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.
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