Beyond the bordering moraines at our feet, we can look far out over

the ice-plateau and view hundreds of square miles of its {121} frozen

surface. At the same time we obtain glimpses of other vast ice-fields

toward the west, beyond Icy bay; but their limits in that direction

are unknown.

* * * * *

Later in the season I made an excursion far out on the Malaspina

glacier from the extreme southern end of the Hitchcock range, and

became acquainted with many of its peculiarities. Its surface, instead

of being a smooth snow-field, as it appears from a distance, is

roughened by thousands of crevasses, many of which are filled with

clear, blue water. Over hundreds of square miles the surface appears

as if a giant plow had passed over it, leaving the ice furrowed with

crevasses. The crevasses are not broad; usually one can cross them at

a bound. They appear to be the scars left by rents in the tributary

ice-streams.

The stillness far out on the great ice-field is immediately noticed by

one who has recently traversed the sloping surfaces of the tributary

glaciers. It is always silent on that vast frozen plateau. There are

no surface streams and no lakes; not a rill murmurs along its channel

of ice; no cascades are formed by streams plunging into moulins and

crevasses. The water produced by the melting of the ice finds its way

down into the glacier and perhaps to its bottom, and must there form

rivers of large size; but no indications of their existence can be

obtained at the surface. The icy surface is undulating, and resembles

in some respects the great rolling prairies of the west; it is a

prairie of ice. In the central portion not a shoot of vegetation casts

its shadow, and scarcely a fragment of rock can be found. The

boundaries of the vast plateau have never been surveyed, but its area

cannot be less than five hundred square miles. The clear ice of the

center greatly exceeds the extent of the moraine-covered borders. It

has a general elevation of fifteen or sixteen hundred feet, being

highest near the end of the Hitchcock range, where the Seward glacier

comes in, and decreasing from there in all directions. From the summit

of Blossom island and other commanding stations it is evident that the

dark moraine belts about its borders are compound and record a varied

history. Far away toward the southeast the individual elements may be

distinguished. The dark bands of débris sweep around in great curves

and concentric, swirl-like figures, which indicate that there are

complicated currents in the seemingly motionless plateau.

The Malaspina glacier belongs to a class of ice bodies not {122}

previously recognized, which are formed at the bases of mountains by

the union of several glaciers from above. Their position suggests the

name of _Piedmont glaciers_ for the type. They differ from continental

glaciers in the fact that they are formed by the union of ice-streams

and are not the sources from which ice-streams flow. The supply from

the tributary glacier is counterbalanced by melting and evaporation.

* * * * *

If the reader has become interested in the vast ice-fields about

Blossom island, he may wish to continue our acquaintance and go with

me into the great snow-fields on the higher mountains, where the

ice-rivers feeding the Malaspina glacier have their sources.

LIFE ABOVE THE SNOW-LINE.

Early on the morning of August 2, all necessary preparations having

been made the day previous, we started in the direction of the great

snow peak to be seen at the head of the Marvine glacier, where we

hoped to find a pass leading through the mountains which would enable

us to reach the foot of Mount St. Elias or to discover a practicable

way across the main range into the unknown country toward the north.

All of the camp hands were with us at the start, except Stamy and

White, who had been despatched to Port Mulgrave to purchase shoes. All

but Crumback and Lindsley were to return to Blossom island, however,

after leaving their loads at a rendezvous as far from Blossom island

as could be reached in a day and allow sufficient time to return to

the base-camp. Kerr and myself, with the two camp hands mentioned,

were to press on to the snow-fields above. We took with us a tent,

blankets, rations, an oil-stove, and a supply of coal oil, and felt

equal to any emergency that might arise.

The morning of our departure was thick and foggy, with occasional

showers, and the weather grew worse instead of better as we advanced.

All the mountains were soon shut out from view by the vast vapor banks

that settled down from above, and we had little except the general

character of the glacier to guide us.

Our way at first led up the eastern border of the Marvine glacier,

over seemingly interminable fields of angular débris. Traveling on the

rugged moraine, some idea of which may be obtained from plate 17, was

not only tiresome in the extreme, but ruinous to boots and shoes. On

passing the mouth of the {123} first lateral gorge (about a mile from

Blossom island), from which flows a secondary glacier, we could look

up the bed of the steep ravine to the white precipices beyond, which

seemed to descend out of the clouds, and were scarred by avalanches;

but all of the higher peaks were shrouded from view. At noon we passed

the mouth of a second and larger gorge, which discharges an important

tributary. We then left the border of the glacier and traveled up its

center, the crevasses at the embouchures of the tributary stream being

too numerous and too wide to be crossed without great difficulty.

[Illustration: PLATE 17. MORAINES ON THE MARVINE GLACIER.]

In the center of the Marvine glacier there is a dark medial moraine,

composed mainly of débris of gabbro and serpentine, of the same

character as the medial moraine on the Hayden glacier, already briefly

mentioned. Here, too, we found broad areas covered with sand cones and

glacial tables. There are also rushing streams, flowing in channels of

ice, which finally plunge into crevasses or in well-like moulins and

send back a deep roar from the caverns beneath. The murmurs of running

waters, heard on every hand, seem to indicate that the whole glacier

is doomed to melt away in a single season.

Early in the afternoon we reached the junction of the two main

branches of the Marvine glacier, and chose the most westerly. We were

still traveling over hard blue ice in which the blue and white

vein-structure characteristic of glaciers could be plainly

distinguished. The borders of the ice-streams were dark with lateral

moraines; but after passing the last great tributary coming in from

the northeast we reached the upper limit of the glacier proper and

came to the lower border of the névé fields, above which there is

little surface débris. The glacier there flows over a rugged descent,

and is greatly broken by its fall. At first we endeavored to find a

passage up the center of the crevassed and pinnacled ice, but soon

came to an impassable gulf. Turning toward the right, we traversed a

ridge of ice between profound gorges and reached the base of the

mountain slope bordering the glacier on the east. Our party was now

divided; Christie and his companion were left searching for a

convenient place to leave the cans of rations they carried, while we,

who were to explore the regions above, were endeavoring to find a way

up the ice-fall. A shout from our companions below called our

attention to the fact that they were unable to reach the border of the

glacier, where they had been directed to leave their packs, and that

they {124} had left them on the open ice. They waved us "good-bye" and

started back toward Blossom island, leaving our little band of four to

make the advance.

Descending into a deep black gorge at the border of the ice, formed by

its melting back from the bordering cliffs, we clambered upward

beneath overhanging ice-walls, from which stones and fragments of ice

were occasionally dropping, and finally reached a great snow-bank on

the border of the glacier. As the storm still continued, and was even

increasing in force, we concluded to find a camping ground soon as

possible and make ourselves comfortable as the circumstances would

permit.

FIRST CAMP IN THE SNOW.

We had now reached the lower limit of perpetual snow. There were no

more moraines on the surface of the glacier, and no bare rock surfaces

large enough to hold a tent. The entire region was snow-mantled as far

as the eye could see, except where pinnacles and cliffs too steep and

rugged for the snow to accumulate rose above the general surface. A

little to one side of the mouth of a steep lateral gorge we found a

spot in which a mass of partly disintegrated shale had fallen down

from the cliff. We scraped the fragments aside, smoothed the snow

beneath, and built a wall of rock along the lower margin. The space

above was filled in with fragments of shale, so as to form a shelf on

which to pitch our tent. Soon our blankets were spread, with our

water-proof coats for a substratum, and supper was prepared over the

oil-stove.

Darkness settled down over the mountains, and the storm increased as

the night came on. What is unusual in Alaska, the rain fell in

torrents, as in the tropics. Our little tent of light cotton cloth

afforded great protection, but the rain-drops beat on it with such

force that the spray was driven through and made a fine rain within.

Weary with many hours of hard traveling over moraines and across

crevassed ice, and in an atmosphere saturated with moisture, we rolled

ourselves in our blankets, determined to rest in spite of the storm

that raged about.

As the rain became heavier, the avalanches, already alarmingly

numerous, became more and more frequent: A crash like thunder,

followed by the clatter of falling stones, told that many tons of ice

and rocks on the mountains to the westward had slid {125} down upon

the borders of the glacier; another roar near at hand, caused by an

avalanche on our own side of the glacier, was followed by another,

another, and still another out in the darkness, no one could tell

where. The wilder the storm, the louder and more frequent became the

thunder of the avalanches. It seemed as if pandemonium reigned on the

mountains. One might fancy that the evil spirits of the hills had

prepared for us a reception of their own liking--but decidedly not to

the taste of their visitors. Soon there was a clatter and whiz of

stones at our door. Looking out I saw rocks as large as one's head

bounding past within a few feet of our tent. The stones on the

mountain side above had been loosened by the rain, and it was evident

that our perch was no longer tenable. Before we could remove our frail

shelter to a place of greater safety, a falling rock struck the

alpenstock to which the ridge-rope of our tent was fastened and

carried it away. Our tent "went by the board," as a sailor would say,

and we were left exposed to the pouring rain. Before we could gather

up our blankets they were not only soaked, but a bushel or more of mud

and stones from the bank above, previously held back by the tent,

flowed in upon them. Rolling up our blankets and "caching" the

rations, instruments, etc., under a rubber cloth held down by rocks,

we hastily dragged our tent-cloth down to the border of the glacier,

at the extremity of a tapering ridge, along which it seemed impossible

for stones from above to travel. We there pitched our tent on the hard

snow, without the luxury of even a few handfuls of shale beneath our

blankets. Wet and cold, we sought to wear the night away as best we

could, sleep being impossible. Crumback, who had been especially

energetic in removing the tent, regardless of his own exposure, was

wet and became cold and silent. The oil-stove and a few rations were

brought from the cache at the abandoned camp, and soon a dish of

coffee was steaming and filling the tent with its delicious odor. Our

shelter became comfortably warm and the hot coffee, acting as a

stimulant, restored our sluggish circulation. We passed an

uncomfortable night and watched anxiously for the dawn. Toward morning

a cold wind swept down the glacier and the rain ceased. With the dawn

there came indications that the storm had passed, although we were

still enveloped in dense clouds and could not decide whether or not a

favorable change in the weather had occurred. We were still cold and

wet and the desire to return to Blossom {126} island, where all was

sunshine and summer, was great. Uncertain as to what would be the

wisest course, we packed our blankets and started slowly down the

mountain, looking anxiously for signs that the storm had really

passed.

An hour after sunrise a rift in the mist above us revealed the

wonderful blue of the heavens, and allowed a flood of sunlight to pour

down upon the white fields beneath. Never was the August sun more

welcome. The mists vanished before its magic touch, leaving here and

there fleecy vapor-wreaths festooned along the mountain side; as the

clouds disappeared, peak after peak came into view, and snow-domes and

glaciers, never seen before, one by one revealed themselves to our

astonished eyes. When the curtain was lifted we found ourselves in a

new world, more wild and rugged than any we had yet beheld. There was

not a tree in sight, and nothing to suggest green fields or flowery

hill-sides, except on a few of the lower mountain spurs, where

brilliant Alpine blossoms added a touch of color to the pale

landscape. All else was stern, silent, motionless winter.

