"Speaking of narrow escapes,'' said Jack as he arose, and threw an old tamarack root on the fire, causing it to blaze up and reveal three weather beaten faces, three pipes, and three pairs of heavy boots under a mass of dark spruce boughs, "I think the closest call I ever had was early on fine spring morning when my partner and I hit it for the Flathead Middle Fork divide on snowshoes. The snow lay ten to fifteen feet deep, it was smooth going and we were sure making time! We had just negotiated one of them deep snow banks hanging high up under the leeward side of the crest, and seeming undecided-like whether to stay or tear loose, when there was a heck of a rumble and roar behind us. Turning around we saw' trees, rocks, snow and the whole mountain side like tumbling into the canyon below. It was then we broke the snow shoe cross country records clear in two. Believe me, we lost no time making fresh tracks. Had we been a minute later in crossing that bank of snow we would have been sitting there now cool, calm, and comfortable-like waiting for somebody to dig us out this summer or next.