300 BIG GAME FIELDS 



Late afternoon saw us still coming east, grim, 

 tired and cold. There was no sound, save the 

 mock of the wind. Nothing moved, nothing 

 stirred there was no life up there. How bleak 

 it was and night was coming on. Since early 

 morning the only indication of life I saw was the 

 skull of an old ram. When I asked Mac to ac- 

 count for its presence he replied, "Plenty beeg 

 timber wolf he kill him," so that death, if not life, 

 visited there. 



At last, in the fading light we saw a vast valley 

 stretched below. First came the high, steep 

 slopes of green grass amid white patches of snow 

 then the white patches disappeared and here 

 and there a few stunted clusters of fire came into 

 view. Far below the deep olive green giant 

 spruces, standing in motionless array, beckoned 

 us to a comfortable camp. But best of all a silver 

 stream finding its source amid the lofty snow- 

 clad ramps, gamboled with merry chatter adown 

 their sides, so that man and beast could soon slake 

 their thirst that had been gnawing all through 

 the long day's march. How good the crackle 

 of the campfire sounded and how the tongues of 

 flame leaped and danced, as we crowded up near 

 to drive out the cold of the savage wind. 



Morning arose. It was one of those drab days 



