lised it.

All we had to eat that night was a little thin soup made from the pea
meal, and an even smaller quantity had to serve us for breakfast. In
the morning (October 7th) we shot the rapids without incident down into
Lost Trail Lake, and, turning to the eastward, were treated to a
delightful view of the Kipling Mountains, now snow-capped and
cold-looking, but appearing to us so much like old friends that it did
our hearts good to see them. It was an ideal Indian summer day, the
sun shining warmly down from a cloudless sky. Looking at the
snow-capped peaks that bounded the horizon in front of me, I thought of
the time when I had stood gazing at them from the other side, and of
the eagerness I had felt to discover what lay hidden beyond.

"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!"

Well, we had gone. And we had found what lay hidden behind the ranges.
But were we ever to get out to tell about it?

We stopped on the shore of Lost Trail Lake to eat some badly-needed
cranberries and mossberries. The mossberries, having been frozen, were
fairly sweet, and they modified, to some extent, the acid of the
cranberries, so that taken together they made a luncheon for which we,
in our great need, were duly grateful. After eating as many of the
berries as our stomachs would hold, we were able to pick a pan of them
to take with us.

Paddling on, we passed through the strait connecting Lost Trail Lake
with Lake Hope, and, recalling with grim smiles the enthusiastic cheers
we had sent up there a few weeks before, sped rapidly across Lake Hope
to the entrance of our old mountain pass, camping for the night on a
ridge near the old sweat holes of the medicine men. Our supper
consisted of a little more pea soup and half of the panful of berries.

While we were lying spoon-fashion under the blankets at night, it was
the custom for a man who got tired of lying on one side to say "turn,"
which word would cause the others to flop over immediately, usually
without waking. On this night, however, I said "turn over," and as we
all flopped, Hubbard, who had been awake, remarked: "That makes me
think of the turnovers and the spicerolls mother used to make for me."
And then he and I lay for an hour and talked of the baking days at the
homes of our childhood. Under-the-blanket talks like this were not
infrequent. "Are you awake, b'y?"