The glacier, clear and white, without a rock on its broken surface,

looked from a little distance like a vast snow-covered meadow. We were

about a mile above the lower limit of the snow-fields, where the blue

ice of the glacier comes out from beneath the névé. The blue ice was

deeply buried, and could only be seen in the deepest crevasses. Across

the glacier rose the angular cliffs and tapering spires of the

Hitchcock range. Every ravine and gulch in its rugged sides was

occupied by glaciers, many of which were so broken and crevassed that

they looked like frozen cataracts.

Cheered by the bright skies and sun-warmed air, we pushed on up the

glacier, taking the center of the stream in order to avoid the

crevasses, which were most numerous along its borders. Two or three

miles above our first camp we found a place where a thin layer of

broken shale covered the snow, at a sufficient distance from the steep

slopes above to be out of the reach of avalanches. We there

established our second camp after leaving Blossom island, dried our

blankets, and spent the remainder of the day basking in the sunlight

and gathering energy for coming emergencies.

We found the névé of the Marvine glacier differing greatly from the

lower or icy portion previously traversed. Instead of ice with blue

and white bands, as is common lower down, the {127} entire surface,

and as far down in the crevasses as the eye could distinguish, was

composed of compact snow, or snow changed to icy particles resembling

hail and having in reality but few of the properties of ordinary snow:

it might properly be called névé ice. Usually the thickness of the

layers varied from ten to fifteen feet. Separating them were dark

lines formed by dust blown over the surface of the glacier and buried

by subsequent snow-storms, or by thin blue lines formed by the edges

of sheets of ice and showing that the snow surface had been melted

during bright sunny days and frozen again at night. The horizontal

stratification so plainly marked in all the crevasses in the névé was

almost entirely wanting, or at least was not conspicuous, in the lower

portion of the glacier, where, instead, we found those narrow blue and

white bands already mentioned, the origin of which has been so well

described and explained by Tyndall.

The center of the Marvine glacier, as in most similar ice-streams, is

higher and less broken by crevasses than its borders. The crevasses at

the side trend up stream, as is the case with marginal crevasses

generally. In the present instance the courses of these rents could be

plainly distinguished on each border of the glacier, when looking down

upon it from neighboring slopes. The crevasses occur at quite regular

intervals of approximately fifty feet, and diverge from the bank at

angles of about 40°. In the banks of snow bordering the glacier

similar crevasses diverge from the margin of the flowing glacier and

trend down along its banks. The marginal crevasses and the crevasses

in the bordering snow-fields, to which no special name has been given,

fall nearly in line; but between the two there is a series of

irregular cracks and broken snow, sharply defining the border of the

moving névé.

The origin of the marginal crevasses trending up stream was explained

during the study of the glaciers of Switzerland. The following diagram

and explanation illustrating their development are copied from

Tyndall:

"Let _A C_ be one side of the glacier and _B D_ the other; and let the

direction of motion be that indicated by the arrow. Let _S T_ be a

transverse slice of the glacier, taken straight across it, say to-day.

A few days or weeks hence the slice will have been carried down, and

because the center moves more quickly than the sides it will not

remain straight, but will bend into the form _S' T'_. Supposing _T i_

to be a small square of the original slice near the side of the

glacier; in the new position the square will be distorted to the

lozenge-shaped figure _T' i'_. Fix your attention upon the {128}

diagonal _T i_ of the square; in the lower position this diagonal, _if

the ice could stretch_, would be lengthened to _T' i'_. But the ice

does not stretch; it breaks, and we have a crevasse formed at right

angles to _T' i'_. The mere inspection of the diagram will assure you

that the crevasse will point obliquely _upward_."[29]

[Illustration: FIGURE 4--_Diagram illustrating the Formation of

marginal Crevasses_.]

[Footnote 29: The Forms of Water: International Scientific Series, New

York, 1875, pp. 107-108.]

The explanation given above applies especially to the lower or icy

portion of a glacier; above the snow-line other facts appear. When a

glacier flows through fields of snow on a level with its surface,

crevasses are formed in the adjacent banks. These trend down stream

for the same reason that the crevasses in the glacier proper trend up

stream--that is, the friction of the moving stream against its banks

tends to carry them along, while the portions at a distance are

stationary. Fissures are thus opened which trend in the direction in

which the glacier moves. The angle made by these crevasses with the

axis of the glacier is about the same as those of the marginal

crevasses, but in an opposite direction. They are widest near the

margin of the glacier and taper to a sharp end towards the stationary

snow-banks above. The crevasses in the two series thus fall nearly in

line, but are separated by a narrow band of irregularly broken snow,

marking the actual border of the glacier.[30]

[Footnote 30: Crevasses in snow-fields through which ice-streams flow

will be mentioned again in describing the Seward glacier.]

After leaving Blossom island the party was divided, and we began a new

series of numbers for our camp above the snow-line, although in this

narrative and on the accompanying map a single series of numbers for

all the camps will be used. While in the field the camps in the snow

were usually termed, facetiously, "sardine camps," in allusion to the

uncomfortable manner in which we were packed in our tent at night.

{129} ACROSS PINNACLE PASS.

The morning after reaching Camp 12 dawned gloriously bright. The night

had been cold, and a heavy frost had silenced every rill from the

snow-slopes above. The clear, bracing air gave us renewed energy and a

firmer desire to press on. Mr. Kerr and myself made an excursion

ahead, while Lindsley and Crumback brought up a load of supplies from

the cache left on the glacier below Camp 11.

On gaining the center of the Marvine glacier we had a magnificent view

down the broad ice-stream, bordered on either hand by towering,

snow-laden precipices, and changing, as the eye followed the downward

slope, from pure white to brown and black in the distance. Far below

we could barely discern the wooded summit of Blossom island, beyond

which stretched the seemingly limitless ice-fields of the Malaspina

glacier. All about us the white slope reflected the sunlight with

painful brilliancy, while the black moraines and forests below and the

mists over the distant ocean, made it seem as if one was looking down

into a lower and darker world.

As we advanced toward the head of the glacier we found, as on several

subsequent occasions, that the nearer we approached the sources of an

ice-stream the easier our progress became. Following up the center of

the glacier, we learned that it curved toward the east; and after an

hour or two of weary tramping we reached the great amphitheatre in

which it has its source. All about us were rugged mountain slopes,

heavily loaded with snow, and forming clear white cliffs from which

avalanches had descended. To the westward the wall of the amphitheatre

was broken, and it was apparent that we could cross its rim in that

direction. Pressing onward up the gently ascending slope, we came at

length to a gap in the mountains bordered on the north by a towering

cliff fully a thousand feet high, and were rejoiced to find that the

snow surface on the opposite side of the divide inclined westward with

a grade as gentle as the one we had ascended. Looking far down the

western snow-slope, we could see where it joined a large glacier

flowing southward past the end of the great cliffs which extended

westward from the divide. The glacier we saw in the valley below is

designated on our map as the _Seward glacier_, in honor of William H.

Seward, the former Secretary of State, who negotiated the purchase of

Alaska for the United States.

{130} The pass we named _Pinnacle pass_, on account of the many

towering pinnacles overshadowing it. Its elevation is about four

thousand feet, and at the summit it has a breadth of only two or three

hundred feet. The snow on the divide is greatly crevassed, but a

convenient snow-bridge enabled us to cross without difficulty. The

crevasses increased in breadth with the advance of the season, and on

returning from our mountain trip in September we had to climb up on

the bordering cliff in order to pass the main crevasse at the summit.

Some idea of the crevasses of this region may be obtained from the

following figure, drawn from a photograph taken on the western side of

Pinnacle pass, not far from the summit.

[Illustration: Figure 5--_Crevasses on Pinnacle Pass; from a

Photograph_.]

The cliff on the north of Pinnacle pass is really a huge fault-scarp

of recent date, intersecting stratified shale, limestone, and

conglomerate, with a few thin coal-seams. The strata dip toward the

north at a high angle, and present their broken edges in the great

cliff rising above the pass. The cliffs extend westward from the pass,

and retain a nearly horizontal crest line, but increase in height and

grandeur, owing to the downward grade of the glacier along their base.

A mile to the westward their elevation is fully two thousand feet. The

cliffs throughout are {131} almost everywhere bare of snow and too

steep and rugged to be scaled. They form a strongly drawn boundary

line in the geology of the region, and furnish the key to the

structure and geological character of an extended area. All the rocks

to the southward are sandstone and shale belonging to a well-defined

series, and differ materially from the rocks in the fault-scarp. I

have called the rocks toward the south, the _Yakutat system_, and

those exposed in the faces of the fault-scarp the _Pinnacle system_.

Directly north of Pinnacle pass, and at the base of Mount Owen, the

rocks of the Yakutat system are exposed, and from their position and

association it is evident that they are younger than the Pinnacle

system and belong above it. If these conclusions are sustained by

future investigation, they will carry with them certain deductions

which are among the most remarkable in geological history. On the

crest of the Pinnacle pass cliffs I afterwards found strata containing

fossil shells and leaves belonging to species still living. These

records of animal and plant life show that not only were the rocks of

the Pinnacle system deposited since living species of mollusks and

plants came into existence, but that the Yakutat system is still more

recent. More than this, the upheaval of the mountains, the formation

of numerous fault-scarps, and the origin of the glaciers, have all

occurred since Pliocene times.

The discovery of Pinnacle pass left no question as to the route to be

traversed in order to reach the mountains to the westward. We returned

to Camp 12, and the following day, with Crumback and Lindsley to

assist us, advanced our camp across Pinnacle pass and far down the

western snow-slope.

The day we crossed the pass was bright and clear in the morning, but

clouds gathered around all the higher peaks about midday, vanishing

again at nightfall. As it was desirable to occupy, for topographic and

other purposes, a station on the top of the cliffs overlooking

Pinnacle pass, we made an effort to reach the crest of the ridge by

climbing up the steep scarp just at the divide, where the cliffs are

lowest. While Crumback returned to Camp 12 for an additional load and

Lindsley went ahead to discover a new camping place, Kerr and myself,

taking the necessary instruments, began the ascent; but we found it

exceedingly difficult. The outcrops of shale in the lower portion of

the cliff furnished but poor foothold, and crumbled and broke away at

every step. Once my companion, losing his support, slid slowly {132}

down the slope in spite of vigorous efforts to hold on, and a rapid

descent in the yawning chasm below seemed inevitable, when, coming to

a slightly rougher surface, he was able to control his movements and

to regain what had been lost. Climbing on, we came to the base of a

vertical wall of shale several hundred feet high, and made a detour to

the left where a cascade plunged down a narrow channel. We ascended

the bed of the stream, which was sometimes so steep that the spray

dashed over us, and reached the base of an overhanging cliff of

conglomerate composed of well-worn pebbles. Above this rose a cliff of

snow fifty feet or more in height, which threatened to crash down in

avalanches at any moment. One small avalanche did occur during the

ascent, and scattered its spray in our faces. Had a heavy avalanche

formed, our position would have been exceedingly dangerous; but by

taking advantage of every overhanging ledge, and watching for the

least sign of movement in the snow above, we reached without accident

a sheltered perch underneath an overhanging cliff near the base of the

snow. We then discovered that clouds were forming on all the high

mountains, and shreds of vapor blown over the crest of the cliff above

told us that further efforts would be useless. Seeking a perch

protected from avalanches by an overhanging cliff, we had a splendid

view far out over the sloping snow-plain toward the west and of the

mountains bordering Pinnacle pass on the south. My notes written in

this commanding station read as follows:

"Looking down from my perch I can plainly distinguish the undulations

and crevasses in the broad snow-fields stretching westward from

Pinnacle pass. Each inequality in the rock beneath the glacier is

reproduced in flowing and subdued outlines in the white surface above.

