WHERE GLACIERS FEED THE APPLE ROOTS 83 



As I stood on the wind-swept col of War Creek Pass 

 and faced the advancing wave line of the Cascade Range 

 I knew exactly what he meant. I knew the pride 

 that was in his heart, the hunger for this lofty spacious- 

 ness, this tempestuous beauty, that gnawed his bosom 

 as he tramped the crowded eastern streets. Then my 

 thoughts descended into the hole where the green lake 

 lay, and went back down its jewelled pathway to the 

 orchards at its lower end, fighting their way up as close 

 as they could get to the fir-clad cliffs and the eternal 

 snows. There was no pity in my thoughts for these 

 pioneers of the apple, nor admiration, either. There 

 was only envy. They dwell by one of America's noblest 

 lakes, the great hills are their guardians, beauty their 

 priceless heritage. The pure sap of the glaciers is in 

 their perfect fruit. Is it not possible, is it not likely, 

 that something of this beauty and this spaciousness will 

 go into the generations yet to be, into the men and 

 women, too? 



I stumbled down from War Creek Pass, leading my 

 horse till the gathering shadows made me prefer to trust 

 his feet rather than my own a humbler and, I trust, a 

 better American. 



