THE GLACIER LAKES 115 



and hasten down their well-known trails, fearful of 

 being snow-bound. Storm succeeds storm, heap 

 ing snow on the cliffs and meadows, and bending 

 the slender pines to the ground in wide arches, one 

 over the other, clustering and interlacing like lodged 

 wheat. Avalanches rush and boom from the shelv 

 ing heights, piling immense heaps upon the frozen 

 lake, and all the summer glory is buried and lost. 

 Yet in the midst of this hearty winter the sun shines 

 warm at times, calling the Douglas squirrel to frisk 

 in the snowy pines and seek out his hidden stores ; 

 and the weather is never so severe as to drive away 

 the grouse and little nut-hatches and chickadees. 



Toward May, the lake begins to open. The hot 

 sun sends down innumerable streams over the cliffs, 

 streaking them round and round with foam. The 

 snow slowly vanishes, and the meadows show tint- 

 ings of green. Then spring comes on apace ; flow 

 ers and flies enrich the air and the sod, and the 

 deer come back to the upper groves like birds to an 

 old nest. 



I first discovered this charming lake in the au 

 tumn of 1872, while on my way to the glaciers at 

 the head of the river. It was rejoicing then in its 

 gayest colors, untrodden, hidden in the glorious 

 wildness like unmined gold. Year after year I 

 walked its shores without discovering any other 

 trace of humanity than the remains of an Indian 

 camp-fire, and the thigh-bones of a deer that had 

 been broken to get at the marrow. It lies out of the 

 regular ways of Indians, who love to hunt in more 

 accessible fields adjacent to trails. Their knowledge 

 of deer-haunts had probably enticed them here some 



