A TRAE Nee Ol Vavieines: 
RALPH CLARK, 
Probably one of the least known parts 
of our land is the region, about 60 miles 
square, occupied by the Olympic moun- 
tains, where, if one go inland 2 miles 
from almost any point on salt water, he 
will be in a wilderness inhabited by but 
few settlers and the fast diminishing larger 
game. For several years I had desired 
to visit that section, and finally on De- 
cember 24, 1894, with a companion, landed 
at Port Crescent from the little steamer 
which made tri-weekly trips from Seattle 
to Cape Flattery. Shouldering our rifles 
and packs we made ready to start into the 
woods. 
Our first night was to be passed at a 
little cabin on the shore of Lake Cres- 
cent, a beautiful sheet of water, com- 
pletely shut in by the mountains, and 
lying about 10 miles back from the Straits 
of Juan du Fuca. This lake is in the di- 
rect line of travel between the straits and 
the Quillayute valley, and because occa- 
sionally hunters, ranchers and _ timber 
cruisers stop at the aforementioned cabin, 
it has assumed the name of hotel. Col- 
onel John Hardin is proprietor and fac- 
totum. But the fame and dignity of this 
hcuse rest not solely on the fact that it 
is called a hotel; Uncle Sam has decided 
that it shall be officially recognized, and 
a post office is concealed somewhere about 
the premises. Bill Dawson is postmaster 
and shares the joys and sorrows of the 
colonel’s life. 
When we landed from the steamer late 
in the afternoon of December 24, a 2-gal- 
lon demijohn was tenderly lifted off, and 
of course instantly found someone to re- 
ceipt for it. The recipient was a typical 
miner, a certain Major Cherry, and from 
him we learned that the whiskey was a 
present to the people at the lake and he 
had been commissioned to get it over 
the trail. He was an entertaining old 
fellow, possessed of considerable educa- 
tion, but showing traces. of hardship. Soon 
after starting, he said: 
“Gentlemen, I don’t know if you ever 
indulge, but it seems hardly fair not to of- 
fer you a drink.” After receiving assur- 
ance that we did not use stimulants, he re- 
marked: 
“Well, I believe Ill just try it, because 
it may not be worth packing over the trail, 
and in that case I ought to know it at 
once.” 
As he raised the demijohn, he added: 
“But, gentlemen, permit me to say there 
418 
can be no doubt that ‘this is the forest’s 
prime evil.’ ”’ 
For a few miles our conversation was 
of the outside world and the current 
events, but the major’s first drink was 
only a starter, and as he transferred his 
load, or as he expressed it, ‘‘shifted car- 
go,” he became more loquacious and be- 
gan to repeat history and poetry for our 
edification, beginning with his favorite 
theme, the Relief of Lucknow. The old 
fellow, though not slow in some re- 
spects, was not very fleet of foot after 
partaking of a few drinks of “‘prime evil,” 
and we left him to come on as best he 
could, and hastened on to the lake, ar- 
riving about 7 p. m. Guided by the light 
from the cabin we followed a few rods 
along the shore, and were soon enjoy- 
ing the hospitality of Colonel Hardin, 
who arose from a game of pedro to wel- 
come us. 
While we were eating supper I observed 
a look of anxiety on the colonel’s face, 
which was explained when he asked if a 
demijohn had been put off the steamer. 
We answered that one had been, that it 
had been given to Major Cherry, and 
that we had left him several miles down 
the trail, performing the paradoxical feat 
of simultaneously increasing and. dimin- 
ishing his load. The colonel sighed and 
dolefully remarked to Dawson: 
“Our Merry Yuletide is a d—n failure 
this year; we orter all 3 gone.” 
About Io p. m. unsteady steps were 
heard outside, a fumbling at the latch, and 
the door opened, showing Clterry—hatless, 
covered with mud, the globe broken from 
his lantern, but the demijohn still unin- 
jured. He was wise enough not to try to 
sit down on so small an object as a chair, 
but seated himself rather uncertainly on 
a trunk near the stove, while Dawson 
lifted the demijohn with. the air of one 
who could tell the exact amount remain- 
ing, without the trouble of raising and 
lowering it an indefinite number of times, 
a; others are wont to do. The result 
seemed to satisfy him, and instead of the 
outburst I had expected, he began to 
joke Cherry on his appearance. The lat- 
ter defended himself, principally by the 
phrase: 
“You're a liar, Bill Dawson.” 
So the evening wore away, Postmaster 
Dawson occasionally taking down the 
postal rules and reading to Cherry the 
statutes relating to the presence in post- 