The positions of bosses and cliffs in the rock beneath are indicated

by rounded domes and steep descents in the snow surface. About the

lower sides of these inequalities there are in some cases concentric

blue lines and in others radiating fissures, marking where the snow

has broken in making the descent. The side light shining from the

eastward down the long westerly slope reveals by its delicate shading

the presence of broad, terrace-like, transverse steps into which the

stream is divided. Were the snow removed and the rock beneath exposed,

we should find broad terraces separated by scarps sweeping across the

bed of the glacier from side to side. Similar terraces occur in

glaciated cañons in the Rocky Mountains and {133} the Sierra Nevada,

but their origin has never been explained. The glacier is here at work

sculpturing similar forms; but still it is impossible to understand

how the process is initiated.

"Right in front of us, and only a mile or two away, rise the cliffs,

spires, and pinnacles of the Hitchcock range. Every ravine and

amphitheatre in the great mountain mass is deeply filled with snow,

and the sharp angular crests look as if they had been thrust up

through the general covering of white. The northern end of the range

is clearly defined by the east-and-west fault to which Pinnacle pass

owes its origin. The trend of the mighty cliffs on the southern face,

on which we have found a perch, is at right angles to the longer axis

of the Hitchcock range, and marks its northern terminus both

topographically and geologically.

"There is not even a suggestion of vegetation in sight. The eye fails

to detect a single dash of green or the glow of a single Alpine flower

anywhere on the rugged slopes. A small avalanche from the snow-cliffs

above, cascading over the cliff which shelters me and only a few yards

away, tells why the precipices are so bare and desolate: they have

been swept clean by avalanches.

"Far down the western snow-slope I can distinguish crevasses and dirt

bands in the Seward glacier, which flows southward past the range on

which we sit. The marginal crevasses along the border of the glacier

can clearly be distinguished. As usual, they trend up-stream and,

meeting medial crevasses, break the surface of the glacier into

thousands of pinnacles and tables. Along the center of the stream

there are V-shaped dirt bands, separated by crevasses, which point

down-stream and give the appearance of a rapid flow to the central

portion of the glacier. From this distance its center has the

appearance of 'watered' ribbon.

"A little toward the south of where the medial crevasses are most

numerous, and at a locality where two opposite mountain spurs force

the ice-stream through the comparatively narrow gorge, there is

evidently an ice-fall, as the whole glacier from side to side

disappears from view. The appearance of Niagara when seen from the

banks of the river above the Horseshoe falls is suggested. Beyond this

silent cataract, the eye ranges far out over the broad, level surface

of the Malaspina glacier, and traces the dark morainal ribbons

streaming away for miles from the mountain spurs among which they

originate. From the extreme {134} southern cape of the Samovar hills

there is a highly compound moraine-belt stretching away toward the

south, and then dividing and curving both east and west. The central

band of débris must be a mile broad. Along its eastern margin I can

count five lesser bands separated by narrow intervals of ice, and on

the farther side similar secondary bands are suggested, but the height

of the central range almost completely conceals them from view. In the

distant tattered ends, however, their various divisions can be clearly

traced. Great swirls in the ice are there indicated by concentric

curves of débris on its surface.

"Still farther westward there are hills rising to the height of

impressive mountains, in which northward dipping rocks, apparently of

sandstone and shale, similar to those forming the Hitchcock range, are

plainly distinguishable. All the northern slopes of these hills are

deeply buried beneath a universal covering of snow evidently hundreds

of feet thick, which is molded upon them so as to reveal every

swelling dome and ravine in their rugged sides. Farther westward

still, beyond a dark headland apparently washed by the sea, there are

other broad ice-fields of the same general character as the Malaspina

glacier, which stretch away for miles and miles and blend in the dim

distance with the haze of the horizon.

"Just west of the Seward glacier, and in part forming its western

shore, there are dark, rocky crests projecting through the universal

ice mantle, suggesting the lost mountains of Utah and Nevada which

have become deeply buried by the dusts of the desert. The character of

the sharp crests beyond the Seward glacier indicate that they are the

upturned edges of fault-blocks similar to the one on which we are

seated. Interesting geological records are there waiting an

interpreter. The vastness of the mountains and the snow-fields to be

seen at a single glance from this point of view can scarcely be

realized. There are no familiar objects in sight with which to make

eye-measurements; the picture is on so grand a scale that it defies

imagination's grasp."

Searching the snow-sheet below with a field-glass, I discover a minute

spot on the white surface. Its movement, slow but unmistakable,

assures me that it is Lindsley returning from the site chosen for our

camp to-night. Although apparently near at hand, he forms but an

inconspicuous speck on the vast snow-field.

{135} Having learned all that I could of the geology of the cliff, and

the gathering clouds rendering it unnecessary to climb the summits

above, we descended with even more difficulty than we had encountered

on our way up, and met Lindsley as he reached the pass. Resuming our

packs, we started on, knowing that Crumback would follow our trail;

and after two hours' hard tramping over a snow surface rendered

somewhat soft by the heat of the day, but fortunately little

crevassed, we reached the place chosen for our camp. Crumback soon

joined us, and we pitched our tent for the night. The place chosen was

on a little island of débris, the farthest out we could discover from

the base of the great cliff on the north. We judged that we should

there be safe from avalanches, although the screech and hiss of stones

falling from the cliff were heard many times during the night.

Lindsley and Crumback, on revisiting the site of our camp two days

later, found that a tremendous avalanche of snow and rocks had in the

mean time fallen from the cliffs and ploughed its way out upon the

glacier to within fifteen or twenty feet of where we had passed the

night. They remarked that if the avalanche had occurred while we were

in camp, our tent would not have been reached, but that we should

probably have been scared to death by the roar.

FIRST FULL VIEW OF ST. ELIAS.

Leaving Crumback and Lindsley to make our camp as comfortable as

possible, Kerr and I pressed on with the object of seeing all we could

of the country ahead before the afternoon sunlight faded into

twilight. Mount St. Elias had been shut out from view, either by

clouds or by intervening mountains, for several days; but it was

evident that on approaching the end of the Pinnacle pass fault-scarp

we should behold it again, and comparatively near at hand.

Continuing down the even snow-slope, in which there were but few

crevasses, the view became broader and broader as we advanced, and at

length the great pyramid forming the culminating summit of all the

region burst into full view. What a glorious sight! The great mountain

seemed higher and grander and more regularly proportioned than any

peak I had ever beheld before. The white plain formed by the Seward

glacier gave an even foreground, broken by crevasses which, lessening

in perspective, gave distance to the foot-hills forming the western

{136} margin of the glacier. Far above the angular crest of the

Samovar hills in the middle distance towered St. Elias, sharp and

clear against the evening sky. Midway up the final slope a thin,

horizontal bar of gray clouds was delicately penciled. Through the

meshes of the fairy scarf shone the yellow sunset sky. The strong

outlines of the rugged mountain, which had withstood centuries of

storms and earthquakes, were softened and glorified by the breath of

the summer winds, chilled as they kissed its crystal slopes.

Could I give to the reader a tithe of the impressions that such a view

suggests, they would declare that painters had never shown them

mountains, but only hills. So majestic was St. Elias, with the halo of

the sunset about his brow, that other magnificent peaks now seen for

the first time or more fully revealed than ever before, although

worthy the respect and homage of the most experienced

mountain-climber, scarcely received a second glance.

Returning to camp, we passed the night, and the following day, August

6, advanced our camp to the eastern border of the Seward glacier at

the extreme western end of the upturned crest forming the northern

wall of Pinnacle pass.

The western end of the Pinnacle pass cliff is turned abruptly

northward, and the rocks dip eastward at a high angle, showing,

together with other conditions, that the end of the ridge is

determined by a cross-fault running northeast and southwest. West of

the Seward glacier there is a continuation of the Pinnacle-pass cliff,

but it is greatly out of line. The position of the Seward glacier, in

this portion of its course, was determined by the fault which broke

the alignment of the main displacement.

Many facts of similar nature show that the glaciers of the St. Elias

region have had their courses determined, to a large extent, by the

faults which have given the region its characteristic structure: the

ice drainage is consequent to the structure of the underlying rocks;

the glaciers not only did not originate the channels in which they

flow, but have failed to greatly modify them.

Camp 14 was on a sharp crest of limestone, conglomerate, and shale

belonging to the Pinnacle system, which was not over ten feet broad

where our tent was pitched. East of our tent there was a broad, upward

sloping snow-plain banked against the precipitous base of a hill about

a thousand feet high. At the edge of the snow, within three feet of

our tent, there was a pond {137} of clear water, seemingly placed

there for our special use. The western edge of our tent was at the

margin of a cliff about a hundred feet high, overlooking the Seward

glacier. We held this camp for several days and reöccupied it on our

return from St. Elias.

SUMMIT OF PINNACLE PASS CLIFFS.

From Camp 14 Crumback returned to Blossom island, and Stamy took his

place. Word from Christie assured me that supplies would be advanced

to Blossom island, and that our cache on the Marvine glacier would be

renewed. Stamy's arrival was especially welcome for the reason that he

brought letters from dear ones far away, which had been forwarded from

Sitka by a trading schooner that chanced to visit Yakutat bay.

While the camp hands were busy in bringing up fresh supplies, Kerr and

I occupied two stations on the summit of the Pinnacle pass cliffs. One

of these was on a butte at the western end of the ridge and just above

our camp; the other was on the crest of the main line of cliffs almost

directly above Pinnacle pass, at an elevation of 5,000 feet. Each of

the stations embraced magnificent views, extending from the outer

margin of the Malaspina glacier to the crest of the St. Elias range.

The station on the butte near camp was occupied several times, and

proved to be a most convenient and commanding point for study of the

geography, geology, and distribution of glacier over a wide area. On

account of the splendid view obtained from the top we named it _Point

Glorious_. Its elevation is 3,500 feet.

One of the days on which we occupied Point Glorious was especially

remarkable on account of the clearness and freshness of the air and

the sharpness with which each peak and snow-crest stood out against

the deep-blue heavens. We left our camp early in the morning, and

spent several hours on the summit. On our way up we found several

large patches of Alpine flowers and, under a tussock of moss, a soft,

warm nest just abandoned by a mother ptarmigan with her brood of

little ones. One hundred feet higher we came to the borders of the

snow-field which covered all of the upper slopes except a narrow crest

of sandstone at the top.

