The Dawson Leaco 



from the Mammoth Crest, but the westering sun, backed by a searching 

 wind, urged a quick retreat to camp four miles away and 2500 feet below. 

 The snowfield reached the very top of the ridge, choking the throat of a 

 couloir and expanding below between massive cliffs several hundred feet 

 high. The left-flanking cliff was dark in shadow, but the east-flanking 

 wall was still bathed in sunlight. There might be Leucos down there ; and 

 a slide would save miles of walking. Accordingly, I let go, pike-point 

 hard pressed against the rasping snow. The first hundred feet might have 

 been a parachute drop. The course was narrow. Ominous ledges sud- 

 denly flashed up at the side. The startled snow, half ice, rather, flew 

 up and engulfed my glasses. Steering had to be by instinct, and only 

 frantic efforts kept the hurtling pilgrim right end up. But soon the pace 

 slackened. Sun-kissed wells in the snow began to act as bumpers, and 

 motion ceased presently, while the heart was still in a sort of panic. A 

 Leuco spoke. Tearing off the blinded snow-glasses, I looked up — just in 

 time to see a female Leucosticte disappear into the face of an obliquely 

 fronting wall, and at a point a hundred feet or so up. Moments passed, 

 and still she stayed. "A location," thought I, and backed off, slowly, 

 across the snow, with eyes glued to the mysterious spot, until I felt the 

 impact of the west wall, and, scarcely turning, clambered out upon a ledge. 

 It was a cold ledge but not so cold as the penetrating snow. Sure enough, 

 the bird has never stirred from that spot. But now comes a male sidling 

 up to a neighboring point and giving a chirrup, whereat the hidden female 

 darts out and joins her mate for a frolic. It is a probable location, albeit 

 unconfirmed. 



Two evenings later, fortified by the presence of my son, William 

 Oberlin, a stripling of nineteen, I take up a station with him on the identi- 

 cal ledge which had witnessed the location. There is barely room on this 

 rocky shelf for two persons to lie down ; and if one rolls off, why it is only 

 a hundred-foot slide over snow. We have brought up grub and blankets 

 and a jag of wood. W T hile William makes camp, although it is beastly 

 cold, I man the binoculars and watch every bird that stirs over the snow or 

 works across the face of the towering cliffs beyond. There are birds in 

 plenty — for Leucos — say three or four in sight at once. Usually two or three 

 are gleaning industriously over the face of the snowfield. The snow is in 

 full shadow and the birds are most active at this time, partly because the 

 glare of midday no longer blinds the eyes and makes snow work practically 

 insufferable, even for birds, and partly, no doubt, because it is the last 

 chance. 



If there are nesting activities on, they are conducted sub rosa. 

 There is no eagerness to display domestic secrets. These must be ferreted 

 out. But there is lavish display of romantic interest. Males are chirping 



163 



