Three thousand feet that switchback went straight up in the air. How
many thousand feet we traveled back and forward, I do not know.
But these things have a way of getting over somehow. The last of the
pack-horses was three hours behind us in reaching Doubtful Lake. The
weary little beasts, cut, bruised, and by this time very hungry, looked
dejected and forlorn. It was bitterly cold. Doubtful Lake was full of
floating ice, and a chilling wind blew on us from the snow all about. A
bear came out on the cliff-face across the valley. But no one attempted
to shoot at him. We were too tired, too bruised and sore. We gave him no
more than a passing glance.
It had been a tremendous experience, but a most alarming one. From the
brink of that pocket on the mountain-top where we stood the earth fell
away to vast distances beneath. The little river which empties Doubtful
Lake slid greasily over a rock and disappeared without a sound into
the void.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON
_Switchbacks on the trail_ (_Glacier National Park_)]
Until the pack-outfit arrived, we could have no food.
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