The Seward glacier, sweeping down from the northeast, curves about the

base of Point Glorious and flows on southward. Its surface has the

appearance of a wide frozen river. Toward the {138} east of our

station there was a broad, level-floored amphitheatre, bounded on the

south by the cliffs of Pinnacle pass and on the east by long

snow-slopes which stretch up the gorges in the side of Mount Cook. The

amphitheatre opens toward the northwest, and discharges its

accumulated snows into the Seward glacier. Beyond this, on the north,

stood the great curtain-wall named the Corwin cliffs, west of which

rose Mount Eaton, Mount Augusta, Mount Malaspina, and other giant

summits of the main St. Elias range. Toward the west the view

culminated in St. Elias itself, ruggedly outlined against the sky. As

the reader will become more and more familiar with the magnificent

scenery of the St. Elias region as we advance, it need not be

described in detail at this time.

All day the skies were clear and bright, giving abundant opportunity

for making a detailed survey of the principal features in view, and

for reading the history written in cliffs and glaciers. When the long

summer day drew to a close, we returned to our tent and watched the

great peaks become dim and generalized in outline as the twilight

deepened. The fading light caused the mountains to recede farther and

farther, until at last they seemed ghostly giants, too far away to be

definitely recognized. With the twilight came soft, gray, uncertain

clouds drawn slowly and silently about the rugged precipices by the

summer winds from the sea. St. Elias became enveloped in luminous

clouds, with the exception of a few hundred feet of the shining

summit; and a glory in the sky, to the left of the veiled Saint,

marked the place where the sun went down. The shadows crept across the

snow-fields and changed them from dazzling white to a soft gray-blue.

Night came on silently, and with but little change. There was no

folding of wings; no twittering of birds in leafy branches; no sighing

of winds among rustling leaves. All was stern and wild and still;

there was not a touch of life to relieve the desolation. A midwinter

night in inhabited lands was never more solemn. Man had never rested

there before.

The air grew chill when the shadows crossed our tent, and delicate ice

crystals began to shoot on the still surface of our little pond. We

bade good night to the stern peaks, about which there were signs of a

coming storm, and sought the shelter of our tent. Small and

comfortless as was that shelter, it shut out the wintry scene and

afforded a welcome retreat. Sound, refreshing sleep, with dreams of

loved ones far away, renewed our strength for another advance.

{139} The next day, August 8, a topographic station was occupied on

the summit of the Pinnacle pass cliffs. We were astir before sunrise,

and had breakfast over before four o'clock. The morning was cold, and

a cutting wind swept down the Seward glacier from the northeast. All

of the mountains were lost to view in dense clouds. A few rays of

sunshine breaking through the vapor banks above Point Glorious gave

promise of better weather during the day. Lindsley and Stamy had not

yet returned from the lower camp, where they were to obtain additional

rations; and Kerr and I concluded to try to reach the crest of the

Pinnacle pass cliffs and take the chances of the weather being

favorable for our work.

Leaving camp in the early morning light, we chose to climb over the

summit of Point Glorious rather than thread the crevasses at its

northern base. Reaching the top of the point, we were still beneath

the low canopy of clouds, and could see far up the great amphitheatre

to the base of _Mount Owen_.[31] Descending the eastern slope, we soon

reached the floor of the amphitheatre, and found the snow smooth and

hard and not greatly crevassed. Cheered by faint promise of blue

skies, we pressed on rapidly, the snow creaking beneath our tread as

on a winter morning. Two or three hours of rapid walking brought us to

the southern wall of the amphitheatre, nearly beneath the point we

wished to occupy. As we ascended the slope the way became more

difficult, owing not only to its steepness but also to the fact that

the snow was softening, and also because great crevasses crossed our

path. Looking back over the snow we had crossed, two

well-characterized features on its surface could be distinguished:

these were large areas with a gray tint, caused by a covering of dust.

This dust comes from the southern faces of the Pinnacle pass cliffs,

and is blown over the crest of the ridge and scattered far and wide

over the snow-fields toward the north. Should the dust-covered areas

become buried beneath fresh snow, it is evident that the strata of

snow would be separated by thin layers of darker color. This is what

has happened many times, as we could see by looking down into the

crevasses. In one deep gulf I counted five distinct strata of clear

white snow, separated by narrow dust-bands. In other instances there

are twenty or more such strata visible. Each layer is evidently the

record of a snow-storm, while the dust-bands indicate intervals of

fine weather. {140} The strata of snow exposed to view in the

crevasses, after being greatly compressed, are usually from ten to

fifteen feet thick, but in one instance exceeded fifty feet. If we

assume that each layer represents a winter's snow, and that

compression has reduced each stratum to a third of its original

thickness (and probably the compression has been greater than this),

it is evident that the fresh snows must sometimes reach the depth of

from 50 to 150 feet.

[Footnote 31: Named for David Dale Owen, United States geologist.]

Toiling on up the snow-slope, we had to wind in and out among deep

crevasses, sometimes crossing them by narrow snow-bridges, and again

jumping them and plunging our alpenstocks deep in the snow when we

reached the farther side. After many windings we reached the summit of

the Pinnacle-pass cliffs. The crest-line is formed of an outcrop of

conglomerate composed of sand and pebbles, in one layer of which I

found large quantities of mussel shells standing in the position in

which the creatures lived. The present elevation of this ancient

sea-bottom is 5,000 feet. The strata incline northward at angles of

30° to 40°. All of the northern slope of the ridge is deeply covered

with snow, and the rock only appears along the immediate crest. There

are, in fact, two crests, as is common with many mountain ridges in

this region, one of rock and the second of snow; the snow crest, which

is usually the higher, is parallel to the rock crest and a few rods

north of it. In the valley between the two ridges we found secure

footing, and ascended with ease to the highest point on the cliffs.

Looking over the southern or rocky crest, we found a sheer descent of

about 1,500 feet to the snow-fields below.

The clouds diminished in density and gradually broke away, so that the

entire extent of the St. Elias range was in view, with the exception

of the crowning peak of all, which was still veiled from base to

summit. A spur of St. Elias, extending southward from the main peak,

and named _The Chariot_, gleamed brightly in the sunlight. It was the

first point on which we made observations. Stretching eastward from

St. Elias is the sharp crest of the main range, on which stand Mounts

Newton, Jeannette, Malaspina, Augusta, Logan, and several other

splendid peaks not yet named. Just to the right of Mount Augusta, on

the immediate border of the Seward glacier, rise the Corwin cliffs,

marking an immense fault-scarp of the same general character as the

one on which we stood.

{141} Mr. Kerr endeavored at first to occupy a station on the crest of

the rocky ridge, but as the steepness of the slope and the shattered

condition of the rock rendered the station hazardous, the snow-ridge,

which was covered with dust and sand and nearly as firm as rock, was

occupied instead. The clouds parting toward the northeast revealed

several giant peaks not before seen, some of which seem to rival in

height St. Elias itself. One stranger, rising in three white domes far

above the clouds, was especially magnificent. As this was probably the

first time its summit was ever seen, we took the liberty of giving it

a name. It will appear on our maps as _Mount Logan_, in honor of Sir

William E. Logan, founder and long director of the Geological Survey

of Canada.

The clouds grew denser in the east, and shut off all hope of extending

the map-work in that direction. While Kerr was making topographic

sketches I tried to decipher some of the geological history of the

region around me and make myself more familiar with its glaciers and

snow-fields.

Even more remarkable than the mighty peaks toward the north, beheld

that day for the first time, was the vast plateau of ice stretching

seaward from the foot of the mountains. From my station what seemed to

be the ocean's shore near Icy bay could just be distinguished. Beyond

the bay there is a group of hills which come boldly down to the sea,

and apparently form a sea-cliff at the water's edge. Beyond this

headland there is another vast glacier extending westward to the

limits of vision. The view from this point is essentially the same as

that obtained from the cliffs at Pinnacle pass a few days earlier,

except that it is far more extended. It need not be described in

detail.

The clouds becoming thicker and settling in dark masses about the

mountains, we gave up all hope of further work and started for our

camp. On the way down the ridge between the crest of snow and the

crest of rock we found a stratum of sandstone filled with fossil

leaves, and near at hand another layer charged with very recent

sea-shells. Collecting all of these that we could carry, we trudged

on, finding the snow soft and some of the bridges which we had easily

crossed in the morning now weak, trembling, and insecure. We crossed

them safely, however, and, reaching the level floor of the

amphitheatre, marched wearily on toward Point Glorious. This time we

passed along the northern base of the butte at an elevation of two or

three hundred feet {142} above the glacier, and, taking a convenient

slide down the snow-slope, reached our tent.

Soon a delicious cup of coffee was prepared, bacon was fried, and

these were put in a warm place while some griddle cakes were being

baked. A warm supper, followed by a restful pipe, ended the day. Kerr

and I were our own cooks and our own housekeepers during much of the

time we lived above the snow-line. We cleared away the remains of the

supper, and prepared our blankets for the night. One of the huge ice

pinnacles on the glacier fell with a great crash just as we were

turning in. Rain began to fall, and the night was cold and

disagreeable; how it passed I do not know, as I slept soundly.

Scarcely anything less serious than the blowing away of our tent could

have awakened me.

ACROSS SEWARD GLACIER TO DOME PASS.

Stormy weather and the necessity of bringing additional supplies from

Blossom island detained us at Camp 14 until August 13. We rose at

three o'clock on the morning of that day, and, after a hasty

breakfast, prepared to cross the Seward glacier. The morning was cold

but clear, and the air was bracing. Each peak and mountain crest in

the rugged landscape stood out boldly in the early light, although the

sun had not risen. Soon the summit of St. Elias became tipped with

gold, and then peak after peak, in order of their rank, caught the

radiance, and in a short time the vast snow-fields were of dazzling

splendor.

The frost of the night before had hardened the snow, which made

walking a pleasure. We crossed a rocky spur projecting northward from

Point Glorious into the Seward glacier, and had to lower our packs

down the side of the precipice with the aid of ropes. Our course led

at first up the border of the great glacier to a point above the head

of the rapids already referred to, then curved to the westward, and

for a mile or two coincided with the general trend of the crevasses.

We made good progress, but at length we came to where the Augusta

glacier pours its flood of ice into the main stream and, owing to its

high grade, is greatly broken. Skirting this difficult area, we passed

a number of small blue lakelets and reached the western border of the

Seward glacier. We found a gently rising snow-slope leading westward

through a gap that could be seen in hills a few miles in advance. But

little difficulty was now experienced, except that the snow {143} had

become soft under the summer's sun, and walking over it with heavy

loads was wearisome in the extreme. We could see, however, that the

way ahead was clear, and that encouraged us to push on. Toward night

we found a camping place on a steep ridge of shale and sandstone

projecting eastward from a spur of Mount Malaspina. This ridge rises

about five hundred feet above the surrounding glacier, and has steep

roof-like slopes. The summer sun had melted nearly all the snow from

its southern face, but the northern slope was still heavily loaded.

The snow on the northern side stood some thirty or forty feet higher

than the rocky crest of the ridge itself, and between the rock crest

and the snow crest there was a little valley which afforded ample

shelter for our tent and was quite safe from avalanches. The melting

of the snow-bank during the warm days supplied us with water.

