854 



AMERICAN FORESTRY 



were ice four months of the year, and 

 you could not find a rocl<: the size of a 

 base ball. The old guide thought be- 

 cause I climbed rocks well that he could 

 lead me to a path above the ice seracs, 

 cross the snow neve and bring me down 

 a precipice on the other side of the snow 

 field. It entailed a walk of twenty-five 

 miles; but the guide made a mistake. 

 He lost his way down the three mile 

 precipice and to avoid being benighted 

 decided to take me, by glissading, home 

 down the icy bank of the steep glacier. 

 He thought because I could climb rocks 

 well I could slide ice well. Well — I 

 did. I slid so well that to this day I 

 don't know how I didn't carry him 

 4,000 feet down with me. He had 

 crawled down the precipice to find me 

 foothold. I had stepped from his 

 shoulder to the alpinstock, and from 

 the alpinstock to a niche for foothold, 

 when a bit of icy rock gave way and I 

 shot out to the arm pits above nothing. 

 I don't know how or what my feet 

 found; but I lighted on my feet with a 

 rock slide clattering below me that 

 rumbled and gathered force as it roared 

 below the precipice. Old Jacob came 

 up with a blanched face and took me 

 home over the ice. He would cut a 

 place for his feet, let out the rope, and I 

 would slide till the rope yanked me 

 facing him. Then I would cut a place 

 for my feet and he would slide. It is a 

 point worth noting — in cutting foot- 

 hold, the Swiss guides always notch in 

 and down — coal scuttle fashion — not in 

 and up, where the feet could slide out. 

 We neither of us missed footing once 

 glissading down; but I fell fifteen times 

 to the second mentally and have hated 

 ice ever since. It was only by a miracle 

 I did not break his and my own neck. 



That same week the university men 

 had climbed an unconquered peak. 

 Just as they reached the summit three 

 men unroped and raced to see who 

 should have the honor of placing a flag 

 on the peak first. Snow sagged omi- 

 nously over a hidden crevasse. A little 

 light man skipped across the bridge of 

 snow in safety. A big Chicago man 

 came next. The snow sagged and sank. 

 His companions saw the snow bridge 

 fold in the middle; and the last thing 



seen of the Chicago man was his heels. 

 They looked down the icy blue crevasse. 

 He was wedged shoulders down in- 

 sensible. An unmarried man volun- 

 teered to go down after him. They let 

 him down on the rope. The insensible 

 man was wedged so tightly they almost 

 dislocated his arm pulling him out — 

 the moral of which is, never unrope on 

 snow or ice; and always go at least 

 three on a rope. The only death 

 among mountain climbers in the Cana- 

 dian Rockies occurred through unrop- 

 ing at the last lap of a climb. 



For this kind of climlDing, one, of 

 course, must go to Northern Mountains; 

 but you can enjoy sheer height and bliz- 

 zards, too, far South as Colorado, and 

 in balmy climes as California if you 

 go high enough. People have asked 

 why I like mountain climbing. It is 

 not the dare deviltry of it — it is the 

 conquering spiritual and physical that 

 adds zest to the joy. In these Northern 

 mountains, too, one finds the best of 

 trout fishing and boating. 



Though my first mountaineering was 

 done in the North, my last has been 

 done in the South; and I confess it is 

 hard to say which is the more fascinat- 

 ing. There is a marvel of color; there 

 is a mysticism as of the soul; there is 

 a peace as of God in the Desert just as 

 there are a grandeur and a robust zest 

 in the North. You don't need to 

 climb mountains in the North unless 

 you want to ; and you can see the Desert 

 from a motor car and a palatial hotel 

 if you want to ; but there is a better way. 

 Both North and South, you can never 

 feel the wild toss of the unleashed winds, 

 the mystic touch of midnight under 

 stars in Alpine meadows, the secret, 

 furtive, almost fairy, message of the 

 shy mountain flowers — unless you go 

 out and camp far from motor road and 

 hotel luxur}\ In the Painted Desert 

 I have driven fifteen miles through the 

 lilac bloom of sage brush high as the 

 hubs of the wheels; and I have stopped 

 on the edge of some precipice to make 

 myself realize that the shifting, shimmer- 

 ing panorama of landscape painted in 

 fire below was a fact, not the misty 

 mirage of some dream. Color, color 

 that defies pigments and words, moun- 



