Dec. io, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
929 
we readied about the middle of the afternoon. 
We passed patches of snow which looked out 
of place in the hot sun and finally made camp 
by the side of a little valley in a small open 
glade protected from the cold breeze by clumps 
of balsam. A little stream, fed by a glacier 
just above us, trickled close by, and on all sides 
rose the high mountain peaks with patches of 
snow and small glaciers in all the depressions. 
Our climb had been strenuous, the trail bad. We 
had encountered much brule and considerable 
down timber and had reached an altitude of 6,500 
feet, but the horses were all as fresh as daisies. 
Even as we reached our camping ground we 
saw evidence that we were getting into game 
country. Along the side of the opposite ridge 
stalked a big mule deer stag, stopping now and 
then to crop a mouthful and finally disappearing 
in the distant brush. While dinner was cooking, 
two more mule deer appeared in almost the same 
place, and we spent some time watching them 
through our glasses. About 5, Bill suggested 
that we stroll over the ridge -at our back and 
spy out the country. It was later borne in upon 
me by sad experience that Bill’s idea of a 
stroll coincided remarkably with my definition of 
a stiff climb, and that when he suggested any¬ 
thing more strenuous than strolling,, it was time 
to prepare for a hard day. 
We strolled up the ridge to our south and saw 
a wide valley, sparsely grown with brush and 
clotted with little lakes of snow. Sheltering our¬ 
selves from the cold wdnd behind some rocks, 
we got our powerful glasses into action and dis¬ 
covered four, then two more mule deer. The 
last two looked like big stags and we decided 
to have a try at them. Down into the valley we 
went on the run, then along the dry bed of a 
creek for a mile or more, and a stiff breather 
up the opposite side to the bench on which we 
had seen them. The brush was thick in patches, 
and when we reached the spot where our quarry 
had been, there was nothing to be seen. Disap¬ 
pointed, we searched one brush patch after an¬ 
other, only to have our stag finally see us first 
and get away. However, we consoled ourselves 
with the thought that he was not nearly so big 
as he had looked from a distance, and finding 
no trace of the others, we started back for camp. 
The stroll had developed into eight miles of hard 
walking and climbing and the bed roll looked 
good. 
Another brilliant day greeted us as we started 
for the summit of the big ridge to our north, 
and the climbing soon made one forget the chill 
of early dawn. The footing at the start was 
good, and we soon made the top of the ridge, 
along which we worked our way toward the high 
peak to our left. This whole mountain used to 
be good sheep country, and as it had not been 
hunted in several years, we hoped to find a ram 
there, although our real hunting grounds lay 
much further west. The chance was worth a 
day’s work, however, so we climbed the peak, 
called by the Indians Sulaapteen—Sheep Moun¬ 
tain—and finding nothing there, clambered over 
the rocks and broken stone to the continu¬ 
ing ridges and peaks beyond. The going in 
places was very bad, and there were big stretches 
of slide rock to cross. These slides are nearly 
always at an angle of about 45 degrees, and con¬ 
tinuous walking across them is a great strain on 
the ankles and very tiring. Our climb took us 
up to 9,500 feet and across patches of snow and 
glaciers. The air, while thin, was exhilarating, 
and no uncomfortable effects of ithe altitude 
were apparent. Sheep sign we found in abund¬ 
ance, but all were old, and after five miles of 
foot work so rough that we could not make 
more than a mile an hour, we headed for home. 
having seen no sheep nor game of any kind ex¬ 
cept one lone goat on a distant mountain and a 
flock of ptarmigan endeavoring to escape from 
an eagle. 
After our day on Sulaapteen we moved camp 
about ten miles west over several high ridges 
and through high passes to a tiny emerald green 
lake 200 yards wide, lying in a little basin sur¬ 
rounded by high ridges and just above the tim¬ 
ber line. To the north loomed a high peak, on 
the other side of which, according to Bill, was a 
canon in which sheep might be found. 
The trail was to be so called by courtesy only, 
and we had soon left all traces of it behind. 
Many big rock slides and steep hills were crossed. 
Down one particularly bad descent about a mile 
long we of necessity dismounted and led our 
horses, plunging and stumbling down, always 
with the unpleasant sensation that one’s horse 
might at any moment come rolling down upon 
him. It passed at times through down timber, 
but we were able to get through without much 
axe work. 
The big game, if any was about, kept well out 
of sight, but we saw several big yellow-haired 
porcupines, and the hairy marmots or ground¬ 
hogs oftentimes sounded their queer loud whistle. 
Big blue grouse, some of which I shot with my 
.22 pistol, ptarmigan and Clark’s crows—gray 
birds with black wings and tail splotched with 
white—also were fairly plentiful. 
We hunted the ridge behind us in the after¬ 
noon and spent the following day on the big 
mountain and in the canon. It was a tre¬ 
mendous day’s work, though an early morning 
plunge in the icy waters of the lake fed by a 
glacier in plain view not half a mile away had 
made me feel fit for anything. The going was 
not bad at first, up over a grass-covered ridge 
and down into the valley beyond, stopping at 
THE OUTFIT ON BRIDGE RIVER. 
