inted
as any soberer canvas of the color-master Turner. Two vast panoramas of
land reaching to the horizon, the one bounded by the truly blue Blue
Mountains that marked the whereabouts of Idaho, the other by the low
cloud banks hovering over the coast hills flanking the Pacific--those we
gazed down upon to the east and west, while north and south straggled
the great ridge of the Cascade Range, cleaving the old Oregon country
into two astonishingly dissimilar halves.

South we glimpsed the pride of California's mountains, glorious Shasta.
North, a filmy white spectre, harassed by a turmoil of darker cloud, was
the peak of Mt. Adams, some two hundred and fifty miles distant.
Nearer--yet scarcely close at hand, for almost two hundred miles
separated us--stood Hood, guardian of the Columbia, whose valley could
be guessed by the shadowed depressions in the hill lands. Nearer were
Jefferson, Squaw Mountain, Broken Top, and lesser peaks. As mountain
views go, it was perfection--and all mountain views are perfect.

We ate our snack of lunch, drank our canteen dry, smoked our pipes, and
reveled in viewing the world below us. Then, like the hackneyed army of
the Duke of York, we marched right down again. Only be it noted that the
descent was a marvel of rapid transit, especially where the long snow
slopes were concerned. If you have done it, you know. If you haven't,
suffice it to say that one sits upon a portion of one's architecture
designed for general repose, and upon it slides to lower altitudes with
a speed that often takes breath away and always materially dampens that
afore-mentioned anatomical portion, if not one's ardor. Snow sliding,
however negotiated, is exhilarating and great fun--even if the slider
becomes tangled with the attraction of gravitation, completing his
descent head foremost!

[Illustration: An Oregon Trail

From a photograph by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.]

At dusk, we reached the camp, with tired legs and a mighty hunger. It
was late--too late to attempt much in the way of an elaborate meal, even
as "elaborateness" is reckoned when you have been on the trail for a
fortnight. So we compromised on a "light" repast, which included, if I
remember aright, such infinitesimal items as a couple of quarts of
coffee, a panful of bacon, a can of peaches, a package of raisins, and
sundry other lesser matters.

"To-morrow," we agreed, "we will have a feed. A real feed, worthy of the
name. A feed that wil