The formation of crests of snow standing high above the rocky ridges

on which they rest is a peculiar and interesting feature of the

mountains of the St. Elias region. A north-and-south section through

the ridge on which Camp 15 was situated, exhibiting the double crests,

one of rock and the other of snow, is shown at _a_ in figure 6. _b_ is

a section through a similar ridge with a still higher snow crest. The

remaining figures in the illustration are sketches of mountain peaks,

as seen from the south, which have been increased in height by a heavy

accumulation of snow on their northern slopes. These sketches are of

peaks among the foothills of Mount Malaspina, and show snow pinnacles

from fifty to more than a hundred feet high. In some instances, domes

and crests of snow were seen along the western sides of the ridges and

peaks, but as a rule these snow-tips on the mountains are confined to

their northern slopes. The edges and summits of the snow-ridges are

sharply defined and clearly cut. The southern slope exposed above the

crest of rock is often concave, while the northern slopes are usually

convex.

[Illustration: FIGURE 6--_Snow Crests on Ridges and Peaks; from Field

Sketches_.]

In climbing steep ridges the double crests are frequently of great

assistance. Safe footing may frequently be found in the channels

between the crests of rock and snow, by the aid of which {144} very

precipitous peaks may be climbed with ease. In case the ascent between

the two crests is not practicable, the even snow-slope itself affords

a sure footing for one used to mountain climbing.

After establishing Camp 15, Lindsley and Stamy returned to one of the

lower camps for additional supplies, while Kerr and I explored a way

for farther advance.

[Illustration: PLATE 18. HITCHCOCK RANGE, FROM NEAR DOME PASS.]

Our camp occupied a commanding situation. From the end of the ridge on

which it was located there was a splendid view of glaciers and

mountains to the eastward. The illustration forming plate 18 is from a

photograph taken from that station. Toward the north, and only a few

miles away, rose the bare, rugged slope of Mount Malaspina. In a wild,

high-grade gorge on its western side, a glacier, all pinnacles and

crevasses, tumbles down into the broad white plain below. On account

of its splendid ice-fall this was named the _Cascade glacier_. Beyond

the white plain, stretching eastward for fifteen or twenty miles,

there rise the foothills of Mount Cook. Farther south, the rugged,

angular summits of the Hitchcock range are in full view, and toward

the north stands _Mount Irving_,[32] which rivals even Mount Cook in

the symmetrical proportions of its snow-covered slopes.

[Footnote 32: Named in honor of Professor Roland Duer Irving, U. S.

geologist.]

The surface of the vast snow-plain near at hand is gashed by many

gaping fissures, but the distance is so great that these minor details

disappear in a general view. Looking down over the snow, one may see

the crevasses as in a diagram. They look as if the white surface had

been gashed with a sharp knife, and then stretched in such a way as to

open the cuts. That the snow of the névés may be stretched, at least

to a limited extent, is shown by the character of these fissures. The

crevasses are widest in the center and come to a point at their

curving extremities. Two crevasses frequently overlap at their ends

and leave a sliver of ice stretching across diagonally between them.

It is by means of these diagonal bridges that one is enabled to thread

his way through the crevasses.

On returning to camp in the evening, weary with a hard day's climb, a

never-failing source of delight was found in the matchless winter

landscape to the eastward. The evenings following days of

uninterrupted sunshine were especially delightful. The blue shadows of

the western peaks creeping across the shining surface were nearly as

sharp in outline as the peaks that cast {145} them. When the chill of

evening made itself felt, and the dropping water and the indefinite

murmurs from the glacier below were stilled, the silence became

oppressive. The stillness was so profound that it seemed as though the

footsteps of the advancing shadows should be audible.

On warm sunny days, however, there are noises enough amid the

mountains. The snow, partially melted and softened by the heat, falls

from the cliffs in avalanches that make the mountains tremble and,

with a roar like thunder, awaken the echoes far and near. During our

stay at Camp 15 the avalanches were sometimes so frequent on the steep

mountain faces toward the north that the roar of one falling mass of

snow and rocks was scarcely hushed before it was succeeded by another.

On the southward-facing cliffs of Mount Augusta, composed of schist

which disintegrates rapidly, there are frequent rock avalanches. A

rock or a mass of comminuted schist sometimes breaks away even in

midday, although these avalanches occur most frequently when the

moisture in the rocks freezes. The midday avalanches, I fancy, may be

started by the expansion of the rocks owing to the sun's heat. A few

stones dislodged high up on the cliffs fall, and, loosening others in

their descent, soon set in motion a train of dirt and stones, which

flows down the steep ravines with a long rumbling roar, at the same

time sending clouds of dust into the air. If the wind is blowing up

the cliffs, as frequently happens on warm days, the dust is carried

far above the mountains, and hangs in the air like clouds of smoke.

It has been frequently stated that St. Elias is a volcano, and sea

captains sailing on the Pacific have seen what they supposed to be

smoke issuing from its summit. As its southern face is composed of the

same kind of rocks and is of the same precipitous nature as the

southern slope of Mount Augusta, it appears probable that what was

supposed to be volcanic smoke was in reality avalanche dust blown

upward by ascending air currents.

The disintegration of the mountain summits all through the St. Elias

region is so great that one constantly wonders that anything is left;

yet, except late in the fall, the snow surfaces at the bases of even

the steepest cliffs are mostly bare of débris. The absence of earth

and stones on the surfaces of the névé fields is mainly due, of

course, to the fact that these are regions of accumulation where the

winter's snow exceeds the summer's melting. {146} Thus each year the

surface is renewed and made fresh and clean, and any débris that may

have previously accumulated is concealed.

There is another reason, however, why but little débris is found at

the bases of the steep precipices. The snows of winter are banked high

against these walls, but when the rocks are warmed by the return of

the summer's sun the snow near their dark surfaces is melted, and

leaves a deep gulf between the upward-sloping banks of snow and the

sides of the cliffs. These black chasms are frequently 150 or 200 feet

deep, and receive all the débris that falls from above. In this way

very large quantities of earth and stones are injected, as it were,

into the glacier, and only come to light again far down toward the

ends of the ice-streams, where the summer's melting exceeds the

winter's supply.

[Illustration: PLATE 19. MT. ST. ELIAS, FROM DOME PASS.]

On August 14, Kerr and I made an excursion ahead to the border of the

Agassiz glacier. The snow-slope south of our camp led westward up a

gentle grade to a gap in the hills between two bold, snow-covered

domes. The gap through which the snow extended, uniting with a broad

snow-field sloping westward, was only a few hundred feet wide, and

formed a typical mountain pass, designated on our map as _Dome pass_.

Its elevation is 4,300 feet. When near the summit of the pass a few

steps carried us past the divide of snow, and revealed to our eager

eyes the wonderland beyond. St. Elias rose majestically before us,

unobstructed by intervening hills, and bare of clouds from base to

summit. We were greatly encouraged by the prospect ahead, as there

were evidently no obstacles between us and the actual base of the

mountain. A photograph of the magnificent peak was taken, from which

the illustration forming plate 19 has been drawn. To the right of the

main mountain mass, as shown in the illustration, rises _Mount

Newton_,[33] one of the many separate mountain peaks crowning the

crest of the St. Elias range. Our way led down the snow-slope in the

foreground to the border of the Agassiz glacier, which comes in view

between the foot-hills in the middle distance and the sculptured base

on which the crowning pyramid of St. Elias stands. After reaching the

Agassiz glacier we turned to the right, and made our way to the {147}

amphitheatre lying between Mount St. Elias and Mount Newton. On the

day we discovered Dome pass, we pressed on down the western snow-slope

and reached the side of the Agassiz glacier, which we found greatly

crevassed; selecting a camping place on a rocky spur, we returned to

Camp 15, and two days later established camp at the place chosen.

[Footnote 33: Named for Henry Newton, formerly of the School of Mines

of Columbia college and author of a report on the geology of the Black

hills of Dakota.]

Camp 16 was similar in many ways to Camp 14. It had about the same

altitude; it was at the western end of a rugged mountain spur, and on

the immediate border of a large southward-flowing glacier. On the

lower portions of the cliffs, near at hand, there were velvety patches

of brilliant Alpine flowers mingled with thick bunches of wiry grass

and clumps of delicate ferns. Most conspicuous of all the showy

plants, so bright and lovely in the vast wilderness of snow, were the

purple lupines. Already the flowers on the lower portions of their

spikes had matured, and pods covered with a thick coating of wooly

hairs were beginning to be conspicuous. There are no bees and

butterflies in these isolated gardens, but brown flies with

long-pointed wings were abundant. A gray bird, a little larger than a

sparrow, was seen flitting in and out of crevasses near the border of

the ice, apparently in quest of insects. Once, while stretched at full

length on the flowery carpet enjoying the warm sunlight, a humming

bird flashed past me. Occasionally the hoarse cries of ravens were

heard among the cliffs, but they seldom ventured near enough to be

seen. These few suggestions were all there was to remind us of the

summer fields and shady forests in far-away lands.

UP THE AGASSIZ GLACIER.

From Camp 16 Kerr and I made an excursion across the Agassiz glacier,

while Stamy and Lindsley returned to a lower camp for additional

supplies. We found the glacier greatly crevassed and the way across

more difficult than on any of the ice-fields we had previously

traversed; but by dint of perseverance, and after many changes in our

course, we succeeded at last in reaching the western bank, and saw

that by climbing a precipice bordering an ice-cascade we could gain a

plateau above, which we knew from previous observations to be

comparatively little broken. We returned to camp, and on August 18

began the ascent of the glacier in earnest. We were favored in the

task by brilliant weather.

{148} After reaching the western bank of the glacier, we made our way

to the base of the precipice up which we had previously wished to

climb. In order to reach it, however, we had to throw our packs across

a crevasse over which there was no bridge, and followed them by

jumping. The side of the crevasse from which we sprang was higher than

its opposite lip, and left us very uncertain as to how we were to

return; but that was a matter for the future; our aim at the time was

to ascend the glacier, and the return was of no immediate concern.

Reaching the base of the cliff at the side of the glacier, we ascended

it without great difficulty, and came out upon the broad plateau of

snow above. Thinking that the way onward would be easier along the

steep snow-slope bordering the glacier, we made an effort to ascend in

that direction, and spent two or three precious hours in trying to

find a practicable route. Although the crevasses were fewer than on

the glacier proper, yet they were of larger size and had but few

bridges. At last we came to a wide gulf on the opposite side of which

there was a perpendicular wall of snow a hundred feet high, and all

further advance in that direction was stopped. Although obliged to

turn back, our elevated position commanded a good view of the glacier

below and enabled us to choose a way through the maze of crevasses

crossing it. Descending, we plodded wearily on in an irregular zigzag

course; but the crevasses became broader and deeper as we advanced,

and at length we found ourselves traversing flat table-like blocks of

snow, bounded on all sides by crevasses so deep that their bottoms

were lost to view. We made our way from one snow-table to another by

jumping the crevasses where they were narrowest, or by frail

snow-bridges spanning the profound gulfs. Night came on while we were

yet in this wild, broken region, and no choice was left us but to

pitch our tent in the snow and wait until morning. The night was clear

and cold, and a firm crust formed on the snow before morning. Although

the temperature was uncomfortable, we were cheered by the prospects of

a firm snow surface on the morrow.

