or
many prefer the automobile to the pack-horse, and the beach to the
highlands, and for such, the road maps of the automobile associations
and the shore line of the Pacific open an endless field of pleasure.

In hunting and fishing, too, the sportsman need not confine himself to
the mountain regions, and whether the hunter use gun or camera there are
regions throughout the three States where his rewards for patient
diligence will be ample. Ducks and geese abound, from the Sacramento
marshes to the sloughs of the Columbia and the myriad shooting grounds
of Puget Sound, and there are deer and bear and occasionally a cougar or
cat scattered through the hills. Coyotes roam the sagebrush plains,
devastating neighbors to the sage hens and rabbits, grouse lurk in the
timbered foothills, and gay Chinese pheasants are prospering--where they
have been "planted" by the State game authorities.

With all the rivers, and all the lakes, of the three States to choose
from, it would be folly to list any special ones of marked piscatorial
virtue, even if one were able where superlatives are appropriate in
describing so many. Suffice to say that from actual experience I know
that there are streams in the Sierras, in the Oregon Cascades, and in
the Olympics of Washington whose very contemplation would make Izaak
Walton long for reincarnation. Back East--in New Brunswick and Cape
Breton, for instance--one often catches as many and as large trout, and
sometimes more and larger, than in the Western streams. But after all,
the fish are a small part of the fishing. The tame sameness of the
surroundings of the down-east waters compares ill with the theatrical
bigness and infinite variety of setting of most of the Western rivers,
where half the delight is the recurring glimpses of snowy peaks and the
majestic companionship of colossal trees.

Beside a little lake not far from the summit of the Cascades is a small
cabin. It is squatty in appearance and strongly constructed, but has
neither the earmarks of a ranger's station nor of a trapper's winter
home. A few yards away, where a little creek enters the lake, a rather
elaborate dam adds to the mystery.

"It's a fish station," explained Mac cryptically.

Later I heard arrangements made for the transportation of half a ton of
grub to the cabin--a matter of fifty miles of wagon haul, twelve by
pack-horse, and five by boat. The supplies were to be brought in before
the snows came in the Fall, a