STEEP TRAILS 



as far as I could see, was regular in form, six- 

 sided pyramids with rounded base, rich and 

 sumptuous-looking, and fashioned with loving 

 care, yet seemingly thrown away on those deso- 

 late crags down which they went rolling, fall- 

 ing, sliding in a network of curious streams. 



After we had forced our way down the ridge 

 and past the group of hissing fumaroles, the 

 storm became inconceivably violent. The ther- 

 mometer fell 22° in a few minutes, and soon 

 dropped below zero. The hail gave place to 

 snow, and darkness came on like night. The 

 wind, rising to the highest pitch of violence, 

 boomed and surged amid the desolate crags; 

 lightning-flashes in quick succession cut the 

 gloomy darkness; and the thunders, the most 

 tremendously loud and appalling I ever heard, 

 made an almost continuous roar, stroke follow- 

 ing stroke in quick, passionate succession, as 

 though the mountain were being rent to its 

 foundations and the fires of the old volcano 

 were breaking forth again. 



Could we at once have begun to descend the 

 snow-slopes leading to the timber, we might 

 have made good our escape, however dark and 

 wild the storm. As it was, we had first to make 

 our way along a dangerous ridge nearly a mile 

 and a half long, flanked in many places by steep 

 ice-slopes at the head of the Whitney Glacier 

 72 



