OH, SHOOT! 



towards long, low-lying streaks of white which 

 slanted down out of hidden gulches on op- 

 posite sides of the valley, appearing to close 

 the course of the river. 



"Glaciers!" announced the smelly captain 

 of the smelly fish boat. 



"Live glaciers?" I queried. 



"Sure! On still days you can hear them 

 'working' clear out here. Chunks drop off 

 the size of a mountain, and splash out all 

 the water in the river. There 'ain't any white 

 men ever been up there." 



I spoke later with the smelly engineer, 

 who was an old-timer in the country. 



"They come together, they do, buttin' one 

 another like a pair of rams, grindin' and 

 squeezin' to beat the band." 



"But how does the river get through?" I 

 demanded, skeptically. 



"I don't know. Maybe it jumps over." 



The smelly deck hand shed even a dimmer 

 light on that mysterious valley by informing 

 me that, in order to pass those glaciers, one 

 had to work along a perpendicular face of 

 ice, chipping footholds and clinging with fin- 

 gers and toes to dizzy heights above the river. 



My informants united on but one state- 

 42 



