s, and as silently stole away."
(This has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good
place for it.)

We had come out on to the foothills again on our way to Kintla Lake.
Again we were near the Flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple
of the Kootenai Hills. The Kootenais on the left, the Rockies on the
right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin.

The meadow-lands were full of flowers. There was rather less Indian
paint-brush than on the east side of the park. We were too low for much
bear-grass. But there were masses everywhere of June roses, true
forget-me-nots, and larkspur. And everywhere in the burnt areas was the
fireweed, that phoenix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead
trees.

There were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish--everything but fresh
meat. We had had no fresh meat since the first day out. And now my soul
revolted at the sight of bacon. I loathed all ham with a deadly
loathing. I had eaten canned salmon until I never wanted to see it
again. And our provisions were getting low.

Just to the north, where we intended to camp, was Starvation Ridge. It
seemed to be an ominous name.

Norman Lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred
miles--they have no idea of distance there--who would kill a forty-pound
calf if we would send him word. But it seemed rather too much veal. We
passed it up.

On and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. No little
rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the
mountains. We were tanned a blackish purple. We were saddle-sore. One of
the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested
rubbing it on the saddle. Packs slipped and were tightened. The mountain
panorama unrolled slowly to our right. And all day long the boatmen
struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now
hardly good enough for horses.

Where the trail turned off toward the mountains and Kintla Lake, we met
a solitary horseman. He had ridden sixty miles down and sixty miles back
to get his mail. There is a sort of R.F.D. in this corner of the world,
but it is not what I should call in active operation. It was then
August, and there had been just two mails since the previous Christmas!

Aside from the Geological Survey, very few people, except an occasional
trapper, have ever seen Kintla Lake. It lies, like Bowman Lake, in a
recess in the mountains. We took some photographs of K