f the original one,
there remained the Head, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, Joe,
Bob, and myself. To these we added at the beginning six persons besides
our guides and packers. Two of them did not cross the pass, however--the
Forest Pathologist from Washington, who travels all over the country
watching for tree-diseases and tree-epidemics and who left us after a
few days, and the Supervisor of Chelan Forest, who had but just come
from Oregon and was making his first trip over his new territory.

We were fortunate, indeed, in having four forest-men with us, men whose
lives are spent in the big timber, who know the every mood and tense of
the wilderness. For besides these two, the Pathologist and the Forest
Supervisor, there was "Silent Lawrie" Lindsley, naturalist,
photographer, and lover of all that is wild, a young man who has spent
years wandering through the mountains around Chelan, camera and gun at
hand, the gun never raised against the wild creatures, but used to shoot
away tree-branches that interfere with pictures, or, more frequently, to
trim a tree into such outlines as fit it into the photograph.

And then there was the Man Who Went Ahead. For forty years this man, Mr.
Hilligoss, has lived in the forest. Hardly a big timber-deal in the
Northwest but was passed by him. Hardly a tree in that vast wilderness
but he knew it. He knew everything about the forest but fear--fear and
fatigue. And, with an axe and a gun, he went ahead, clearing trail,
blazing trees, and marking the detours to camp-sites by an arrow made of
bark and thrust through a slash in a tree.

Hour after hour we would struggle on, seeing everywhere evidences of his
skill on the trail, to find, just as endurance had reached its limit,
the arrow that meant camp and rest.

And--there was Dan Devore and his dog, Whiskers. Dan Devore was our
chief guide and outfitter, a soft voiced, bearded, big souled man,
neither very large nor very young. All soul and courage was Dan Devore,
and one of the proud moments of my life was when it was all over and he
told me I had done well. I wanted most awfully to have Dan Devore think
I had done well.

He was sitting on a stone at the time, I remember, and Whiskers, his old
Airedale, had his head on Dan's knee. All of his thirteen years,
Whiskers had wandered through the mountains with Dan Devore, always
within call. To see Dan was to see Whiskers; to see Whiskers was to see
Dan.

He slept on Dan's t