Approaching the Low Pass
As we ascended the mountain the mosquitoes grew scarcer and scarcer. About the “land of little sticks” we stopped for a light lunch. Looking in the direction indicated by the guide we saw a large moose feeding in a little swale. Doc could not see him, try as he would. The Indian endeavored to assist him by locating the animal with reference to a good-sized rock, but his untrained eye, even with the aid of field-glasses, could not make out the outline and we had to give up in despair, although he was very keen to see it. Blueberries were quite plentiful all around us and after we ate our lunch we filled up with them as a dessert. We came to a little pond of crystal water at the foot of a small glacier, and as soon as we reached the margin some twenty-five or thirty ptarmigan took flight in all directions. They were still in their moulting plumage. By this time the largest man in the party was unable to keep the pace, and lagging behind kept the entire party back. In starting up the canyon the ambitious member turned up the right side, but erelong came to a place that was impassable and began to shout, “I can’t go any farther along here.” One of the others answered, “Slide, slide!” and the mighty Nimrod took the suggestion and slid down the shale to the bottom and then began the ascent from another point on the opposite side, where he found traveling much easier. This is the common experience of the over-zealous tenderfoot.
Home of the White Sheep
There was a low pass over the mountain and we had to wind our way up, down, and around in order to make it, for it was only accessible by way of an almost perpendicular rock. The leaders reached the top and were required to wait for the rear-guard, but the tail end, before he could get up, had to have the assistance of a rope tied around his body. What with pulling and tugging by the guides on the upper end of the rope, the big fellow was gently and carefully landed in safety. When he reached us he was puffing and blowing like a wind-broken horse and insisted we must camp right there, for he could go no farther. And although we had intended to reach the valley some five miles beyond, where we could get wood and water, we were forced, out of sympathy for a big-hearted, congenial companion, to camp just where we were, he being completely tired out from his trying experience.
After a restless night, with visions of sheep and photographs galore, we were up and ready to start about the time the ptarmigan were clucking their announcement of the rosy dawn. The country was cut into gently-sloping valleys clothed with verdure, between long ridges of mountains partly covered with snow. Through the glasses a dozen or more white specks on the mountain-side could be distinguished as sheep moving slowly as they grazed. We were too far away to tell whether there were any big rams in the flock.
Considering the topographical conditions, the wind and the method of approach, we mapped out our modus operandi and started up the ridge of the mountain on the right. It was a long, hard pull and by the time we reached the summit all were wearied, especially my companion, who kept shouting a request not to go so fast. Several hours after we spied the sheep we were crawling stealthily over the backbone of the ridge where we expected to find the flock, but were sadly disappointed. The photographer threw his kodak back into the case with a quiet “d——”; the other pushed his “safety” on, threw his gun over his shoulder, and turned back with a shaking of the head that was more expressive than language. After examining carefully every likely place, all that we could find of the flock was one lonely little lamb looking at us as though in disgust. Presently it went away down into the valley and we watched it as it ascended the opposite side and disappeared as a little speck over the divide.