THE WILD 85 



Next morning we started up the trailless green slopes from which Lizard 

 Head rises like a gigantic pillar. We speculated on possible routes of ascent, 

 but none of us was eager to try them. Halfway to the pass were two deep 

 lakes entirely surrounded by rock slides. One could hear the continual roar 

 of water splashing toward them from snowbanks melting rapidly under the 

 hot July sun. When we looked around we saw, back of us, the jagged skyline 

 of the Continental Divide. 



The climb was steep but not difficult. We had hardly started the descent, 

 however, when we were in trouble. The ground where the snow had but 

 recently melted was like quicksand and three of the horses went down in 

 rapid succession. It was nip and tuck as to whether we would save one of 

 them, but a couple of our most skillful wranglers calmed him as he lay kick- 

 ing frantically, and removed the pack. 



Grave Lake is the most remote of the larger Wind River lakes. We fol- 

 lowed a dim trail far back under the Continental Divide in order to reach 

 its shores, from which we looked through a frame of white-bark pine into a 

 crazy conglomeration of precipices jutting up at almost every conceivable 

 angle. Wooded points extended into the lake and divided it into enchanting 

 bays, while overhanging everything was the feeling of mystery which per- 

 vades the country at timber line. A sudden thunderstorm, driven across the 

 lake by a furious wind, added to the feeling of being at the ends of the world. 

 By the time we had followed the winding trail 5 miles to Washakie Lake, 

 directly under symmetrical Washakie Peak, the storm had passed. A peculiar 

 narrow peninsula extends nearly across the lake, dividing it into a main 

 body of water 2 miles long, and an infinitely placid lagoon. On the latter we 

 camped and watched the setting sun change the cloud-flecked sky into such 

 a flaming crimson that it almost seemed alive. 



The climb next morning to the Continental Divide was across snow- 

 banks for half the way, even though it was mid-July. At Washakie Pass we 

 stopped a moment to breathe, simultaneously, Atlantic and Pacific air. Then 

 we descended on the west side to a creek with the morbid name of Skull, 

 where we had our lunch. Thereafter we left the trail and rode our horses over 

 a couple of mountains in order to obtain a better view of the surrounding 

 topography and vegetation. 



