My Sled- T'rip on the Muir Glacier 



saw many considerable depressions in the glacial sur- 

 face, also apitlike hole, irregular, not like the ordinary 

 wells along the slope of the many small dirt-clad hil- 

 locks, faced to the south. Now the sun is down and 

 the sky is saffron yellow, blending and fading into 

 purple around to the south and north. It is a curious 

 experience to be lying in bed writing these notes, 

 hummock waves rising in every direction, their edges 

 marking a multitude of crevasses and pits, while all 

 around the horizon rise peaks innumerable of most 

 intricate style of architecture. Solemnly growling and 

 grinding moulins contrast with the sweet low-voiced 

 whispering and warbling of a network of rills, singing 

 like water-ouzels, glinting, gliding with indescribable 

 softness and sweetness of voice. They are all around, 

 one within a few feet of my hard sled bed. 



July 17. Another glorious cloudless day is dawning 

 in yellow and purple and soon the sun over the eastern 

 peak will blot out the blue peak shadows and make all 

 the vast white ice prairie sparkle. I slept well last 

 night in the middle of the icy sea. The wind was cold 

 but my sleeping-bag enabled me to lie neither warm 

 nor intolerably cold. My three-months cough is gone. 

 Strange that with such work and exposure one should 

 know nothing of sore throats and of what are called 

 colds. My heavy, thick-soled shoes, resoled just be- 

 fore starting on the trip six days ago, are about worn 

 out and my feet have been wet every night. But no 

 harm comes of it, nothing but good. I succeeded in 

 getting a warm breakfast in bed. I reached over the 



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