Dec. 22, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
Don’t you hear the racket?” Outside it was 
pitch black, with a regular hurricane blowing, 
occasionally quieting down, as if to gather 
new strength; then on it would come with a 
roar, whipping the sleet against the window 
and blowing gravel against the iron stovepipe 
that projected above the roof. It was a 
comfort to know the hut had walls three feet 
thick, was built up against the solid rock, and 
that nothing short of an earthquake could 
tear it down. As E. complained about feeling 
“hungry,” we finished the balance of the pork 
and sausage, and followed- this by a smoke, 
then turned in again and slept until about 7, 
when we woke up by hearing a "strange pat¬ 
tering on the roof. It was rain, and for about 
five minutes it just poured and then stopped 
as suddenly as it had begun. 
About 9 we got up, dressed and had our 
breakfast. The wind was still blowing hard 
and the' snow drifting, and as the prospect 
did not look very rosy, we held a council of 
war as to whether we should stay there or try 
to make a break for the cabin. The question 
was settled by looking over the £rub; there 
was enough only for another meal. We had 
managed to do away with two days’ rations 
in less than twenty-four hours. About 11 
o’clock it cleared up a little, and we started 
for home, taking the upper route along the 
heights, with the wind on our backs, and as 
there was a slight ice crust on the snow, we 
went a-sailing and came home just as the snow 
began coming down again as hard as ever. 
That was how I spent last Christmas Eve. 
Eating and sleeping most of the time, but 
that is customary everywhere about Christmas 
time, and we certainly did not have any 
trouble with our digestion, which is liable 
to go back on the town folks during those 
critical days. 
During the week of my stay we had some 
days of fine weather, but very cold, with the 
quicksilver down into the bulb. Nevertheless, 
we secured some ptarmigan and black cock. 
It is rather surprising to see the black cock at 
this altitude, but these were possibly some old 
fellows—as they were very large—who could 
not resist the tempting buds of the. few crip¬ 
pled birch trees. After they had finished bud¬ 
ding, they would hurl themselves into the 
loose snow, where they stayed all day; then 
it was an easy matter to shoot the wily old 
rascals, as they came out like a bombshell- 
The main thing was to keep cool and let them 
get off a little" as they sometimes rose right 
at the tips of the skis. 
By the way, we had a covey of nine quail 
right by the house, where they had been all 
winter. They would go around where the wind 
had swept away the snow, trying to find food; 
but they had a hard time of it, poor fellows, 
and if E. had not occasionally thrown out 
some food, would probably have starved to 
death. When one considers that the quail 
has been imported to Norway from a good 
deal milder climate, it strikes one with wonder 
how they could stand the cold up there in the 
mountains above the timber line. 
It was with regret I bade E. good-by, when 
my time was up, and turned my'face toward 
civilization again. I have been up there in 
spring a’nd summer and in fall, when Jack 
Frost has painted the leaves of the dwarf birch 
a bright red and golden brown. Then, if 
you stand at some little elevation, you will 
see at your feet, as far as the eye reaches, a 
vast carpet with roses of gold and red, with 
here and there the flaming scarlet of some 
lichens, on a ground of delicate gray rein¬ 
deer moss, while overhead tower in solemn 
silence the majestic gray peaks with their caps 
of snow. But it is in winter that the moun¬ 
tains have always attracted me the most. 
Then on your skis you can skim along like 
the bird, coasting down the slopes for miles 
at a mile-a-minute gait, with nothing in the 
way, no trees nor, as a rule, stones, only the 
clean, smooth surface of the snow all around. 
And if it is a day with a cloudless blue sky, 
a bright sun and an air clear as crystal, you 
can see for miles and miles peak after peak 
all snowy white, resembling nothing so much 
as a frozen choppy sea. ( And at sunset, when 
every peak blushes a ro*sy red, gradually fad¬ 
ing into pink, it seems like a scene from fairy¬ 
land. 
Is it any wonder a fellow always longs to 
get up there, to the home of the reindeer, 
God’s country, as my friend calls it? 
Chr. G. 
Hamar, Norway. * 
Over Old-Time Trails.—I. 
After years of absence, I found myself last 
autumn once more crossing the yellow plains 
of northern Montana. It was pleasant again 
to ride over the rolling hills, so long familiar; 
to see the great arch of the blue sky reaching 
down to meet the prairie on every hand, ex¬ 
cept the west, where rose mountains, gray 
with distance, their pinnacles whitened by 
early snows; to smell the breath of the sage 
brush, carrying one back to other rides made 
ANOTHER VIEW OF SKI JUMPS. 
