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.
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