The White Goat and his Country 
cannot remember the number of obstacles 
always lying between ourselves and So- 
and-So. 
At length we were once more in camp ona 
stream named the Twispt. In the morning 
—new stroke of misfortune—one of us was 
threatened with illness, and returned to the 
Forks. We three, the guide, the cook, and 
myself, went on, finally leaving the narrow 
valley, and climbing four hours up a mountain 
at the rate of about a mile an hour. The 
question was, had winter come in the park 
above, for which we were heading? On top, 
we skirted a bare ridge from which everything 
fell precipitously away, and curving round 
along a steep hollow of the hill, came to 
an edge and saw the snow lying plentifully 
among the pines through which we must go 
down into the bottom of the park. But on 
the other side, where the sun came, there was 
little or none, and it was a most beautiful 
place. At the head of it was a little frozen 
lake fringed with tamarack, and a stream 
flowed down from this through scattered 
birches and pines, with good pasture for the 
horses between. The park sank at its outlet 
35 
