nd I am but at the
beginning of my fishing career.

"What are you doing," the Head said to me that last day, as I sat in the
stern busily working at the line. "Knitting?"

We got few fish that day, but nobody cared. The river was wide and
smooth; the mountains had receded somewhat; the forest was there to the
right and left of us. But it was an open, smiling forest. Still far
enough away, but slipping toward us with the hours, were settlements,
towns, the fertile valley of the lower river.

We lunched that night where, just a year before, I had eaten my first
lunch on the Flathead, on a shelving, sandy beach. But this time the
meal was somewhat shadowed by the fact that some one had forgotten to
put in butter and coffee and condensed milk.

However, we were now in that part of the river which our boatmen knew
well. From a secret cache back in the willows, George and Mike produced
coffee and condensed milk and even butter. So we lunched, and far away
we heard a sound which showed us how completely our wilderness days were
over--the screech of a railway locomotive.

Late that afternoon, tired, sunburned, and unkempt, we drew in at the
little wharf near Columbia Falls. It was weeks since we had seen a
mirror larger than an inch or so across. Our clothes were wrinkled from
being used to augment our bedding on cold nights. The whites of our eyes
were bloodshot with the sun. My old felt hat was battered and torn with
the fish-hooks that had been hung round the band. Each of us looked at
the other, and prayed to Heaven that he looked a little better himself.

IX

THE ROUND-UP AT KALISPELL

Columbia Falls had heard of our adventure, and was prepared to do us
honor. Automobiles awaited us on the river-bank. In a moment we were
snatched from the jaws of the river and seated in the lap of luxury. If
this is a mixed metaphor, it is due to the excitement of the change.
With one of those swift transitions of the Northwest, we were out of the
wilderness and surrounded by great yellow fields of wheat.

Cleared land or natural prairie, these valleys of the Northwest are
marvelously fertile. Wheat grows an incredible number of bushels to the
acre. Everything thrives. And on the very borders of the fields stands
still the wilderness to be conquered, the forest to be cleared. Untold
wealth is there for the man who will work and wait, land rich beyond the
dreams of fertilizer. But it costs about eighty dollars an acre, I a