322 A STIFF CLIMB. 
the eastern side of the Cascades, unlike the 
scenery of the west or coast slope, which is 
densely wocded. Here it was like riding through 
a succession of parks, covered with grass and 
flowers of varied species. 
We reached the junction of the two streams, 
and camped, just as the sun, disappearing behind 
the western hills, tinted with purple twilight the 
ragged peaks of the rocks that shut us in on 
every side. Scarce a sound of bird or beast dis- 
turbed the silence of the forest, and save the 
babble of the stream, as it rippled over the 
shingle, all nature was soon hushed in deathlike 
sleep. I could dimly make out in the fading 
light the grim hills we had to climb, towering 
up like mighty giants; the clear white snow, 
covering their summits, contrasted strangely with 
the sombre pine-trees, thickly covering the lower 
portion of the mountains. 
We had a stiff climb before us, and my hopes 
were high in expectation of bowling over big- 
horn (Ovis montana) and ptarmigan. For some 
distance we scrambled up the sides of the 
brawling torrent, whose course, like true love, 
was none of the smoothest, being over and among 
vast fragments of rock, that everywhere covered 
the hillside. From amidst these relics of destruc- 
