erched fatally low. Further westerly, though, the
grouse-shooting is better, and an average rifle-shot can bag a plenty of
the big fat birds in September. Poor grouse! "The good die first," said
Wordsworth, and so with birds; for the good are the fat, who, through an
excess of avoirdupois, lag in flight and alight on lower branches and
are easiest shot.

From Cultas there was no trail other than such a one as mother sense
advised and the compass indicated was properly directioned. Our
objective point was the north and south trail reputed to follow the
summit of the Cascade Range, up whose eastern flanks we were laboring.
Finally we found it, though of trail worthy of the name there was none;
a scattered line of aged blazes alone indicated where the trail itself
once had been. With some floundering over down logs, many a false start
and mistaken way, and a deal of patient diligence, we contrived to hold
to the blazes, winding beneath a fairy forest of giant fir, tamarack,
spruce, and pine, here and there skirting a veritable gem of a sky-blue
lake set like a sapphire in an emerald mount, and occasionally tracking
across a gay little mountain meadow, until at last we hunted out tiny
Link Lake, where we camped beneath trees whose trunks were streaked with
age wrinkles long before Astor pioneered his way down the Columbia.

And so it went for several days; there were miles of pleasant trails,
each mile unlike its predecessor and each holding in store some of those
always expected unforeseen surprises which make trails, fly-fishing,
and (reportedly) matrimony, so fascinating. There were camp places
by lake, stream, and meadow, each and every one delightful,
all entirely attractive either by the glow of the camp-fire or viewed
in the dawn light as one peered out from the frosted rim of the
sleeping-bag--frosted without, but deliciously warm within. Trails and
camps, indeed, so satisfying that any one of them might merit weeks of
visitation, instead of hurried hours.

A word concerning trails, here--offered with the diffidence of an ardent
amateur! Primarily, I suppose, trails are made to be followed; that, at
least, seems the logical excuse for their existence. Yet my advice is to
lose them as speedily as possible--temporarily, at least. So long as
there is grass and water (there is always fuel, and your food is with
you) no harm can befall, and assuredly losing the trail, or letting it
lose you, is an admirable way to drop