“Suppose we climb up on the shelf above,” Jack suggested, “and see if we can find anything in the sky that looks like an aeroplane. I really think Ned and Jimmie will travel here on the air line.”
Pat fished a field-glass out of his haversack and passed it over to Jack.
“You boys go on up,” he said, “and see what there is to be seen. I’ll stay here and cook this bacon. I could eat a hog on foot right this minute. Where did you put those canned beans?”
“Never you mind the canned beans,” laughed Jack. “It will be time enough to open them when you get the bacon fried to a crisp. I see our finish if you got one of the bean cans opened. Say, but I could eat a peak off the divide!”
“Well, the divide is up there, all right,” Pat grinned, “go on up and take a bite off it. On this side that ridge away up there the rivers run into the Pacific ocean. On the other side they run into the Atlantic ocean. Split a drop when you get on top and send your best wishes to both oceans. And don’t you remain away too long, either, for this bacon is going to be cooked in record-breaking time.”
Leaving Pat to prepare the supper, Frank and Jack turned their faces upward toward the main divide of the Rocky Mountains, 4,000 feet above their heads. It was a splendid scene, and they enjoyed it to the full. To the north the green forests of British Columbia stood crinkling under the almost direct rays of the August sun, to the east, almost over their heads, stood the backbone of the continent of North America, to the south stretched the broken land of Montana, while to the west lay the valleys and ridges of Idaho, Montana, and Washington beyond which pulsed the mighty swells of the Pacific.
Immediately to the north of the position occupied by the camp, and within a mile of the international boundary line, Kintla lake lay like a mirror in the lap of the mountains, reflecting peaks and silent groves in its clear waters. From the lake, ten miles in length by half that in width, an outlet flowed westward into the North Branch of the Flathead river.
The level plateau where the camp had been pitched was not far from two acres in extent, with the bulk of the mountain to the east, a drop of a thousand feet to the south, and steep but negotiable inclines to the west and north. The lake was 300 feet below the level of the plateau, which was about 3,000 feet above the sea level and 4,000 feet below the summit of the divide at that point in the long range of mountains.
There were peaks to the north and south which showed eternal snow and ice, but there was a lowering of the shoulder of the great chain directly to the east, so there was no snow in sight there. There were forest trees low down in the cañon to the south, and on the slopes to the west and north, but the plateau and the sharp rise toward the summit were bare.
While Pat sliced his bacon and mixed corn-meal, soda, salt and water to make hoecakes, to be fried in bacon grease, Frank and Jack wormed their way up the face of the mountain, toward a shelf of rock some hundred feet above the plateau. It was hard climbing, but the lads persisted, and soon gained the elevation they sought, from which it was hoped to gain a fine view of the country toward Missoula.