CHAPTER XXII
OUR CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS
We camped in a broad and sunny valley, with lovely grassy meadows, groups of firs and tapering spruces; where clear streams of ice-cold water wound their way through thickets of alder and willows. Across a lake was a snow-capped peak, with foaming cataracts falling over timbered cliffs, and a hanging valley where the slopes of two mountains met in a massive rock wall.
That evening the fish were rising in the lake. After picketing my horse, I lost no time in getting out my rod and fly-book to fish the outlet, where the current was broad and swift. From a high bank at the mouth I made my first cast. The water was clear and many fish in sight, darting hither and thither over a bottom of clean sand and gravel, with pebbles of many shapes and colors shining in the sunlight.
Soon I had a strike. My line tightened and there came a holding back, a palpitation of the rod. Then a big tail flashed in the sunlight and thrashed the surface. It was an open river with good going along the shore. I gave my fish plenty of line and held him in the current. Before long I had a four-pound Dolly Varden flopping on the pebbly shore. I caught several Dolly Vardens, and then a double catch of brook trout, a two-pound and a one-pound fish. My largest brook trout weighed three pounds.
We pitched our lodges near the lake, in a meadow where wild geranium and blue camas were in bloom. Little Creek and his wife were in one of the tepees, Onesta and Nitana and their small daughter Yellow Mink in the other. I slept outside under a pine tree and on the shore of the lake. Overhead were the feathery arms of the tree, with clusters of cones at the [[159]]ends of the branches. The ground was covered with fragrant pine needles, piles of cone scales and shells where the squirrels had been feasting.
From my bed I watched the stars come slowly out above the dark battlements of the mountains. Overhead the nighthawks were feeding, pitching about and diving with a rushing sound of their wings. I saw a flock of ducks on the lake and a solitary beaver swimming in the twilight. After dark the night wind began to blow, sighing through the branches of my pine tree. I heard the lapping of water along the sandy shore, roar of an avalanche, and the distant thunder of cataracts wind-borne across the lake.
There is no sweeter chorus than the songs of birds in the early northern dawn. I heard thrushes and purple finches in the willows and Western yellow-throats and evening grosbeaks in groves of quaking aspen. Along the lake-shore the dominant singers were the white-crowned sparrows with sweet and uplifted melody.
After sunrise I had a swim luxuriously cold. I dove deep and gazed through the depths of the clear green water, while little bubbles floated around my body; then came up into the sunlight and floated on my back, gazing into a sky of deepest blue. For a moment I lay still and my body seemed to leave me; then swam into the lake, cutting through the clear cold water until I landed on a sandy beach, where the sun felt hot on my back and I tingled from head to foot.