enough little cabin it looks at most times, but for the 

 traveler at the end of that weary trail it takes on the 

 halo of a castle. And sleep, which shuns many a stately 

 castle hovers closely around that humble shack. 



Now indeed are we in the "land of sky-blue waters." 

 Our way lies Avestward, but no man with a soul could 

 turn westward when Clearwater lies to the East. One 

 peek out of the dense woods at the west end of Clear- 

 water and a man just naturally slides into his canoe 

 and paddles. Those towering cliffs rising hundreds of 

 feet above the glassy lake, a mighty barrier against the 

 north, dominate the landscape and beckon the traveler 

 on with irresistible magic. It is so strange, so different 

 from the monotonous trail of the day before. How 

 poverty stricken now seem all the tales we have heard 

 of it. 



Fair are the shores in their forest green and yester- 

 day we could have looked, content, upon those wooded 

 hills and rocky ledges, but now our eyes are only for 

 those majestic cliffs. The lake, which seemed so large 

 at first, shrinks as we approach that rising wall, clos- 

 ing closely like a ponderous trap, a mighty dead fall 

 built by the Indian gods in the legendary days of the 

 Flying Heads. Slowly but surely the great cliffs lean 

 forward till the canoe seems to rest beneath their shelv- 

 ing height. The sensation is distinctly depressing, and 

 it is with a feeling closely akin to relief that we sneak 

 back out of the gloomy shadow to seek the winding 

 trail that scales the heights from the rear. 



There is nothing effeminate about that -trail. It re- 

 quires no stretch of the imagination to feel oneself 

 climbing a mountain. To be sure it is not so very long 



12 



