Mrs. Rinehart believes that real traveling consists in doing no less than in seeing. She has been doing things--strenuous things--in Glacier National Park region, and still more strenuous things in crossing the Cascade Range in Washington by a new trail. The story of the trip takes the reader by proxy into some of the finest scenery there is outdoor, and gives him an alluring glimpse of the delights of a camping-trip among our Western mountains, where every breath of air brings pleasure, where food tastes good and sleep refreshes.
y take about four days on the river. It's a stunt that's never been pulled off."
"Do you mean," I said, "that we are going to run four days of rapids that have never been run?"
I looked around. There, in a group, were the Head and the Big Boy and the Middle Boy and the Little Boy. And a fortune-teller at Atlantic City had told me to beware of water!
"At the worst places," the Optimist continued, "we can send Joe ahead in one boat with the 'movie' outfit, and get you as you come along."
"I dare say," I observed, with some bitterness. "Of course we may upset. But if we do, I'll try to go down for the third time in front of the camera."
But even then the boats were being hoisted into a wagon-bed filled with hay. And I knew that I was going to run four days of rapids. It was written.
It was a bright morning. In a corral, the horses were waiting to be packed. Rolls of blankets, crates of food, and camping-utensils lay everywhere. The Big Boy marshaled t
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