"In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach, a bed may show, Of human bliss to human woe."
Any ablebodied man may endure a few nights of cold, comfortless sleep, but it will tell on him sooner or later; while if he sleep comfortably and eat heartily, he may endure an incredible amount of labor and hardship of other kinds. You may tramp all day with your feet wet, and all your clothing wet, if need be, but be sure you crawl into a good, warm, dry bed at night.
Old Pean complained of feeling unwell during the evening, and in the morning when we got up said he was sick. I prepared a good breakfast, but he could not, or at least would not, eat. Then he told me that he had once fallen down a mountain; that his breast-bone had been crushed in by striking on a sharp rock, and that it always hurt him since when doing any hard work. He said the climb up the mountain with the pack was too hard for him and he was played out, that he could go no farther.
Here was another bitter disappointment, as we were yet two miles from the top of the mountain, and in going that distance a perpendicular ascent of from 2,000 to 3,000 feet must be made. I deliberated, therefore, as to whether I should go up the mountain alone and let Pean go back, but decided it would be useless. I could not carry more load than my sleeping-bag, gun, etc., and therefore could bring no game down with me if I killed it, not even a head or skin. Beside, if he went back he would take his canoe, and I would be left with no means of crossing the lake. So the only thing to be done was to pack up and retrace our steps. On our way down we stopped and took the head and skin off of the deer killed the day before, and I carried them to the canoe. Arriving at the lake, we pulled again for Chehalis in a cold, disagreeable rain. I stopped at the hot springs on my way down, and took my leave of my host, Mr. Brown, who had been so kind to me, and who regretted my ill luck almost as much as I did.
On our return to Chehalis--that town of unsavory odors and salmon-drying, salmon-smoking Siwashes--I at once employed two other Indians, named John and Seymour, and, on the following day we started up Ski-ik-kul Creek, to a lake of the same name, in which it heads ten miles back in the mountains. The Indians claimed that goats, or sheep, as they call them, were plentiful on the cliffs surrounding this lake, and that we could kill plenty of them from a raft while floating up and down along the shores. Seymour claimed to have killed twenty-three in March last, just after the winter snows had gone off, and a party of seven Siwashes from Chehalis had killed ten about two weeks previous to the date of my visit.