We continued our march at sunrise and found the walking easy; but the

sun soon came out with unusual brilliancy and softened the snow so

much that even the slowest movements were fatiguing. We endeavored to

force our way up the center of the glacier through the crevasses and

pinnacles of a second ice-fall; but after several hours of exhausting

experience we were {149} obliged to change our plan, and endeavored to

reach a mountain spur projecting from the western border of the

glacier. The sunlight reflected from the snow was extremely brilliant,

and the glare from every surface about us was painful to our eyes,

already weakened by many days' travel over the white snow. Each member

of the party was provided with colored glasses, but in traversing

snow-bridges and jumping crevasses these had to be dispensed with. The

result was that all of us were suffering more or less from

snow-blindness.

About noon we reached the base of the mountain spur toward which our

course was bent. It projects into the western border of Agassiz

glacier. It is the extension of this cliff underneath the glacier that

caused the ice-fall which blocked our way. To go round the end of the

cliff with our packs was impracticable, but there seemed a way up the

face of the cliff itself, which one could scale by taking advantage of

the joints in the rocks. I ascended the snow-slope to the base of the

precipice, but found the way upward more difficult than anticipated;

and, as the light was very painful to my eyes when not protected by

colored glasses, I decided to postpone making the climb until I was in

better condition, and in the meantime to see if some other route could

not be found. We decided to camp on a small patch of débris near the

base of the cliff, and there left our loads. Kerr and Lindsley, taking

a rope and alpenstocks, went around the end of the rocky spur and

worked their way upward with great difficulty to the top of the cliff

immediately above where I had essayed to climb it. A rope was made

fast at the top, and our way onward was secured. This place was

afterward called _Rope cliff_. The remainder of the afternoon I rested

in the tent, with my eyes bound up with tea-leaves, and when evening

came found the pain in my head much relieved.

Our tent that night was so near the brink of a crevasse that in order

to stay the tent one end of the ridge-rope was made fast to a large

stone, which was lowered into the gulf to serve as a stake. Above us

rose a precipice nearly a thousand feet high, from which stones were

constantly falling; but a deep black gulf intervened between the

position we had chosen and the base of the cliffs, and into this the

stones were precipitated. Not one of the falling fragments reached the

edge of the snow slope on which we were camped, but many times during

the night we heard the whiz and hum of the rocks as they shot down

from the cliffs. {150} The noise made by each fragment in its passage

through the air increased rapidly in pitch, thus indicating that they

were approaching us; but they always fell short of our camp. The

bombardment from above was most active just after the shadows fell on

the cliffs, showing that the stones were loosened by the freezing of

the water in the interstices of the rock.

The next day, August 20, Stamy and Lindsley went back to Camp 16 for

more rations, while Kerr and I remained at Camp 18 nursing our eyes

and resting. The day passed without anything worthy of note, except

the almost constant thunder of avalanches on the mountains. About

sunset a dense fog spread over the wintry landscape and threatened to

delay the return of the men. When the sun went down, however, the

temperature fell several degrees, the mist vanished, and a few stars

came out clear and bright. Just as we were about to despair of seeing

the men that night we heard a distant shout announcing their return.

We had a cup of hot coffee for them when they reached the tent, which

they drank with eagerness; but they were too tired to partake of food.

Rolling themselves in their blankets, they were asleep in a few

minutes.

CAMP ON THE NEWTON GLACIER.

On August 21 we climbed the cliff above Camp 18 by means of the rope

already placed there, and found the snow above greatly crevassed. We

traveled upward along the steep slope bordering the glacier, but soon

came to a deep crevasse which forbade further progress in that

direction. Returning to a lower level, we undertook to smooth off an

extremely narrow snow-bridge so as to make it wide enough to cross,

but found the undertaking so hazardous that we abandoned it. By this

time it was midday, and we prepared a cup of hot coffee before

renewing our attack on the cliffs. After luncheon and a short rest,

feeling very much refreshed, we began to cut a series of steps in a

bluff of snow about fifty feet high, and made rapid progress in the

undertaking. After an hour's hard work one of us reached the top and,

planting an alpenstock deep in the snow, lowered a rope to those

below. The packs were drawn up one at a time and we were soon ready to

advance again.

We found ourselves in a vast amphitheatre bounded on all sides

excepting that from which we had come with rugged, {151} snow-covered

precipices. The plain was crossed by huge crevasses, some of which

were fully a mile in length; but by traveling around their ends or

crossing snow-bridges we slowly worked our way onward toward St.

Elias. Threading our way through the labyrinth of yawning gulfs, we at

last, after the sun had gone down behind the great pyramid toward the

west, found a convenient place on the snow, near a blue pond of water,

on which to pass the night. Everything was snow-covered in the vast

landscape except the most precipitous cliffs, and these were dangerous

to approach, owing to the avalanches that frequently fell from them.

The weather continued fine. The night was clear and the stars were

unusually brilliant. Everything seemed favorable for pushing on. The

way ahead presented such even snow-slopes and seemed so free from

crevasses that we decided to leave our tent and blankets in the

morning and, taking with us as little as possible of impedimenta,

endeavor to reach the summit of St. Elias.

HIGHEST POINT REACHED.

Rising at three o'clock on the morning of August 22, we started for

the summit of St. Elias, taking with us only our water-proof coats,

some food, and the necessary instruments. The higher mountain summits

were no longer clearly defined, but in the early light it was

impossible to tell whether or not the day was to be fair. From the

highest and sharpest peaks, cloud banners were streaming off towards

the southeast, showing that the higher air currents were in rapid

movement. Vapor banks in the east were flushed with long streamers of

light as the sun rose, but soon faded to a dull ashen gray, while the

cloud banners between us and the sun became brilliant like the halo

seen around the moon when the sky is covered with fleecy clouds. This

was the first time in my experience that I had seen colored banners

waving from the mountain tops.

We found the snow-surface hard, and made rapid headway up the glacier.

Our only difficulty was the uncertainty of the early light, which

rendered it impossible to tell the slope of the uneven snow-surfaces.

The light was so evenly diffused that there were no shadows. The rare

beauty of that silent, wintry landscape, so delicate in its pearly

half tones and so softly lighted, was unreal and fairy-like. The winds

were still; but {152} strange forebodings of coming changes filled the

air. Long, waving threads of vapor were woven in lace-work across the

sky; the white-robed mountains were partially concealed by

cloud-masses drifting like spirits along their mighty battlements; and

far, far above, from the topmost pinnacles, irised banners were

signaling the coming of a storm.

We made rapid progress, but early in the day came to the base of a

heavy cloud bank which enshrouded all the upper part of St. Elias.

Then snow began to fall, and it was evident that to proceed farther

would be rash and without promise of success. After twenty days of

fatigue and hardship since leaving Blossom island, with our goal

almost reached, we were obliged to turn back. Hoping to be able to

renew the attempt after the storm had passed, Mr. Kerr left his

instruments on the snow between two huge crevasses and we returned to

our tent, where we passed the remainder of the day and the night

following. The snow continued to fall throughout the day, and the

storm increased in force as night came on. When we awoke in the

morning the tempest was still raging. We were in the midst of the

storm-cloud; the dense vapor and the fine drifting snow-crystals swept

along by the wind obscured everything from view; the white snow

surface could not be distinguished from the vapor-filled air; there

was no earth and no sky; we seemed to be suspended in a white,

translucent medium which surrounded us like a shroud. The snow was

already more than three feet deep about our tent, and to remain longer

with the short supply of provisions on hand was exceedingly hazardous,

as there seemed no limit to the duration of the storm. A can of

rations had been left at Rope cliff, and we decided to return to that

place if possible. Resuming our packs, we roped ourselves together and

began to descend through the blinding mist and snow which rendered the

atmosphere so dense that a man could not be distinguished at a

distance of a hundred feet. With only an occasional glimpse of the

white cliff around to guide us, we worked our way downward over

snow-bridges and between the crevasses. Our ascent through this

dangerous region had been slow and difficult, but our descent was

still more tedious. All day long we continued to creep slowly along

through the blinding storm, and as night approached believed ourselves

near the steps cut in a snow-cliff during the ascent, but darkness

came before we reached them. Shoveling the snow away as best we could

with our hands and {153} basins, we cleared a place down to the old

snow large enough for our tent and went into camp.

In the morning, August 24, the storm had spent its force and left the

mountains with an immaculate covering, but still partially veiled by

shreds of storm-clouds. We found ourselves on one of the many tables

of snow, bounded on all sides by crevasses of great depth, but not far

from the snow-cliff where we had cut steps. The steps were obliterated

by the new snow, but by means of a rope and alpenstocks we made the

descent without much difficulty. The last man to go down, not having

the help of the rope, used two alpenstocks, and descended by first

planting one firmly in the snow and lowering himself as far as he

could, still retaining a firm hold, and then planting the other in the

snow at a lower level and removing the higher one. By slowly and

carefully repeating this operation he descended the cliff safely and

rejoined his companions. Passing on beneath the cliffs, dangerous on

account of avalanches, we reached in safety the precipice where we had

left our rope. A heavy avalanche had swept down from the heights above

during our absence and sent its spray over the precipice we had to

descend. The cliff of ice towering above the place where our rope was

fastened had become greatly melted and honey-combed, and threatened

every moment to crash down and destroy any one who chanced to be

beneath. To stand above the precipice in the shadow of the treacherous

snow-cliffs while the men were descending the rope was exceedingly

trying to one's nerves; but the avalanches did not come, and the

previous camping place below Rope cliff was reached with safety.

The following day, August 25, after some consultation, it was decided

to once more attempt to reach the top of Mount St. Elias. Lindsley and

Stamy, who had shared without complaint our privations in the snow,

volunteered to descend to a lower camp for additional rations, while

Kerr and myself returned to the higher camp in the hope that we might

be able to ascend the peak before the men returned, and, if not, to

have sufficient rations when they did rejoin us to continue the

attack. The men departed on their difficult errand, while Kerr and I,

with blankets, tents, oil-stoves, and what rations remained, once more

scaled the cliff where we had placed a rope, and returned on the trail

made the day previously. About noon we reached the excavation in the

snow where we had bivouacked in the storm, {154} and there prepared a

lunch. It was then discovered that we had been mistaken as to the

quantity of oil in our cans; we found scarcely enough to cook a single

meal. To attempt to remain several days in the snow with this small

supply of fuel seemed hazardous, and Mr. Kerr volunteered to descend

and overtake the men at the lower camp, procure some oil, and return

the following day. We then separated, Mr. Kerr starting down the

mountain, leaving me with a double load, weighing between sixty and

seventy pounds, to carry through the deep snow to the high camp

previously occupied.

ALONE IN THE HIGHEST CAMP.

