106 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Jan. 25, 1913 
A Trip Up Whiteface Mountain 
D uring the early part of the summer, three 
years ago, a party of girls spent their vaca¬ 
tion in the village of Lake Placid, N. Y., 
nestled among some of the big mountains of the 
Adirondack range, hugging the shores of Mirror 
and Placid lakes. Many a pleasant half day was 
spent climbing the little mountains, such as Whit¬ 
ney, Cobble and Pulpit. We returned from these 
to face a challenge from Mount Whiteface. We 
accepted the challenge and began to prepare for 
the struggle. At dinner one day we heard har¬ 
rowing tales of adventurers on similar quests. 
However, the facts seemed to be that Whiteface 
was 4,872 feet high, rough and rugged, with an 
old Indian trail leading a circuitous way up. The 
length of the trail was about five miles on the 
By ELSIE SCHNEIDER 
edge we reached Wilmington in good season. 
From there we left the Ausable River which 
is chameleon-like in character as in color. It 
is clear and sparkling all the way, showing its 
stony basin in the shallower parts through which 
one might easily walk, and in the deeper chan¬ 
nels, reflecting the green mountainside or the 
azure sky. The current varied every half mile. 
In one place the water would rush like a torrent, 
while just beyond would bicker with the stones 
and then gurgle along in joyous mockery. It 
seemed to say; 
“Here’s a trout, there’s a trout, 
Come, get out, get out, get out.” 
While we were loath to see our rig turn 
tain top and went down a gradual slope into 
another valley. 
From there we traveled upward circuitously 
to the summit of Nippletop, 3,500 feet high. Down 
into the valley we went again and wondered at 
the stupidity of the Indians in stretching out a 
trail through the thick woods and down into the 
deep valleys. Our guide told us all trails head 
to the highest points eventually; that the Indian 
scouts purposely kept to the woods and near the 
source of water. 
Running through the valley was the turbulent 
tributary of West Branch of the Ausable River. 
Its waters washed with a musical murmur that 
was fascinating, the willowed banks. The stream 
was an unfathomable blue, setting in strong re- 
WHITEFACE, AS SEEN FROM MX. WHITNEY. 
OVER THE FIRST HILL—WAITING FOR “SECOND WIND.” 
P’notographs by Elsie Schneider. 
LAKE PLACID, BUCK ISLAND AND HAWK ISLAND 
WITH SENTINEL RANGE IN BACKGROUND. 
Lake Placid side and about eight miles on tl 
Wilmington side. 
Upon advice of the village counsel we chose 
the Wilmington side because its trail takes more 
gradual ascent. A callow youth from a neigh¬ 
boring town offered to accompany us and agreed 
to bring us home by eventide if we started early 
enough. 
Attired in short skirt, blouse and strong, 
high-topped shoes, each of the girls took her 
sweater on her arm and started out for what 
she thought would be a day’s outing. A rig took 
us through magnificent woods of evergreen. The 
glistening dew was lingering on the fern. 
Light-hearted and carefree, we jogged mer¬ 
rily on, passed our vanquished adversaries. Cobble 
Hill and Pulpit Rock, and along the West Branch 
of the Ausable River. We drove through Wil¬ 
mington Notch, a deep cleft made long ago by 
the swift river current. On we went to High 
Falls where we stopped to let the horses rest 
while we gazed in wonder at nature’s handi¬ 
work. Our ever practical driver lamented the 
great waste of power at the falls. We agreed 
to let man and nature fight it out, but we hoped 
nature would win. We had come about seven 
miles, and after three more miles by the river’s 
about and leave, we were glad to begin the climb. 
We were going at a rapid pace through the thick 
brush and stubble on the lower trail, leading 
southwest, when fortunately we met Mr. Mar¬ 
shal. He asked us our destination, and upon 
reply said he had a camp near the top and was 
himself going that way. We were overjoyed 
to be guided by one who knew every turn in the 
trail and could teach us to climb. He had told 
us to climb at a regular speed, not to stop for 
breath the first time the intake valve seemed to 
clog, but to keep on until we got our “second 
wind.” The guide made a picture, long to be 
remembered, as he labored steadily ahead with 
his well-filled pack basket strapped to his back, 
and a two-gallon oil can in one hand. His hair 
was smooth and black and long; his face was 
honest and frank. He wore a pair of colorless 
trousers, so short that they showed his red 
woolen socks. 
About three miles of traveling, through 
brush and over rocks, brought us to a clearing 
which overlooked the valley through which 
glided, in graceful curves, the Ausable River. 
Mr. Marshal told us we were on the summit of 
Mount Marble, 2,725 feet high. We tarried here 
for our second breath and crossed the moun- 
lief its mammoth boulders of somber gray. 
Beyond the brook, tall, slender birches beck¬ 
oned invitingly with their silver fingers. The 
hardest climb was the last three-mile stretch 
leading along a winding way through a second 
growth of pines, over large bare rocks bearing 
faint and indistinct marks of the trail. Another 
tramp through brush and brier brought us to a 
clear and cool spring beneath an immense rock. 
How different was this spring from the shallow 
muddy wayside puddle! It thrilled every sense 
and more. Its fragrance awakened our unculti¬ 
vated sense of smell. It was sweet to taste and 
soothing to the touch. When the youth stooped 
over to give us a drink, a trampess remarked: 
“O! Jacob’s well.” “Glad to hear it,” replied 
the youth; “I didn’t know he was ill.” 
A few rods up we came to a clearing upon 
which we staked our claims for rest. When our 
hearts beat normally again we had time to view 
the scenes in perspective. The mountain side 
looked like a beautiful moquette carpet in vary¬ 
ing shades of green, made by the warp of the 
blue sky and the woof of the yellow sunshine. 
The clouds were gathering fast and made shadow 
after shadow pass in rapid succession over the 
mantle of earth. We turned to observe the 
