THE BIRTH OF A VOLCANO 127 



At every step we crashed down through the mass 

 as one might tread upon hill-sides of delicate glass, 

 or we leaped unsuspectingly on a harder, steely 

 stratum only to slip sideways or in turn bring down 

 a lava slide upon legs and body. Often what ap- 

 peared to be the softest turned out to be a solid 

 boulder, and the consequent unexpected jar was 

 more trying than a slide or slip. 



We clung as much as possible to the smooth 

 lava and by going somewhat out of our way were 

 able to follow a narrow stream for a considerable 

 distance. But sooner or later we had always to 

 plunge into the red porous chaos. In ten minutes 

 we were dripping and panting. The unclouded sun 

 shone steadily down upon the sea of metal and soon 

 there arose a reflected heat like the blast from a 

 furnace. We headed steadily for the giant, out- 

 pouring cauldron well up on Mount Whiton's 

 shoulders, reorienting our direction every time we 

 climbed out of a furrow. Minutes passed, a half 

 hour, and I realized that the simile of ants applied 

 to our speed as well as to relative size. The coast 

 seemed to recede with disheartening slowness, while 

 the cauldron was as far off as ever. I decided to 

 halt a few minutes to rest and found that even this 

 was impossible. The heat from the lava when we 

 stood still was unbearable, pouring up into our 

 faces and scorching through the soles of our shoes. 

 Even when we could occasionally find a smooth 

 piece of lava, the stones were too hot to sit for a 

 moment. I humbled myself and altered my ob- 

 jective to a lesser crater half as far away as the 



