THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



153 



thrust into a jet of steam. It is uncannily 

 unreal. 



"But the unreality suddenly vanishes 

 when one's foot breaks through the crust 

 and hot volcanic gases rush out. It is 

 also sufficiently realistic to have ava- 

 lanches of rocks galloping down the 

 2,000-foot face of Falling Mountain 

 while we are collecting gases in the bot- 

 tom of a 20-foot hole at its base. 



"The familiar fumes of hydrogen sul- 

 phide, sulphur dioxide, and hydrochloric 

 acid transform the valley into a huge 

 chemical manufacturing plant roofed 

 over by a permanent cloud of vapors. 

 And when cold and wet, it is rather com- 

 fortably lonesome to lean against the hot 

 walls of a sheltered crevice and meditate 

 on the dead bodies of hundreds of flies 

 lying around the orifice of the subterra- 

 nean chimneys." 



A SPECTACLE OP AWESOME MAGNITUDE 



D. B. Church, Photographer. — "Re- 

 gardless of our packs, we hurried down 

 the valley, past the few faint, wispy 

 steam jets that mounted from its floor 

 just over the divide, craning to glimpse 

 the first steam cloud to rise from the val- 

 ley beyond. There floated over the spur 

 of the ridge to the north a billowy cloud 

 that marked the largest steamer. 



"Reaching the higher ground that had 

 hidden my view, I gazed at the panorama 

 before me. Flanked by Mt. Cerberus and 

 Falling Mountain, spread the valley, a 

 maze of pearly columns that billowed 

 skyward and bent before the strong west- 

 erly wind. Down a narrow canyon we 

 trudged and climbed out over its painted 

 ash walls onto the valley floor. 



"The meager pictures of the previous 

 year, and even the graphic descriptions 

 of Griggs and Folsom, had not prepared 

 me to face such a spectacle of awesome 

 magnitude. I had pictured the valley as 

 large ; the actual view dwarfed my wild- 

 est imagery to insignificance. 



"I started for the nearest fumarole ; it 

 seemed a few hundred yards distant. I 

 found it half a mile away. It was a small 

 fumarole and I crept cautiously up to its 

 edge. From its red-painted throat, which 

 vanished deep in blackness, the sulphur- 

 reeking steam roared forth in a smother- 

 ing blast. 



"Passing back, I found a crack in the 

 rock-like crust of the mud-flow, through 

 which sizzled the scorching steam and 

 gas. A few prods with my staff opened 

 a hole into the underground conduit, 

 from which the steam hissed forth. The 

 fragility of the crust and knowledge of 

 the result of a misstep startled me. My 

 fears began to awaken — fears that for 

 several days made me tiptoe over spots 

 where the earth rang hollow beneath my 

 feet. Familiarity gave me greater confi- 

 dence, but I never ceased to tread care- 

 fully the color-daubed regions of subsur- 

 face activity. 



WORK DROVE AWAY FEAR 



"The next day I began my work in the 

 valley. This day the activity and the in- 

 terest of work drove fear from me. The 

 one conception that pervaded me was : 

 how like this place to Dante's conception 

 of his 'Inft no.' It seemed to me, as we 

 stood on the edge of Novarupta, that 

 this was the Devil's own private corner 

 in hell itself. It seemed, as I gazed at the 

 seething steam clouds that rushed from 

 the cooling lava plug, and at the shattered, 

 steam-smothered furnace that filled the 

 rising vale beyond, that there was some 

 vague, fantastic form, a horrid dream, a 

 hideous, potent Thing' which was not 

 for human eyes to see nor human ears to 

 hear. 



"Then an endless night on the hot, 

 moisture-teeming ground ; an endless 

 rolling from side to side to escape the 

 torment of the penetrating heat that 

 seeped up from the hot, sodden ground ; 

 and always, as I looked down the valley 

 through the open tent door, shone the 

 marble-like steam columns, which, like 

 tall, writhing specters, swayed in the dim 

 twilight. 



"There was always a certain awesome- 

 ness about the valley which clung to me 

 throughout my stay. I looked forward 

 with relief to the time when I could put 

 from my sight the curling steamy billows 

 that rose from fumaroles and mounted 

 ever skyward. 



"Pictures cannot bring back the Valley 

 of the Smokes. They have lost the awe- 

 someness that lies in the setting. You 

 may build in memory, but never repro- 

 duce, the scenes which lie beyond the 



