6 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July i, 1905. 
deer. The solution was furnished after dark when the 
sky was lit up with a raging forest fire directly below us. 
During the day the wind must have driven the smoke 
through another canon. An investigation was started 
and we found out to our dismay that there were not one 
but three fires approaching our camp. There was noth- 
ing to do but hold out until morning, and that we did, 
fortunately the horses were corralled. That night was a 
peculiar one. From where we slept we could see one of 
the fires and every once in a while the wind would send 
over a whiff of the resinous smell of the burning timber. 
It was 4.30 when I woke up. Was it possible that the 
smoke could obscure the sun? That was not the cause, 
but then — . Then Bob woke up and saluted the day with 
a few of his highly ornamental epithets. “No,” he said, 
“it isn’t the 'fire, but look over there yonder and see 
what’s coming.” The wind blew in sharp, short jerks, 
heavy ice cold drops commenced to fall. “And what is 
that queer looking air that hangs ever the mountains to 
the south like a dirty tarpaulin.” “Snowstorm,” said the 
guide laconically. 
No time was lost that morning, and before 8 we were 
on our way to Johnson Hot Springs. “It is not very far, 
and once there we will be as safe as in God’s pocket,” 
quoth Bob. 
So we rode on. Somewhat in a hurry, too, and with 
a strong feeling of uncertainty. If the snowstorm, which 
apparently was raging along the Craigs, should overtake 
us before we reached the Hot Springs there would be a 
possible delay of a week or more. 
“They are shifting the scenery,” said the Big Chief,' 
“and I’d like to be in a sort of permanent camp before 
the curtain goes up.” 
But it all was not meant for the close of an act, merely 
a transformation on the open scene, for about ii o’clock 
I espied a most welcome blue spot in the skies west of 
us, about the size of a silver dollar. That thing elabo- 
rated on itself until it became a sort of patch, and then 
At Syringa Post-office, Aug. 22. Last station in civilization. An 
irrigated patch on the Clearwater v, here fruit is grown. 
expanded with laudable energy into ag deep blue sky. 
What a change that made in the landscape, not to men- 
tion in our own feelings. 
That same day, afternoon, we rede into camp at Jerry 
Johnson’s cabin, after having forded the Lochsa above 
the mouth of Hot Springs Creek. , 
Here we found company, Dr. Bryan and Mr. Wilford 
Allen, of Pullman, Wash., Mr. Richie and M.r. Bergen. 
These gentlemen invited us over into their c 4 mnjodious 
and comfortably situated camo, where we had a smoke 
with Mr. Bergen, who “set ’em up” to a* cigar; sure 
enough a cigar. It made a profound impression on us. 
Two days were spent resting up, bathing and fishing, 
and then on a Sunday morning began our long ride to- 
ward the Lo-Lo trail. 
That day’s march cannot be effaced from my memory. 
Climbing the steep mountain side we reached the high A 
plateau and from there we could see away, away Over 
deep canons and a mass of peaks, the mountain saddle- 
where the Lo-Lo was said to run. So far the trail only' 
existed on a map little reliable, and we rode along 
through this perfect desert, following the guide wdro 
trusted his memory so- that the occasional blazes only 
served as a sort of verification of his judgment. It was 
so intensely quiet that your voice sounded as out of a 
megaphone. But all things come to an end, even canons 
and mountains, and soon making a sharp turn east we 
found ourselves on a clean cut, well blazed trail. 
“Boys, we are on the Lo-Lo !” shouted Bob, and so it 
was. We were in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark, on 
the same trail over which traveled that dauntless band 
of men, who helped to find the natural boundaries of the 
United States. 
At first water we went into camp, and when night 
came we counted six or seven big forest fires across the 
Lochsa country that we had traveled over. Two days 
later we forded this stream the last time, and soon came 
to Packer’s Meadows, a beautiful meadow embedded in 
the foot hills near the Idaho-Montana State line. So we 
had reached our last camping ground and to-morrow was 
to be our last day in camp. The last meal was being 
prepared and then we squatted down to partake of the 
final effort of the Herr Director. 
“Bob, where is the syrup can?” some one asked. “The 
last time I saw her she was hanging up on the ground.” 
The meal finished we corralled the horses, packed up 
our personal belongings and then, leaving the camp in 
First fresh meat at camp, Fish Lake. Wm. F. Kettenhach and 
Robt. Willoughby, Guide. 
charge of the Herr Director, Bob and Paddie, we rode 
out toward civilization. 
Half a mile from camp we came upon the newly estab- 
lished State line of Idaho and Montana. A plain stone 
monument marks the spot and blazed bearing trees give 
the date. 
By I o’clock we had the first signs of civilization. First 
a long corral, then a few heads of cattle on pasture, 
pretty soon some log houses, and then we knew that we 
had reached the upper Lo-Lo springs. The cows seemed 
a wonderful sight to us, but our admiration had no 
bounds when all at once we discovered two little children 
playing. 
Of course it is ludicrous that a month and a half of 
the life in the wilderness should make one gaze with 
wonderment upon these articles of creation, but the fact 
remains that these children’s voices sounded like heaven- 
ly music to us. 
Not far away greeted us Lo-Lo Hot Springs Hotel, 
where hold out mine hosts Plermaii and Alvin Gerber. 
