ghost of the Confederacy, silent, alone."

As spring came on and the end of my history of Grant drew near, my
longing for the open air, the forest and the trail, made proof-reading a
punishment. My eyes (weary of newspaper files and manuscripts) filled
with mountain pictures. Visioning my plunge into the wilderness with
keenest longing, I collected a kit of cooking utensils, a sleeping bag
and some pack saddles (which my friend, A. A. Anderson, had invented),
together with all information concerning British Columbia and the proper
time for hitting The Long Trail.

In showing my maps to Howells in New York, I casually remarked, "I shall
go in _here_, and come out _there_--over a thousand miles of Trail," and
as he looked at me in wonder, I had a sudden realization of what that
remark meant. A vision of myself, a minute, almost indistinguishable
insect--creeping hardily through an illimitable forest filled my
imagination, and a momentary awe fell upon me.

"How easy it would be to break a leg, or go down with my horse in an icy
river!" I thought. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my explanations, gayly
assuring Howells that it was only a magnificent outing, quoting to him
from certain circulars, passages of tempting descriptions in which
"splendid savannahs" and "herds of deer and caribou" were used with fine
effect.

In my secret heart I hoped to recapture some part of that Spirit of the
Sunset which my father had found and loved in Central Minnesota in
Fifty-eight. Deeper still, I had a hope of reenacting, in helpful
degree, the epic days of Forty-nine, when men found their painful way
up the Platte Canon, and over the Continental Divide to Oregon. "It is
my last chance to do a bit of real mountaineering, of going to school to
the valiant wilderness," I said, "and I can not afford to miss the
opportunity of winning a master's degree in hardihood."

That I suffered occasional moments of depression and doubt, the pages of
my diary bear witness. At a time when my stories were listed in half the
leading magazines, I gravely set down the facts of my situation. "In far
away Dakota my father is living alone on a bleak farm, cooking his own
food and caring for a dozen head of horses, while my mother, with
failing eyes and shortening steps, waits for him and for me in West
Salem with only an invalid sister-in-law to keep her company. In a very
real sense they are all depending upon me for help and guidance. I am
now the head