The Mountaineer 41 
that detached itself from the group about the rock and launched itself 
towards us on the snow, sped down with some distinctive characteristic 
revealing its identity from afar. Head first, feet first, standing, sitting, 
or revolving in a wild whirl of snow they came, all smiling wide smiles 
except one, whose satisfaction may have been even greater though his 
lighted pipe prevented any expression of it from reaching his lips. 
The descent was without incident, but not so the succeeding night 
in Queets Basin. The lowering skies that drove us from the heights 
did their worst, and more than one conqueror of Olympus appeared 
half drowned at breakfast next morning. 
Hidden that day were all the glories of glaciers and dark mountain 
summits; but flowers still bloomed at our feet, dim, ghostly forms of 
trees loomed towards us out of the fog, and the murmur of streams 
came to us though their sparkling waters were unseen. Near the 
summit of the pass clouds pressed upon us closer and closer, till all we 
could see was white, crisp snow at our feet and whirling, wind-driven 
mist about us. Olympus was entirely hidden, and as we hurried down 
across the snowfields towards Elwha waters, our one regret was that 
we had not seen its glorious crown again. 
Many days later, as we trod the homeward trail, we reached a 
high-erested divide where that distant, shining summit again came 
into view. Time after time it gleamed before us, pictured for a 
moment between the trees, and then, with the next step forward, gone 
like a mirage in the desert. It seemed like a message flashing to us 
in farewell, a call sounding across shadowy forest lands to ring in 
our ears for many a day and summon us back at last to the High 
Country when the cares of every day would most seem to hold us fast. 
For as we journey down to the lowlands and the thoughts and aspira- 
tions of the city-bound months close around us once more, the radiant 
mountain world at times grows dim and far, and strangely unreal. 
It hardly seems to be of this every-day earth, but rather like a dear 
country of our dreams, a summer world of light and laughter where 
seasons never change nor flowers die. And yet it is a world we may 
re-enter at will—whenever spring voices call, or trail comrades meet 
together again. 
MT. OLYMPUS AND QUEETS VALLEY Leland Clark 