Trudging wearily on, I reached the high camp at sunset, and pitched my

tent in the excavation previously occupied. An alpenstock was used for

one tent-pole, and snow saturated with water, piled up in a column,

for the other; the snow froze in a few minutes, and held the tent

securely. The ends of the ridge-rope were then stamped into the snow,

and water was poured over them; the edges of the tent were treated in

a similar manner, and my shelter was ready for occupation. After

cooking some supper over the oil-stove, I rolled myself in a blanket

and slept the sleep of the weary. I was awakened in the morning by

snow drifting into my tent, and on looking out discovered that I was

again caught in a blinding storm or mist of snow. The storm raged all

day and all night, and continued without interruption until the

evening of the second day. The coal oil becoming exhausted, a can was

filled with bacon grease, in which a cotton rag was placed for a wick;

and over this "witch lamp" I did my cooking during the remainder of my

stay. The snow, falling steadily, soon buried my tent, already

surrounded on three sides by an icy wall higher than my head, and it

was only by almost constant exertion that it was kept from being

crushed in. With a pint basin for a shovel I cleared the tent as best

I could, and several times during the day re-excavated the hole

leading down to the pond, which had long since disappeared beneath the

level plain of white. The excavation of a tunnel in the snow was also

begun in the expectation that the tent would become uninhabitable. The

following night it became impossible to keep the tent clear in spite

of energetic efforts, and early in the morning it was crushed in by a

great weight of snow, {155} leaving me no alternative but to finish my

snow-house and move in. A tunnel some four or five feet in length was

excavated in the snow, and a chamber about six feet long by four feet

wide and three feet high was made at right angles to the tunnel. In

this chamber I placed my blankets and other belongings, and, hanging a

rubber coat on an alpenstock at the entrance, found myself well

sheltered from the tempest. There I passed the day and the night

following. At night the darkness and silence in my narrow tomb-like

cell was oppressive; not a sound broke the stillness except the

distant, muffled roar of an occasional avalanche. I slept soundly,

however, and in the morning was awakened by the croaking of a raven on

the snow immediately above my head. The grotto was filled with a soft

blue light, but a pink radiance at the entrance told that the day had

dawned bright and clear.

What a glorious sight awaited me! The heavens were without a cloud,

and the sun shone with dazzling splendor on the white peaks around.

The broad unbroken snow-plain seemed to burn with light reflected from

millions of shining crystals. The great mountain peaks were draped

from base to summit in the purest white, as yet unscarred by

avalanches. On the steep cliffs the snow hung in folds like drapery,

tier above tier, while the angular peaks above stood out like crystals

against the sky. St. Elias was one vast pyramid of alabaster. The

winds were still; not a sound broke the solitude; not an object moved.

Even the raven had gone, leaving me alone with the mountains.

As the sun rose higher and higher and made its warmth felt, the snow

was loosened on the steep slopes and here and there broke away.

Gathering force as it fell, it rushed down in avalanches that made the

mountains tremble and awakened thunderous echoes. From a small

beginning high up on the steep slopes, the new snow would slip

downward, silently at first, and cascade over precipices hundreds of

feet high, looking like a fall of foaming water; then came the roar,

increasing in volume as the flowing snow involved new fields in its

path of destruction, until the great mass became irresistible and

ploughed its way downward through clouds of snow-spray, which hung in

the air long after the snow had ceased to move and the roar of the

avalanche had ceased. All day long, until the shadow of evening fell

on the steep slopes, this mountain thunder continued. The echoes of

one avalanche scarcely died away before they were {156} awakened by

another roar. To witness such a scene under the most favorable

conditions was worth all the privations and anxiety it cost.

Besides the streams of new snow, there were occasional avalanches of a

different character, caused by the breaking away of portions of the

cliffs of old snow, accumulated, perhaps, during several winters.

These start from the summits of precipices, and are caused by the slow

downward creep of the snow-fields above. The snow-cliffs are always

crevassed and broken in much the same manner as are the ends of

glaciers which enter the sea, and occasionally large masses,

containing thousands of cubic yards, break away and are precipitated

down the slopes with a suddenness that is always startling. Usually

the first announcement of these avalanches is a report like that of a

cannon, followed by a rumbling roar as the descending mass ploughs its

way along. The avalanches formed by old snow are quite different from

those caused by the descent of the new surface snow, but are

frequently accompanied by surface streams in case there has been a

recent storm. The paths ploughed out by the avalanches are frequently

sheathed with glassy ice, formed by the freezing of water produced by

the melting of snow on account of the heat produced by the friction of

the moving mass. A third variety of avalanches, due to falling stones,

has already been noticed.

The floor of my snow-chamber was the surface of the old snow on which

we had pitched our tents at the time we first reached that camping

place. On this hard surface, and forming the walls of the cell, there

were thirty inches of clear white snow, the upper limit of which was

marked by a blue layer of ice about a quarter of an inch thick. This

indicated the thickness of snow that fell during the first storm. Its

surface had been melted and softened during the days of sunshine that

followed its fall, and had frozen into clear ice. Above the blue band

which encircled the upper portion of my chamber was the soft, pure

white snow of the second storm. The stratification of snow which I had

seen fall rendered it evident that my interpretation of the

stratification observed in the sides of crevasses was correct. The

snow when it fell was soft and white, and composed of very fine

crystals; but under the influence of the air and sunshine it changed

its texture and became icy and granular, and then resembled the névé

snow so common in high mountains.

{157} The day following the storm was bright and beautiful; the

sunlight was warm and pleasant, but the temperature in the shadows was

always below freezing. The surface of the snow did not melt

sufficiently during the day to freeze and form a crust during the

night. It thus became more and more apparent that the season was too

far advanced to allow the snow to harden sufficiently for us to be

able to climb the mountain. The snow settled somewhat and changed its

character, but even at midday the crystals on the surface glittered as

brilliantly in the sunlight as they did in the early morning. Although

the snow did not melt, its surface was lowered slightly by

evaporation. The tracks of the raven, at first sunken a quarter of an

inch in the soft surface, after the first day of sunshine stood

slightly in relief, but were still clearly defined.

* * * * *

On the sixth day after separating from my companions, judging that

they must have returned at least to the camping place where we had

separated, I packed my blankets and what food remained, abandoned the

tent and oil-stove, and started to descend the mountain. The snow had

settled somewhat, but was still soft and yielding and over six feet

deep. Tramping wearily on through the chaff-like substance, I slowly

worked my way downward, and again threaded the maze of crevasses, now

partially concealed by the layer of new snow, with which we had

struggled several times before. Midway to the next camping place I met

my companions coming up to search for me. Instead of meeting three

men, as I expected, I saw five tramping along in single file through

the deep snow. The sight of human beings in that vast solitude was so

strange that I watched them for some time before shouting. Glad as I

was to meet my companions once more, I could not help noticing their

rough and picturesque appearance. Each man wore colored glasses and

carried a long alpenstock, and two or three had packs strapped on

their backs. Several weeks of hard tramping over moraines and

snow-fields had made many rents in their clothes, which had been

mended with cloth of any color that chanced to be available. Not a few

rags were visible fluttering in the wind. To a stranger they would

have appeared like a dangerous band of brigands.

The reason for the presence of five men instead of three was this:

Lindsley and Stamy, when they left us at Rope cliff to {158} return

for additional rations, were obliged to go back to Camp 12 in order to

get a tent and an oil-stove. On reaching that place the temptation to

return to Blossom island was so great that Lindsley could not resist

it and went back to the base-camp, where he reported that Kerr and I

were storm-bound in the mountains and in need of assistance. Three

men, Partridge, Doney, and White, started at once, and found Stamy,

who had waited for their arrival at Camp 12. A day was thus lost,

which increased Mr. Kerr's hardship and might have proved disastrous.

The party then returned to Rope cliff and joined Kerr on the evening

of August 29. On this occasion, as on several others, I found myself

indebted to Stamy for willing assistance when others hesitated.

During my imprisonment at the highest camp, Mr. Kerr was detained

under similar circumstances at the camp below Rope cliff. On

endeavoring to rejoin me with the supply of coal oil, so very valuable

under the circumstances, he was caught in the storm and was unable to

reach the rendezvous appointed. He reached Rope cliff late in the

afternoon of the first day of the storm, climbed the precipice, and

found his way through the gathering darkness, along the nearly

obliterated trail beneath the avalanche cliffs, and up the steps cut

in the snow-cliff, to the site of our bivouac camp. Finding nothing

there, and being unable to proceed farther through the blinding storm,

he abandoned the attempt and returned to the camp below Rope cliff. In

descending the rope, he found that its lower end had become fast in

the snow. The taut line, sheathed with ice, was an uncertain help in

the darkness. Midway in the descent his hands slipped and he slid to

the bottom; but the cushion of new snow broke the fall and prevented

serious injury. Alone, without fire, without blankets, having only a

canvas cover and a rubber cloth for shelter, and with but little food,

he passed three anxious days and nights before the arrival of the camp

hands.

THE RETURN.

Deciding that the ascent of Mount St. Elias could not be accomplished

through the new snow, which refused to harden, it was decided to

abandon the attempt and return to Blossom island. Our retreat was none

too soon. Storm succeeded storm throughout September. Each time the

clouds lifted, the mantle {159} of new snow was seen to have descended

lower and lower. Our last view showed the wintry covering nearly down

to timber-line.

On the night of August 31 we slept at the camp beneath Rope cliff, but

had a most uncomfortable night. Six men sleeping in a tent measuring

seven by seven feet, with but little protection from the ice beneath,

certainly does not seem inviting to one surrounded by the comforts of

civilization. A large part of the night was occupied by Doney in

preparing breakfast over our oil-stove. An early start was welcome to

all; we were disappointed at not being able to reach the top of St.

Elias, and were anxious to return to more comfortable quarters. Kerr

concluded to return at once to Blossom island to recuperate, while I

made an excursion up the Seward glacier, with the hope of gaining the

upper ice-fall and seeing the amphitheatre beyond.

We left Rope cliff about six in the morning, and found the snow hard

and traveling easy for several hours. After descending the lower

ice-fall, however, the snow became soft, and a change in the

atmosphere indicated the approach of another storm. Kerr and Doney

pressed on and were soon lost to sight, while the rest of the party

were delayed, owing to Partridge having become snow-blind and almost

helpless. As the crevasses were exceedingly numerous and the

snow-bridges soft and uncertain, the task of conducting a blind man to

a place of safety was by no means light. Partridge bore up bravely

under his affliction, however, and did not hesitate in crawling across

the treacherous snow-bridges with a rope fastened about his body and a

man before and behind to assist his movements. Late in the day we

reached our camping place at the eastern border of the Agassiz

glacier, while Kerr and Doney crossed Dome pass and spent the night in

a tent that had been left standing at the first camping east of the

pass. We pitched a tent on our old camping place at Camp 16, and had

the luxury of a rocky bed to sleep on that night. As Partridge's

blindness still continued, White was sent ahead to tell Kerr and Doney

to wait for us in the morning, so that Partridge could accompany them

to Blossom island. Rain continued all that night and all the next day.

As Partridge's eyes were still unserviceable in the morning, I

concluded to wait a day before allowing him to start for Blossom

island.

