A NIGHT ON SHASTA S SUMMIT 



and tracing the outlines of the ancient lava- 

 streams extending far into the surrounding 

 plains, and the pathways of vanished glaciers 

 of which Shasta had been the center. But, as 

 I had left my coat in camp for the sake of hav 

 ing my limbs free in climbing, I soon was cold. 

 The wind increased in violence, raising the 

 snow in magnificent drifts that were drawn out 

 in the form of wavering banners glowing in the 

 sun. Toward the end of my stay a succession 

 of small clouds struck against the summit rocks 

 like drifting icebergs, darkening the air as they 

 passed, and producing a chill as definite and 

 sudden as if ice-water had been dashed in my 

 face. This is the kind of cloud in which snow- 

 flowers grow, and I turned and fled. 



Finding that I was not closely pursued, I 

 ventured to take time on the way down for a 

 visit to the head of the Whitney Glacier and 

 the &quot; Crater Butte.&quot; After I reached the end 

 of the main summit ridge the descent was but 

 little more than one continuous soft, mealy, 

 muffled slide, most luxurious and rapid, though 

 the hissing, swishing speed attained was ob 

 scured in great part by flying snow-dust 

 a marked contrast to the boring seal-wallow 

 ing upward struggle. I reached camp about an 

 hour before dusk, hollowed a strip of loose 

 ground in the lee of a large block of red lava, 



63 



