eee ee ee i OF Ne Beall Bal elon 11 
ground at about the location of the hot spring. Above that the water was 
still clear, but it was green as far down stream as we could see and con- 
tinued so until we rode out of sight. 
The ride that morning was through the most beautiful alpine meadows 
I had ever seen. The variety and profusion of the wild flowers was beyond 
description. The mountain sides were veritable gardens of blue penstamen, 
purple asters and Indian paintbrush, ranging from red and yellow to all 
shades of pink and magenta. This last flower was truly glorious and I 
had not been enthusiastic about its red shades here in Illinois. We realized 
why the columbine was the state flower of Colorado. There were great hill- 
sides of it, usually white where it grew in bright sunlight, but developing 
beautiful blue colors in the shade. We were too high for the wild geranium 
which is so profuse at about 8,000 feet. Wild buckwheat furnished the 
white color in Nature’s gardens, and it was everywhere. Little red 
elephant’s heads were still in bloom, and even Parry’s primrose appeared 
at our greatest elevations. At the town of Gothic, through which we rode 
later, there is a summer school for the study of biology, ornithology and 
geology. It had closed when we reached there, but we talked with one of 
the professors of botany. She had identified almost 500 species of plants 
and trees this summer. There were a half dozen camera fiends in our 
group and they were always busy whenever we came to these wonderful 
meadows. 
When we reached the beginning of Triangle Pass and saw above us 
the zigzag of the trail on the bare talus slope, several of the camera people 
lingered behind to take our pictures as the rest of us wound our way up 
and over the 13,000 foot ridge. A great panorama broke on our sight at 
the top but it was so cold and windy that we could not tarry, and besides, 
the next rider coming up was pushing the one ahead along. It started to 
rain a little and we hurried down to a green spot for lunch. A fire was 
started and we made coffee. Then it began to pour. We made and ate our 
sandwiches, protecting them as best we could, rain drops splashing in our 
cups. The afternoon was foggy and we knew that we were missing fine 
scenery. We had to keep close together so as not to get lost in the fog. 
The rain had stopped when we rode into camp at Copper Lake. The pack 
train had preceded us and the tents were up, but everything was in a mess. 
There was mud everywhere. There had not been enough covering for all 
of the packs, and my bedding had been one of those exposed. The bag in 
which I kept it was wringing wet. Fortunately the water had not yet 
penetrated the water-repellant but not water-proof covering. It rained 
on and off (mostly on) for the next twenty-four hours and we wondered 
why we had come on such a fool trip. The water poured in the seams of 
our tent, ran all around the sides, and there were two streams diagonally 
across the canvas floor. Marie kept bailing out with her drinking cup 
while we tried to keep the beds and duffles in what dry spots there were. 
When it poured all twenty of us huddled in the relatively large tent in 
which four of the wranglers slept, and which had a small stove at one end. 
It was dark, muddy, chilly, and dreary. When it did not rain we went out 
to the bonfire and dried our wet clothes. A ring of sticks was stuck in the 
