ON TOP AGAIN 139: 
Our week’s holiday on top—for such it seemed 
though we worked steadily on our maps—did us all 
a world of good. We were camped on a little rise 
at the very summit of the range in a pretty grove 
of aspen. The camp spring was at the head of a 
tiny draw, which, growing larger and ever larger 
in its winding descent formed finally the Black 
River, one of the largest and most picturesque 
streams of the west side. 
These surroundings, after our recent debilitating 
environment, seemed ideal. The days were clear 
and cool, the nights distinctly chilly. We needed all 
our blankets to keep warm, but the change had the 
effect of making us sleep like dead men, to awake 
each morning vastly refreshed and half famished. 
The question of food, however, became rather 
serious. The packers left for supplies as soon as 
camp was made, but we were nearly out of chuck 
then and a week is a long fast when one is as hungry 
as we were. The situation was aggravated by the 
fact that the woods around us swarmed with wild 
turkey. Every morning we were awakened by the 
‘‘ob-bullob-bullob-bulloble’? which proclaimed their 
proximity. 
One morning, as we came out of our tents, we 
were just in time to see Bert taking careful aim with 
a 22 rifle at some dark body in a fir not ten yards 
from the cook tent. Before he could shoot a flock 
of at least ten turkeys, alarmed by our movements, 
flew out of the tree and disappeared in the forest. 
