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.
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