30 



Sierra Club Bulletin 



quered before we heard their call as they drew near our com- 

 forting beacon-fire. One carried a string of forty magnificent 

 Eastern brook trout — gamest fish that swims. The other 

 lugged his coat full of clean, white snow, gathered on the way, 

 to serve as the onfy fitting resting-place for such trout while 

 the camera recorded their glory. 



Bundled snugly in sweaters, we lay spoke-wise around the 

 fire, on the sweaty, hairy blankets that had eased our saddle 

 animals throughout the day. The talk was not of peace trea- 

 ties, nor of art, nor of business. As we lay toasting our toes, 

 turning on this side and then the other to grill one favored 

 spot of our respective anatomies and then another, with the 

 vastness of the outer universe above us, out beyond the march- 

 ing stars, we talked of flapjacks, of a bad spot in the day's trail, 

 of the horse's small intelligence and wonderful memory, of the 

 morrow's journey, of the day's work. 



Life in the High Sierra was sufficient unto itself. For the 

 moment we were free of civilization's bonds, free to live life 

 in its essence, unfettered, unsophisticated, untamed. 



A big mule, curious regarding this extraordinary pile of 

 travel-stained canvas with a sparsely covered head sticking out 

 of one end, came pounding slowly along the earth, my pillow, 

 just as the gray of early morning was becoming tinged with the 

 rosy glow over the eastern peaks. I rolled over for another 

 nap as the packers were starting down the basin toward the 

 faint tinkle of the bell-mare to round up the stock. The smell 

 of frying bacon, blended nicely with the smoke of burning 

 tamarack, tickled my nostrils. The rattle of fork and spoon 

 upon tin plates warned me of a portentous event — breakfast — 

 and I dashed for the icy stream to bring the quick reaction to 

 numb limbs and full wakefulness to a body refreshed by a sleep 

 that only the mountains can give. 



One day was very like another. A great big breakfast of hot 

 mush lubricated from the two-hole can of condensed milk; a 

 heaping plate of fried bacon and potatoes ; a third course, in- 

 definitely prolonged, of sour-dough flapjacks anointed with 

 strawberry jam; bread hot from the Dutch oven; three or four 

 crisp fried trout eaten from the cob — a shameless meal, con- 

 sumed without shame. Then the packing — in ordinary life and 



