!" + +Then he went on, and this is what "Silent Lawrie" wants to have written. +I pass it on to the world, and surely it can be done. It starts at dawn, +with the dew, and the whistling of the packers as they go after the +horses. Then come the bells of the horses as they come in, the smoke of +the camp-fire, the first sunlight on the mountains, the saddling and +packing. And all the time the packers are whistling. + +Then the pack starts out on the trail, the bells of the leaders +jingling, the rattle and crunch of buckles and saddle-leather, the click +of the horses' feet against the rocks, the swish as they ford a singing +stream. The wind is in the trees and birds are chirping. Then comes the +long, hard day, the forest, the first sight of snow-covered peaks, the +final effort, and camp. + +After that, there is the thrush's evening song, the afterglow, the +camp-fire, and the stars. And over all is the quiet of the night, and +the faint bells of grazing horses, like the silver ringing of the bell +at a mass. + +I wish I could do it. + +At noon that day in the Skagit Valley, we found our first civilization, +a camp where a man was cutting cedar blocks for shingles. He looked +absolutely astounded when our long procession drew in around his shanty. +He meant only one thing to us; he meant oats. If he had oats, we were +saved. If he had no oats, it meant again long hours of traveling with +our hungry horses. + +He had a bag of oats. But he was not inclined, at first, to dispose of +them, and, as a matter of fact, he did not sell them to us at all. When +we finally got them from him, it was only on our promise to send back +more oats. Money was of no use to him there in the wilderness; but oats +meant everything. + +Thirty-one horses we drove into that little bit of a clearing under the +cedar trees, perhaps a hundred feet by thirty. Such wild excitement as +prevailed among the horses when the distribution of oats began, such +plaintive whinnying and restless stirring! But I think they behaved much +better than human beings would have under the same circumstances. And at +last each was being fed--such a pathetically small amount, too, hardly +more than a handful apiece, it seemed. In his eagerness, the Little +Boy's horse breathed in some oats, and for a time it looked as though he +would cough himself to death. + +The wood-cutter's wife was there. We were the one excitement in her +long months of isolation. I can still see her rather pathetic face as +she showed me the lace she was making, the one hundred and one ways in +which she tried to fill her lonely hours. + +All through the world there are such women, shut away from their kind, +staying loyally with the man they have chosen through days of aching +isolation. That woman had children. She could not take them into the +wilderness with her, so they were in a town, and she was here in the +forest, making things for them and fretting about them and longing for +them. There was something tragic in her face as she watched us mount to +go on. + +We were to reach Marblemont that day and there to leave our horses. +After they had rested and recovered, Dan Devore was to take them back +over the range again, while we went on to civilization and a railroad. + +We promised the wood-cutter to send the oats back with the outfit; and +when we sent them, we sent at the same time some magazines to that +lonely wife and mother on the Skagit. + +Late in the afternoon, we emerged from the forest. It was like coming +from a darkened room into the light. One moment we were in the aisles of +that great green cathedral, the next there was an open road and the +sunlight and houses. We prodded the horses with our heels and raced down +the road. Surprised inhabitants came out and stared. We waved to them; +we loved them; we loved houses and dogs and cows and apple trees. But +most of all we loved level places. + +We were in time, too, for the railroad strike had not yet taken place. + +As Bob got off his horse, he sang again that little ditty with which, +during the most strenuous hours of the trip, we had become familiar:-- + + "Oh, a sailor's life is bold and free, + He lives upon the bright blue sea: + He has to work like h--, of course, + But he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." + + +THE END + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +The poems on pages 140 and 188, were punctuated differently. This was +retained. + +On page 90, Dvorak is printed with a hacek over the r. The contraints of +text preclude this from being used in this one instance. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tenting To-night, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TENTING TO-NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 19475.txt or 19475.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/4/7/19475/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emmy and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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