CHAPTER XVIII
Alpine Lakes Wilderness to Parson Smith Tree

Sending Colette home raised the question as to why the rest of us were continuing on. Everyone we met at Snoqualmie Pass (pronounced with the accent on "snow") seemed to have a negative opinion on the possibilities of our traveling through the mountains this late in the season. By the calendar, summer was nearly over. According to the residents of this wintertime playground, the wise plan of action for us would have been to trade in our horses for cross-country skis.

This was the mildest of suggestions. When asked, "Why go on?", by others, the best answer we could come up with was a flippant, "if you don't know, we can't explain it to you." The problem was, we were having difficulty understanding this compulsive drive ourselves.

The rains continued. The trail was difficult; in one place a waterfall fell directly onto the narrow path, and then bounced off into nothingness. The only way through, was through. Our twenty miles a day had many perils in it, and little fun.

If the weather had been nice this country would have made us jubilant. The colors of fall ran from brilliant reds to superb subtle yellows. But, then, every time we came to a patch of slippery glare rock, and I turned about to yell for Colette to be cautious, I was reminded that someone, and something, special, was missing.

Even if it had been sun shining; even with the advantage of being able to travel a bit faster; extra oats for the nine horses we had left; more food to go around, less tents to set up, etc., the fact that we were now only a family of four left us gloomy.

I can remember a couple of beautiful campsites while crossing Dutch Miller Gap, and a trail that lead through a rock garden around a lake nestled in a setting that suggested a touch of a master landscaper. I can remember a meadow, miles long with grass horse belly high. An, I remember Bernadette saying, "I wish Colette was here to see all this."

A touch of blue appeared to send our hopes soaring high. Then the clouds covered it over again. Barry Jr., preparing for the downfall that followed, said, "I'm glad Colette and Tag are home, dry, and well."

Since it seemed that every thought concerned Colette and Tag in some way or the other, I tried to divert these feelings by tossing out a phrase and inviting the rest to work on a song. Singing out LOUD was the only activity we could do without turning to talk, and letting rain run down the neck of our slickers. Or getting wetter by reaching into a pocket by digging through three layers of garments. Or having our spirits dampened further by thinking about a couple of little girls we had left behind.