from Banff, wholesome, kindly, cheery, worthy to be the mother of the three most beautiful babes in all the Park and far beyond it; and the Missionary.
It was a Thursday afternoon in early September of '91, golden and glowing in smoky purple hues, a day for the open prairie or for the shadowy woods, according to your choice. Into a democrat we packed our stuff, provisions for a week, so it seemed, a tent with all necessary camp appurtenances, and started up the valley of the little Forty Mile creek that brawled its stony way from the back of the Cascade. We were minded to go by the creek till we should get on to the back of old Cascade, from which we could climb up upon his head. Across the intervening stretch of prairie, then through the open timber in the full golden glory of the September sun, and then into the thicker pines, where we lost the sunlight, we made our way, dodging trees, crashing through thickets, climbing over boulder masses, till at last the Professor, our intrepid driver, declared that it would be safer to take our team no further. And knowing him, we concluded that advance must be absolutely impossible. We decided to make this our camp.
To me a camp anywhere and in any weather is good, so that it be on dry ground and within sight, and better within sound, of water. But this camp of ours possessed all the charms that delight the souls of all true campers. In the midst of trees, tall pines between whose points the stars looked down, within touch of the mountains and within sound of the brawling Forty Mile creek and the moaning pines. By the time the camp was pitched, the pine beds made and supper cooked, darkness had fallen. With appetites sharpened to the danger point, we fell upon the supper and then reclined upon couches of pine, the envy of the immortal gods. With no one to order us to bed, we yarned and sang, indifferent to the passing of the night
