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.
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