Nowhere else have I seen such a wilderness of various kinds of beauty, dizzy ravines and dainty nooks, peaks and precipices with a hundred feet of snow and unmelted ice packed about them, and the other side of the mountain glowing with dog-tooth violets, or blue with acres of forget-me-nots. Fuzzy white-topped Indian plumes border the snow. Icebergs float on lakes just beyond them. Mountain goats make white specks far up a wall of granite, and deer cross one’s path in the lowlands, which are a tangle of vines and flowers in the midst of pine forests. Over a narrow ridge dividing two valleys, each linking lakes till they fade into the blue of hill and sky, we ride to an idyllic pasture surrounded by mountain peaks, for nowhere in the Park, again unlike Yellowstone, can you go without being in the shadow of some benign giant. There is, as the parched Arizonans say, “a world of water,”--little trickles of streams far up toward the sky, melting from æon-old glaciers which freeze again above them; roaring swashbuckling rivers and cascades, such as you see near Going-to-the-Sun, and the double falls of Two Medicine; placid sun-flecked little pools, reflecting only the woods, broad lakes black as night, mirroring every ripple and stir above them, lakes so cold you freeze before you can wade out far enough to swim, yet full of trout; and belting the whole park, a chain of long lakes and quiet rivers. [Illustration: GLACIER PARK, MONTANA. You can go nowhere in the park without being in the shadow of some benign giant.] The center of the Park is the corral in front of the big hotel at Many Glaciers, where Lake McDermott mirrors a dozen mountains. From this point trails radiate in all directions, varying in length from three hours to three days. Nature is nowhere more fresh and delightful than when seen from the trails of Glacier Park,--and as for human nature! I don’t know which is more engrossing,--the tourist or the guides. Personally I lean toward the guides, for the subtler flavor of personality is theirs. They can be unconsciously funny without being ridiculous, which the tourist cannot be. And they have an element of romance, real or carelessly cultivated, which no tourist has to any other tourist. What each thinks of the other you hear expressed now and then. “You mightn’t think it, but some of those chaps are pretty bright,” said a lecturer of a Middle Western circuit to me, as he tried to mount his horse from the right. “They sent us over that trail with a dozen empties and twenty head of tourists,” I heard one guide tell another, with an unconsciousness that cut deep.