After priming the stove, breakfast was summer sausage fried in butter and scrambled in eggs, with piping hot oolong tea.   It was a quiet morning with fresh snow on the trees and ground. Earlier, snow coming down on the tent sounded like the footsteps of sparrows, a light patter of faint scratches.   My first snow camping experience took place here in the bowl between Mazama Ridge and the Tatoosh mountains.  Three feet of snow fell on me that trip, so loading the branches of the mountain hemlock that, late in the night, overloaded, the braches released their snow with a deep muffled WHUMP.  Trees close to one another set each other off and a WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMPWHUMPWHUMP would travel from place to place.  Sitting in candlelight in the tent, I looked at my companion of the time and said with deep seriousness, "The footsteps of Snow Trolls."