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.
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