hurried and muffled tramping of big boots along the hallways, and finally an attack upon the dining-room, where a breakfast awaited us. When we had eaten to repletion (we had a long day ahead of us), we adjusted our packs, and by three o'clock were in our saddles and off.
It was a glorious night, with moon and stars shining brightly. As we galloped along the Old Man river, now skirting a hill with the stream far below, now rushing along by its margin, now plunging into the darkness of a dense copse of timber, or halting to splash through a little rippling brook, it was truly grand. After going five miles west, we turned due north and bore directly upon the object of our attack, which could just be discerned through the dim light of earliest dawn. How defiantly it seemed to smile, towering some 6000 feet above us, and how we wondered what the day would bring forth. Would we really reach the top, or was inglorious defeat, with its attendant chaffing from our incredulous friends, awaiting us? On our right the Livingstone range rose to a height of 8000 to 9000 feet, and when the first rays of the rising sun peeped timidly over its serrated summit, mingling with the silvery light of the waning moon, the transition from night to day was beautiful. We enjoyed some fine effects in white and black; each clump of trees and valley appearing perfectly black, whilst the dim light of dawn revealed the whiteness of the surrounding snow-capped mountains.
The ride along the winding trail was most enjoyable, and led us finally to a deserted lumber camp, beautifully located in a little glade. It was now 4:30 o'clock, and from this close range, looking through the tree tops, Crow's Nest mountain appeared really grand, but alarmingly defiant. We dismounted, tethered our horses, relieved ourselves of every pound of superfluous dunnage, arranged our packs firmly and comfortably,
