The Mountaineer 
pod 
19/6) 
Tacoma, and continuing through Bear Gap found Mr. Brackett 
and Mr. Corey with thirty-five hundred pounds of provisions. 
Filing through the rocky portals of an unnamed pass, the party 
made a rapid descent toward the east fork of the White, rum- 
bling mightily far below. There is an exhilaration of motion in 
these glacial rivers always fascinating and we were glad to be 
eamped near by for a day, while our “trail gang” slashed a 
way by which the pack train might reach Summerland. 
On the morning of the eighth day hope ran high. The 
whistle blew the signal to start and “the line” filed away on 
the Glacier Basin trail to the junction of the White and the 
Frying Pan rivers. Crossing the turbid stream, the ascent be- 
gan up a rugged valley, closed on one side by a sheer wall of 
rock, on the other by close-set trees, while far above and beyond 
loomed our mountain, dazzling, wonderful. The Frying Pan 
River, scarcely started in its headlong race, chanted still the 
songs learned in subterranean galleries under the blue ice of 
the glacier. Up and higher up toiled the little company. It 
was hard to hold us back now with the breath of the hills in 
our nostrils and the hill flowers pressing against our feet. After 
a final scramble up the last hundred yards, the miniature park 
itself burst into view; its jutting headlands guarded by turrets 
of living green were spread for us with carpets of crimson 
and violet embroidered in gold. We were home at last in 
Summerland. Here Carr made plans to kill for us the fatted 
ealf, and here also came the first try-out on snow, when the 
che-cha-kos, standing at the top of a dizzy white slope and told 
to coast down, balanced first on one foot and then on the other 
in an agony of indecision whether to try it standing or sitting. 
They made at last a bold effort, one and all, started scientifical- 
ly as instructed, using the alpenstock as a rudder and a brake, 
but missing the trick somewhere, capsized desperately and 
reached the foot of the declivity rolling like animated boulders 
from an avalanche. 
Among the most striking impressions of these altitudes are 
the sky-line pictures. Sometimes it is a silhouette pack train 
or a nodding company of plumed anemones, and occasionally a 
band of mountain goats drifting upward along the horizon of 
a ridge. On the tenth day out while we were halted for lunch 
on the margin of a snow field, there appeared across the deep 
valley a solitary messenger. It proved to be the man detailed 
