The Mountaineer ily 
the flowers; on the heights of Spokwush meadows, one could 
almost reach the stars. 
Following the backbone of the Manastash ridge next day, 
night brought us to Quartz Creek, where the first Sunday 
service was held. The second was in Summerland, the last in 
Grand Park, each temple of worship more beautiful than the 
last. 
The main highways among the mountains, pursued alike 
by animals, railroads, and mountaineers, are the water courses. 
Most of the trails, indeed, have taken their names from their 
river companions. Winding down the southern slope of the 
ridge through the mottled trunks of the yellow pines, one 
instinctively looks for the Naches, and dropping into the valley, 
emerges suddenly from the timber into an open meadow knee- 
deep in flowers. Beyond runs the river, clear-eyed, singing its 
way toward the sea; from rift to cataract, from pool to dream- 
ing pool, it flows among the rock-ribbed hills. Where is there 
a spot where larkspur nods a deeper blue or berries hang 
heavier? The ford that July morning witnessed the approach 
of both divisions of the army at once, the horses emerging sud- 
denly from the copse, rushed eagerly to quench their thirst, 
then splashed on not to lose their places in the brave calvacade ; 
while slowly winding along the rocky palisade above moved 
“the line,” an iridescent ribbon of color. 
One can not think of a summer’s outing without recalling 
the camp-fires, yet how is it possible to picture the spirits that 
enter into the fire-lit circle? The lost art of story telling here 
returns and brings with it original verse and song to fill to 
overflowing this breezy chapter of life’s out-door holiday. Sit- 
ting on the ground at the Forks of the Trail, the gathering 
place of forgotten tribes of Indians, we listened to their simple 
stories of earth and sky; heard again their footfalls by the 
river; and watched the fires that glowed and died before our 
own was kindled. Through the closing songs of those star-lit 
nights ran the old, old melody of comradeship, filling all the 
dark till the very trees clapped their hands and the surrounding 
hills took up the strain and broke forth into singing. 
The Crowe Creek trail, leaving the Naches, rises steadily 
for nearly three thousand feet. Through the silvery trees of 
the ghost forest the majestic Fifes Peaks can be seen for many 
miles. Near Echo Lake we were joined by the Caesar party of 
