and quivered.

The last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful
experiences of my life. A broken thing, I crept into camp and tendered
mute apologies to Budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "Buddy."
(Although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.)

The remainder of that day, Mrs. Fred and I lay under a mosquito-canopy,
played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. The Forest Supervisor
climbed Lyman Glacier. The Head and the Little Boy made the circuit of
the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its
outlet. And the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which
was about to commence.

One thing should be a part of the equipment of every one who intends to
camp in the mountains near the snow-fields. This is a mosquito-tent.
Ours was brought by that experienced woodsman and mountaineer, Mr.
Hilligoss, and was made with a light-muslin top three feet long by the
width of double-width muslin. To this was sewed sides of cheese-cloth,
with double seams and reinforced corners. At the bottom it had an extra
piece of netting two feet wide, to prevent the insects from crawling
under.

Erecting such a shelter is very simple. Four stakes, five feet high,
were driven into the ground and the mosquito-canopy simply hung over
them.

We had no face-masks, except the red netting, but, for such a trip, a
mask is simple to make and occasionally most acceptable. The best one I
know--and it, too, is the Woodsman's invention--consists of a four-inch
band of wire netting; above it, whipped on, a foot of light muslin to be
tied round the hat, and, below, a border of cheese-cloth two feet deep,
with a rubber band. Such a mask does not stick to the face. Through the
wire netting, it is possible to shoot with accuracy. The rubber band
round the neck allows it to be lifted with ease.

I do not wish to give the impression that there were mosquitoes
everywhere. But when there were mosquitoes, there was nothing
clandestine about it.

The next day we crossed Cloudy Pass and started down the Agnes Creek
Valley. It was to be a forced march of twenty-five miles over a trail
which no one was sure existed. There had, at one time, been a trail, but
avalanches have a way, in these mountain valleys, of destroying all
landmarks, and rock-slides come down from the great cliffs, fill
creek-beds, and form swamps. Whether we could get down at all or not was
a question. To the ete