We have now gone two miles, and you have learned to glide on the level, have learned the sort of slope a ski will not take without throwing you, have learned the kick turn which enables you to tack. The trail comes out on an upland pasture, and all at once you feel ready to admit that you know nothing. "Down that?" you say in astonishment, "never!"

"Lots of times!" says E. L., grinning.

Walking, you know, is merely a scientific process of falling forward; and conversely, skiing at least, you should fall not quite backward, but a little to one side or the other; never forward. We tell you this for use only in the final emergency. We don't want you to fall, and we advise you not to expect to fall. For in skiing, what you expect happens. Our final instructions are: keep the knees limber, the shoulders a trifle forward, the sticks held behind, the skis parallel and close together, and have confidence! If you want to steer around a rock on the right, advance the right ski a few inches and press on the inner edge; you will curve a little to the left.

You are surprised how smooth, how easy, and, immediately, how fast is your motion! You crouch lower, remembering something of what we said, bend a little as a gully appears ahead of you, and emerge upright, much to your surprise. "This is glorious. Whew! Just missed that stump-must n't get conceited," you think. There is no more time for thought a long, descending snow-slope, a speed that seems ridiculously fast, and yet somehow not unsafe. scenery is a blur; but the scenery can wait; you will come back and look at it to-morrow. The snow sizzes from your skis, you brake a little with your sticks. And now you go faster, faster, FASTER! and-totter, fall, splash!

The

Three somersaults, and you are now sitting in the pleasant snow watching E. L. flash by like an albino cannon-ball.

The first good downhill run usually convinces the beginner that skiing is the sport to stick to till death intervenes.

E. L. goes up the hill and does the Telemark turn, the Christiania, and a few other stunts while you get your wind. And then we move on. The shadows are getting longer and are an intense blue. A distant range, the Sentinels, is turning rose-color and salmon and flame in the sun's last fire. The ozone in the air, the zest of speed in the blood (for you have got on to the swinging stride by

now), the cold, the color, the beauty everywhere, make you think you are gliding on air. The mercury is below zero now, but you would n't believe it, and the air holds you up like a steel brace; you are perspiring.

And now we stand before the last long coast into our home clearing. "Have a care!" I yell to E. L., disappearing in the dusk.

"You bet!" he shouts back, scooting around a downward curve like a scared rabbit. You and I stand listening until the silence of the arctic night is complete. I tell you to be cautious, wish you luck, and watch you go. You crouch now, gladly.

You spill at that second turn and hope I did n't hear; and quickly get under way again. The dusk gives you confidence. You keep in E. L.'s track, flying down the almost invisible way, the cold air on your

Photograph by Irving L. Stedman

THE GYMKHANA-HALLOWE'EN GAMES ON THE ICE

cheeks, a new exhilaration in your heart. Finally, you shoot out into the clearing, your knees trembling a little from the unaccustomed strain, but with an exultation singing inside you. You can ski. At least, you have come five perilous miles without losing a limb. E. L. is chuckling as you pull up excitedly beside him. I join you with the feelings of Mercury alighting from the air. Through the windows of Wilderness House a welcome light shines, A still more welcome odor of broiled venison will greet you through the opened door. And yet, for all your hunger, your fatigue, you are sorry to quit; you take a last look at the immense, blue, arching beauty of the night.

"Great, was n't it?" says E. L.

"Great!" you echo, heartily. There is a feeling of band-music in your blood, but you can not put it into words-any more than I

can.

As we rode through stretches of pungent sage, Baldy loomed wonderfully distinct and near through the crystalline atmosphere of a western valley. The luminous whiteness of its upper peaks against a clear, Yale-blue sky was inspiring in its appeal; and as we approached closer, the painted autumnal loveliness of its lower hills held us in deep admiration. We rested beside an icy brook that rushed from the mouth of a deep cañon, a stream that was fed by the very snow that from afar had held our eyes.

My companion, Jake Willis, was a grizzled mountaineer, wiry, resourceful, courageous, and keen; and as he surveyed the upper slopes with his telescopic eyes, I knew that he was pondering over the wild adventures that had fallen his way in these very mountains.

We plodded on.

How wondrous was the transition of the seasons! The temperature was mild and invigorating, neither warm nor cold; some of the trees were stripped, some still covered with gorgeous foliage; save for the occasional voices of oncoming winter visitors, the birds were silent; and there was scarcely a sign of wild life among the oak copses of the lower hills. Now and then a solitary flower peeped by the side of the woodland trail; but far more delightful to me was the rustle of the carpet of crisp leaves beneath our feet.

"Did you ever hear of the King of Mount Baldy?" inquired Jake, suddenly, as we stopped to give our panting horses a breathing spell.

"Man, animal, or fairy-tale?" I quizzed incredulously.

"Animal," said he, "the most magnificent mule-deer that ever browsed in the Divide Mountains."

"No," said I, "but I should like to see him."

"Well, it's his trail we 're after," said Jake; "and somehow I feel that we shall find him. He's the biggest and wariest deer in these wilds. I have seen him twice; in fact, so many of us have trailed him and given him up that we have called him the King of Mount Baldy."

"But how can you distinguish his trail?" "Easily enough," said he. "His right hind footprint measures exactly two and one quarter inches across, and when running he

often jumps thirty-one feet, which I personally consider champion measurements for a mule-deer."

All the way up the cañon we discussed the King of Mount Baldy, and by the time we reached the log-cabin, which nestled beneath pines by a spring not far below timberline, my curiosity to see this splendid animal was keenly aroused.

While I was chopping some wood for the evening's fire, several Clark nutcrackers and long-crested jays hopped noisily about, begging for food. My companion must have been habitually kind to these feathered visitors, for the nutcrackers are usually very shy. I threw some crumbs to them after supper.

In the crisp and pure balsam-scented air, how soundly I slept under many quilts! In the morning to my astonishment the ground was laden with two or three inches of snow.

"Fine!” said Jake, as he stretched himself at the cabin door. "This snow will have many advantages for us to-day-it. will deaden the sounds of our steps, help us to follow tracks, and make a splendid background for the King of Baldy. It has its disadvantages, too."

"What can they be?" I inquired, as I struck a match to the coffee.

"Well, snow will make us more discernible to the deer; it conveys dead sounds, such as the crushing of rotten sticks; and unless you put your foot into it toe first, it gives a packing or grinding sound as you walk. Deer, you know, are all eyes, ears, and nose, and you have a quarry worthy of your best efforts when you match your wits against theirs."

Soon after daylight we were on the trail, having left the horses and all surplus baggage at the cabin. It was a joy to walk behind Jake, for he had the slow, sleuth-like gait of a panther, never hurrying and never going straight up a hill. It was marvelous to me to note how easily he picked out trails through heavy timber, over precipices, and beneath ledges. He walked in absolute silence, and if by chance my clumsy feet snapped a little twig he turned upon me a sharp look of disapproval. He scanned the hills on every side and stood sometimes for a minute or more looking at a thicket not over a hundred yards away and in which I could not see the slightest thing worthy of attention.