SNOW-BLINDED ON THE SUMMIT , 3 



mountain sheep with one horn smashed off. VI 

 sat with my feet beneath its warm carcass and my 

 hands upon it, I thought how but a few minutes 

 before the animal had been alive on the heights 

 with all its ever wide-awake senses vigilant for its 

 preservation; yet I, wandering blindly, had 

 caped with my life when the snowslide swept into 

 the canon. The night was calm, but of zero tem- 

 perature or lower. It probably was crystal dear. 

 As I sat warming my hands and feet on the proud 

 master of the crags I imagined the bright, clear 

 sky crowded thick with stars. I pictured to my- 

 self the dark slope down which the slide had 

 come. It appeared to reach up close to the frosty 

 stars. 



But the lost snowshoe must be found, wallowing 

 through the deep mountain snow with only one 

 snowshoe would be almost hopeless. I had vainly 

 searched the surface and lower wreckage projec- 

 tions but made one more search. This proved 

 successful. The shoe had slid for a short distance, 

 struck an obstacle, bounced upward over smashed 

 logs, and lay about four feet above the general 

 surface. A few moments more and I was beyond 

 the snowslide wreckage. Again on snowshoes, 

 staff in hand, I continued feeling my way down the 

 mountain. 



My ice-stiffened trousers and chilled limbs were 

 not good travelling companions, and at the first 

 cliff that I encountered I stopped to make a tire. 