The hotel is a rustic affair, being the main building of a 
group of log cabins, bath houses, stables, general store, 
e;c., all scattered along in a picturesque little canon on 
the left bank of Lo-Lo Creek. While the hotel lacked 
some of the essential features of a hostelry, that defect 
was amply made up by the attentiveness and cheery man- 
ner of the tw'o brothers. Indeed we were treated royally, 
which was the more remarkable as we had hardly enough 
The next surprise was our bed. A closed in room, 
with a whitewashed ceiling is no fit place to sleep in any-- 
how. You don’t hear the whispering of the leaves, the-'^ 
gurgling of the waters, nor do you see the moon or the ' 
stars. ■ i . 
Late the following afternoon we reached Missoula, 
af.er a ride of forty miles, grimy, dusty and tired. Our 
clothes were left behand in Lewiston, so we sent our : 
corduroys to the tailor, although the taxidermist would 
have been the proper person to take care of them. The- . 
bathtub and the barber chair, together with some new ' 
underwear and shoes, wrought wonders and soon we 
thought ourselves on the road to recovery from the wild- 
derness. But that was a delusion, for when Albert and 
Bill Nash walked along the street I heard one citizen of 
Missoula say to ano.her one “Wild West,” and the 
other one “Yes, wild and woolly.” But that was not the 
end of it, for when we passed a saloon one of the out- 
hanging patrons comprised his views in the one word, 
“Prospectors.” 
Prospectors, that indeed is the limit; grubstaked pros- 
pectors from the Black Lead! 
In the meantime, with the kind assistance of Mr. Mc- 
Leod, of the Missoula Mercantile Company, we had been 
successful in raising money, and now planned a grand 
reception for our companions of the pack train. My, my, 
how they looked, I can’t say that I was ashamed of them, 
for they were all too good fellows to be ashamed of under 
any cirmustances, but they did look just a little bit ; 
tougher than I thought possible. Bob’s eagle-like pro- 
boscis stuck through the dust on his faCe like a moun- 
tain ridge when the snow melts away. But most of it 
came out in the wash. 
At 8 in the evening the house served the best it could 
afford, and for the last time the boys were together. Mr. 
McLeod was our guest, representing his home city. Of 
course^ speeches were made, not the “I-don’t-know-what 
to-say” kind, but sportsmen’s expressions of satisHction 
and good fellowship. For the last time Bob gave us the 
song of the “White Starched Shirt,” and as the hours 
drew nearer that ended our common experience a faint 
undercurrent of sorrow at parting crept in. It was a 
wonderful experience, this ride of 400 miles through the 
wilderness, with our camps, hunting and fishing expe- 
ditions. None of us will ever forget it nor the good fel- 
lows that were with us. 
So we waited on the platform of the depot at Mis- 
soula for the North Coast Limited. It almost felt like 
a funeral ; there we were going to go back in our cordu- 
roys, high-tilted, leather-banded hats, only the bandanna 
had given way to a red necktie. 
There, far away, the shriek of a whistle and the glar- 
ing headlight of the fast approaching train hove in sight. 
“Look ahead. Bob,” said Billy Nash, “and see whether 
the trail is blazed.” 
That allusion was too much for Bob, one great big 
tear rolled over his cheek when he said, “I do hate to 
see you boys go.” And then followed a great hugging 
and kissing just as though we were a lot of girls out of 
a boarding school. 
But I am not ashamed to tell it; rather did we feel 
highly honored by this spontaneous outburst of affec- 
tion. “All on board,” called out the conductor; slowly 
our palace on wheels glided out into the night and soon 
the last faint view of our friends was swallowed up in 
the dark. 
When we turned in for the night I took the “sky par- 
lor,” for Bill Nash declared that he was done climbing, 
and before going to sleep to the rhythmic clatter of the 
Richard Lieber. Paddie the Hostler. 
NASH’’s FIRST BEAR. 
W. T. Nash. Albert Lieber. 
money to pay our bill. But that was a matter of small 
import with Herman. On the contrary, if we needed 
money we could have it, besides, he would accompany us 
to town the next day and see that we were duly taken 
up at Missoula. At supper time we all assembled in the 
dining room, and I confess it was a funny feeling to sit 
down on a chair and eat off a table with a genuine table- 
cloth on. We also had had a tablecloth in camp. On the 
march it had served as a pack cover, and in camp the 
cleaner (euphonistically speaking) side was turned up 
to mark a tablecloth. A chemist would have been able to 
trace all bills of fare on it. Grease spots, Worcestershire 
sauce, mustard, syrup and beans had left their marks 
upon it. 
wheels, there passed before my eyes again these won- 
drous pictures of peaks and canons, deep forests or 
burned tracts, there appeared again Fish Lake, its silvery 
waters, and over there our camp held what comforts the 
wilderness could offer; there rose up visions of our pack 
train, of the Lo-Lo trail of bear, cougar, elks and deer; 
all that and vastly more of which I have endeavored to 
tell a part tO‘ you, my kind and patient reader, 
Richard Lieber. 
All communications for Forest and must be 
directed to Forest and Stream Pub. Co., Nem Ydrkj to 
receive attention. We have no other oMce. 1 ' 