A YOUNG SKI RUNNER. 
ten or twenty or thirty years ago; to see on 
either side of the trail the little finches rise, 
start their songs and swing downward on 
widespread wings until the ground was 
reached; to hear the whistle of the meadow¬ 
lark and sometimes to see far off what looked 
like a faint streak of black smoke passing 
across the sky—the migrating water fowl 
already beginning to take their way south¬ 
ward. 
Here we were on historic ground; well to 
the north of the long trail traveled one hun¬ 
dred years ago by Lewis and Clark, and still 
further to the south of the stream up which, 
in their irrepressible ardor for fur, heroic 
Canadians and Hudson Bay men and North¬ 
westers pushed their way toward the moun¬ 
tains. Long before the coming of the' white 
men this had been the battleground of the 
only true Americans- Here Crow and Shake 
and Kootenai and Pend d’Oreille had hunted 
the buffalo, which gave them food and cloth¬ 
ing and shelter; and later over these yellow 
plains had swept down from the north the 
predatory hordes of Blackfeet, who had driven 
out Snake and Crow, and had- made infrequent 
9 77 
the Kootenai and Pend d’Oreille excursions 
to the buffalo ground. 
It is a land of myth and story. Along Ihese 
mountains, if we may believe the tale, the 
Blackfoot Creator once traveled on foot, here 
throwing up a butte, there cutting' a gash 
in the prairie, at another point sliding down 
some steep hill and leaving the marks of his 
passage in the groundt Still further to the 
north, on Old Man’s River, is the place where 
he gambled, and the stones with which he 
played his game may still be seen by one who 
is curious enough to visit the spot. This is 
the land looked down on by Chief Mountain, 
a land “where every butte and mountain peak 
teems with legend and where every bison skull 
on the prairie tells its story.” 
It was pleasant to travel over these plains, 
though now they are crossed by wagon roads 
running in many directions, though now the 
dark buffalo of years ago have giv.en place 
to the spotted cattle of the white men, though 
now 'along the streams low log houses have 
taken the place of the white lodges of the 
olden time. Yet to-day, as then, one meets 
the dark skinned sons of the soil, but now they 
are habited in white men’s clothing and are 
interested in white men’s industries. Blunting 
and war are pursuits loil'g forgotten. Instead 
of bow and lance and gun, the pick and the 
shovel and the branding iron are the imple¬ 
ments with which they are striving to wrest 
a livelihood from the cold bare plains, their 
home. 
The mountains drew nearer and nearer un¬ 
til, passing almost under the shadow of the 
Chief, we followed up the great St. Mary s 
Lakes, which lie between high mountains, 
and camped at the Narrows of the Upper 
Lake. Here a day or two was spent idling in 
the warm October sunshine tempered by 
the breezes which come down from the snowy 
heights; and then packing our slender bag¬ 
gage we set out for the northland to cross the 
line into Canada. A few pleasant days of 
travel took us over the border, and to the 
land of the Bloods, close-kin to the Black- 
feet and Piegans, speaking the same language, 
having the same customs and worshipping the 
same gods. An old friend looks after the 
material interests of these Indians, and with 
him we spent a few days. Nothing was seen 
of his people, however, for, like all other In¬ 
dians of these modern times, they had gone 
to work, and a thousand of the Bloods' were 
absent from the reservation at the town of 
Ravmond, pulling beets for the white men. 
On and near the Blood reserve are places 
famous in the fur trading days of forty years 
ago. At Whoop Up, Stand Off and Fort Kipp, 
the traders from old Fort Benton built for 
themselves stout log houses, where they re¬ 
ceived the furs and peltry brought in by the 
Indians, and paid for them with the guns, am¬ 
munition, blankets, red paint and whiskey 
desired by their sa,vage visitors. They were 
a hardy and enduring lot, these old-time 
traders; frank, honest and well-meaning, . for 
the most part, even though much of the time 
engaged in pursuits that were illegal. Among 
themselves they were square, ready at any 
time to give their lives for their friends, and 
to fight to the death for what they believed 
their rights. They were not so black as they 
have been painted, those products of a fron¬ 
tier which has long ago passed away. 
A little later a pleasant party of four set 
out from Macleod, west o.ver the Crow’s Nest 
Branch of the Canadian Pacific Railway for 
Kootenai Lake, intending to go thence to the 
main line and then east, visiting on the way 
the Banff National Park and other points of 
interest on the line- 
Fort Macleod was long famous as the camp 
"of the mounted police, when they first came 
into this western country in 1874. For a 
time it was merely the barracks of the police, 
but a settlement sprang up about it, and now 
for many years it has been an increasing 
town. Within the last two or three years 
immigration into this Canadian Northwest 
