GLACIER PARK 63 



violets, and woe to him whose ears have heard! He 

 can never be quite happy again east of the Great 

 Divide. 



So I might continue the tale of the days when we 

 drove our pack train through the Park, over high passes, 

 across precipitous snowfields where a slip would have 

 meant death, but too confident now on our horses to 

 worry, camping by glacier lakes of milky green, scramb- 

 ling over goat trails on the backbone of the continent, 

 cooking our luncheon in gardens where by careful count 

 as many as thirty wild flowers grew in a space the size 

 of an ordinary room chalice cups like white anemone 

 Japonica, lupine, larkspur, pink spiraea, orange paint- 

 brush, false forget-me-not, columbines, tiny twin flow- 

 ers, and the stately spikes of the Indian basket grass 

 like an army with banners. But the names of the hills 

 and passes would mean little to the reader who has not 

 seen them, though to one who has, each name is a 

 magic invocation, bringing the memory of some splen- 

 did rock pile, some alluring meadow, some campfire 

 doused with wistful reluctance. "Beyond the Alps lies 

 Italy "; but beyond Gunsight Pass lies Logan's Pass, and 

 beyond that another, and beyond that another. The 

 range is endless, and the image of tumbled peaks and 

 magic meadows, each with its own individual charm, 

 stretching into the north, into the south, mile after 

 hundred mile, captures the imagination. 



Two names, however, I cannot forego to mention, one 



