The Mountaineer 45 
My memories of the trip are commingled in delicious medley. 
Each new-born day was seasoned with the spice of uncertainty. I 
know now what Stevenson meant when he spoke of “the bright face of 
danger.” Can I ever forget the trembling thrill of Mt. Seattle with 
its walls of frightful plunge and how it was low tide on the beach of 
my courage. And how, as the days raced by, perils became more and 
more genial and confidence in calks and alpenstock grew apace. I 
recall the teaspoonful of Nuttovito which served for each noonday 
luncheon and the absence of pang at lack of finger bowls. I can see 
the “grub line” consuming erbwurst as though they were fattening 
themselves for market, and I behold knapsack trips which gave impend- 
ing corpulence a severe setback. Brilliant-hued bandannas flutter in 
the distance and crisp curls of bacon enrage the hungry eye. Hilarity 
was abiding guest at campfire and yet reverence led to sleep under the 
cool infinitude of the stars. 
The glaciers, of heavenly origin, taking cheir mold from the 
mountains, seamed with the sears of conflict, gradually acquiring a 
character of their own; wasting yet renewed by the unseen; bearing 
on their backs the accumulated spoils of the years; stooping at their 
greatest width and extension into groaning decrepitude; dropping 
their burdens one by one; giving forth from their wreckage arrowy 
streams which go leaping on and on to bless the world—the glaciers 
were to me rough pictures of the meaning and mission of mankind. 
The trees, like some old and mellow violin, brought us into many 
a tender and thoughtful mood. The benediction of insignificance fell 
upon us again and again as we listened to the murmurings of forest 
giants which belong among the authentic antiquities of the world. 
Great cedars prostrate upon the ground, at bay against the vandalism 
of the years, mouldering in silence, solitude, and neglect, set one to 
thinking deep, long thoughts, and the elemental stillness of the woods, 
here and there, when silence seemed to be holding her breath, had for 
the soul a message all its own. 
When Emerson was leaving Williamstown after a lecture, he was 
escorted to the station by a group of Williams College students. 
Turning toward the noblest of the Berkshires he said to the young 
men: “I should think, young gentlemen, that you would print the 
names of these mountains in your college catalogue along with the 
members of the faculty.” The Olympics with their untrodden solitudes 
and spiry summits have much to teach the inquiring spirit. “Faith has 
still its Olivet and love its Galillee.’ Again and again the soul of 
every man and woman stood at salute before scenes of wild, incredible 
beauty and immensity. The “sound of streams that seek the sea” gave 
praise to Him who holdeth all in the hollow of His hand. Each 
summit brought its own unspeakable sense of detachment from lower 
things and its panorama of heart-piercing grandeur. Peaks became 
