72 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



down to the water's edge. It was a gentle, somewhat 

 pastoral scene. 



"This," said our fair driver, "is Lake Chelan or a 

 little of it." 



"Is there more?" I asked. 



She smiled. "In the West," she said, "there is al- 

 ways more." 



We abandoned the purr of the automobile for the un- 

 muffled cough of a large motor boat, and put-put- 

 putted out over the green water, a much more vivid green 

 than the waters of the Columbia River, holding some- 

 thing of the blue of the sky in suffusion. We had no 

 knowledge of our destination, no conception of what we 

 were to see; adventurers on unknown waters, we left 

 the dock and the crude, busy little town behind, sailing 

 in a summer sun toward the gateway of hills where 

 the lake disappeared northwestward. But we were 

 aware of a cool, fresh wind in our faces, and the smell 

 of pure water. We could not fail to note the extraor- 

 dinary clarity of the atmosphere, in which we could 

 easily detect a "rancher" working with a hoe in his 

 newly planted orchard of young trees no taller than he, 

 though the shore at that point was at least a mile away. 

 We could even see the sparkle of the water in the ditch, 

 as his hoe led the life-giving moisture down between the 

 rows. We crowded on the forward deck, and set our 

 faces to the wind. 



The lake did not increase in breadth; it remained 