Toward evening on September 2 we moved our camp across {160} Dome

pass, and pitched our tent on the high ridge beside the one occupied

by Kerr and Doney. In the morning, although the storm still continued,

our party divided, Kerr, Doney, and Partridge starting early for

Blossom island, while Stamy, White, and myself, after following their

tracks for a few miles, turned to the left and worked our way

northeastward among the crevasses of the Seward glacier. Toward

evening we reached the northwestern spur of Mount Owen, but found the

cliffs rising abruptly from the glacier and too favorable for

avalanches to admit of our camping near them. Again we were forced to

go into camp on the open glacier, and were less comfortable than

previously on similar occasions, owing to the fact that we had been

exposed to the rains for three successive days and our blankets and

clothes were wet. Rain continued all night and all the next day, and

on the following night changed to snow.

On the morning of September 4 we awoke to find the skies clear, but

the mountains all about us were white with snow. Before the sun rose,

White and I started for the top of the high ridge above us, determined

to have at least a distant view of the amphitheatre which we wished to

explore. The snow about our camp was only six or eight inches deep,

but as we ascended the mountain it grew more and more troublesome, and

at a height of a thousand feet above camp was thirty inches deep. On

gaining the summit of the ridge a magnificent view was obtained of the

upper portion of the Seward glacier and of Mount Irving and Mount

Logan, and many bold, tapering mountains farther northeastward. The

whole landscape was snow-covered, and as the sun rose clear in the

east became of the most dazzling brilliancy. An icy wind swept down

from the northeast and rendered it exceedingly difficult to take

photographs or to make measurements. On endeavoring to use my

prismatic compass, I found that, having been soaked with moisture

during the previous days of storm, it froze solid and refused to move,

on being exposed to the air. Making what observations I could, we

started back to camp with the intention of abandoning all further

attempts to work in the high mountains.

On the steep slope now exposed to the full sunshine several avalanches

had gone down, and there was great danger of others. Selecting a point

where an avalanche had already swept away the new snow, we worked our

way downward in a zigzag course and reached the bottom safely,

although an avalanche starting {161} near at hand swept by within a

few yards. When nearly at the bottom my attention was attracted by a

noise above, and on looking up I saw two rocks bounding down the slope

and coming straight for me. To dodge them on the steep slippery slope

was difficult and dangerous. Allowing one to pass over my right

shoulder, I instantly moved in that direction and allowed the other to

pass over my left shoulder. They shot by me like fragments of shells,

but did no injury. Reaching camp, we found that Stamy had dried our

blankets and clothes.

Resuming our packs, we slowly threaded our way downward to Camp 14, at

the western end of the Pinnacle pass cliffs. We there found cans of

rations left several days before and, pitching our tent, passed the

night. We knew by the signs found there that Kerr and his companions,

after taking lunch, had renewed their journey toward Blossom island.

Our camp was just at the lower limit of the new snow. To the northward

all was of the purest white, but southward, down the glacier, the

snow-fields were yellow and much discolored. Many changes had taken

place in the Seward glacier since we first saw it; the pinnacles,

snow-tables, and crevasses in the rapids were less striking than

formerly, and had evidently suffered greatly from the summer's heat.

About the bases of the cliffs there were dark, irregular patches of

débris, where a month previously all was white. As nearly as could be

judged, the surface of the glacier had been lowered by melting and

settling during our absence about fifty feet.

The following morning, September 5, we started for Blossom island, the

weather still continuing thick and stormy. On crossing Pinnacle pass

we found over a foot of new snow which had fallen since our companions

passed that way. Toward nightfall the lower limit of snow on the

Marvine glacier was reached, and at night we camped on the first

moraines which appeared below the névé. The day following, September

6, we reached Blossom island about noon, and found that Kerr and his

party had arrived there safely, and that Partridge had recovered from

his snow-blindness.

* * * * *

Our stay above the snow-line had lasted thirty-five days, and we were

extremely glad to see the light of a camp-fire and have the trees and

flowers about us once more. The vegetation indicated that the season

was already far advanced. Most of the flowers had faded, and autumn

tints gave brilliancy to the {162} lower mountain slopes; salmon

berries and huckleberries were in profusion, and furnished an

exceedingly agreeable change in our diet. After a bath in one of the

small lakelets on the island and a good night's rest on a luxuriant

bed of spruce boughs, we felt fully restored and ready for another

campaign.

As Kerr was anxious to get back to Port Mulgrave, it was arranged that

Lindsley and Partridge should go with him, and that the rest of the

men should remain. Kerr took his departure on the morning of September

7, and on the following day Christie, Doney, and myself crossed the

Marvine glacier to the southern end of the Hitchcock range, and the

following day made an excursion out upon the Malaspina glacier. The

day of our excursion was bright and beautiful, and the mountains to

the northward revealed their full magnificence. The level plateau of

ice formed a horizontal plain, from which the mountain rose

precipitously and appeared grander and more majestic than from any

other point of view. St. Elias rose clear and sharp, without a cloud

to obscure its dizzy height, and appeared to be one sheer precipice.

It is doubtful if a more impressive mountain face exists anywhere else

in the world. After learning all we could concerning the Malaspina

glacier we returned to our camp at the end of the Hitchcock range, and

the following day tramped across the extremely rough moraine-covered

surface back to Blossom island.

The following morning, September 12, we started on our return trip to

Yakutat bay. Two small tents and many articles for which we had no

further use were abandoned, so as to make our packs light as possible.

We crossed the Hayden glacier, and at night camped at the foot of

Floral pass. After making two intermediate camps, traveling each day

in the rain, we reached the shore of Yakutat bay on September 15.

Doney and I halted at Dalton's cabin for the purpose of seeing what we

could of the openings there made for coal, while the rest of the party

pressed on to our old camping place on the shore. There they found

Kerr and his party still encamped, but ready to leave for Port

Mulgrave early the next morning.

September 18 was occupied by us in catching salmon and trout. We were

abundantly successful, as every man returned to camp with all that he

could carry. These were spread out on a rack over our camp-fire and

smoked for further use, as we did not know how long our stay would be

extended. On the next day Stamy and Lindsley returned from Port

Mulgrave, where they {163} had left Kerr, quite recovered from his

exposure on the mountain. Stormy weather continued, and a gale from

the northeast piled the ice high on the beach and threatened to sweep

away our tents, as has already been briefly described in earlier

pages.

On September 20, our tents having been beaten in by a violent storm

and our camping place overflowed by the waters from a lake above us,

we removed our goods to a place of safety and went to Dalton's cabin,

where we awaited better weather. The morning of September 23 dawned

clear and bright, and after drying our clothes around a blazing

camp-fire, we started back to our camping place on the shore. Before

reaching there, however, we were rejoiced to see the _Corwin_ coming

up the bay. It took us but a short time to get on board, where Captain

C. L. Hooper, her commander, did everything in his power to make us

welcome and comfortable. To him we are indebted for a delightful

voyage back to civilization.

After steaming up Disenchantment bay nearly to the ice-cliffs of the

Hubbard glacier, and obtaining a fine view of the glaciers about

Disenchantment bay, the _Corwin_ returned to Port Mulgrave and, on

September 25, put to sea. After a splendid ocean passage, we arrived

at Port Townsend on October 2.

* * * * *

During our stay in Alaska not a man was seriously sick and not an

accident happened. The work planned at the start was carried out

almost to the letter, with the exception that snow-storms and the

lateness of the season did not permit us to reach the summit of Mount

St. Elias.

SUGGESTIONS.

Should another attempt be made to climb Mount St. Elias, the shortest

and most practicable route from the coast would be to land at Icy bay

and ascend the Agassiz glacier. The course taken by us in 1890 could

be intersected just north of where the tributary glacier from Dome

pass joins the main ice-stream; and from there the route followed last

summer would be the most practicable. A camp should be established on

the divide between Mount St. Elias and Mount Newton, from which

excursions to either of these peaks could be made in a single day.

In the preceding narrative many details have been omitted. One of

these is that tents, together with blankets, rations, etc., were left

at two convenient points between Blossom island and {164} the Agassiz

glacier, and were used by the men in bringing up supplies. In

attempting to ascend Mount St. Elias from Icy bay by the route

suggested, at least three such relay stations should be established

between the Chaix hills, where wood for camp-fires can be obtained (as

is known from the reports of the New York _Times_ and Topham

expeditions), and the high camp on the divide. The relay camps

suggested should be one day's march apart, and would serve not only

for stopping places while carrying rations during the advance, but

would furnish a line of retreat. A party making this journey should be

provided with snow-shoes, which unfortunately we did not take with us.

All rations intended for use above the snow-line should be packed in

tin cans, each of sufficient size to hold between fifty and sixty

pounds, and each should be securely soldered. All articles packed in

this way should be thoroughly dry and should be packed in a dry, warm

room. When secured in this manner they are about as easy to carry as

if packed in bags, and can be "cached" anywhere out of the reach of

floods and avalanches, with the certainty of being serviceable when

wanted. The more perishable articles to be used where camp-fires are

possible should also be secured in tin cans. Sacks of flour,

corn-meal, etc., should be protected by an outer covering of strong

canvas. The experience of last summer showed that the cans of rations

intended for use above the snow-line should each contain about the

following ration, which may be varied to suit individual taste:

Bacon, smoked . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 lbs.

Corned beef, in can . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 "

Flour and corn-meal, with necessary quantity of baking

powder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 "

Coffee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 "

Rolled oats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 "

Sugar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 "

Chocolate, sweet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 "

Salt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ¼ "

Extract of beef . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ¼ "

Tobacco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ½ "

Condensed milk (small cans) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Matches (wax) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 box.

Our experience with oil-stoves showed that they are serviceable. While

on the march they can be carried as hand packs in {165} gunny-sacks.

Rectangular cans holding about a gallon each, with small screw-tops,

were found convenient for carrying coal oil. The experience of Arctic

explorers indicates that alcohol would perhaps be better than coal oil

to use in snow-camps.

Among the most important articles to be provided are strong shoes or

boots; of these each man should have at least two pairs. Strong

hip-boots, with lacings over the instep, are exceedingly serviceable.

When sleeping on the ice the boot-legs may be spread beneath one's

blankets and the feet used as a pillow. The long legs are serviceable

alike in the thick brush on the shore and in the deep snow on the high

mountains. With their protection, many streams can be waded without

getting wet. Leather, waxed ends, awls, etc., for repairing boots, and

tallow mixed with bees-wax for greasing them, should be taken and

distributed in part through the cans of rations. Heavy woolen socks

are indispensable, and an effort should be made to have a dry pair

always at hand. This may be arranged, even under the most unfavorable

conditions, by drying a pair as thoroughly as is convenient and

carrying them in the bosom of one's shirt.

Long alpenstocks are always necessary. My own choice is a stiff one of

hickory, about six feet long and an inch and a quarter in diameter,

provided with a spike and hook at one end and a chisel about two

inches broad at the other. Ice axes are desirable while climbing in

the high mountains, but even more serviceable are light axes of the

usual pattern, but with handles about fourteen inches long; these

supplement the alpenstock, and when not actually in use are carried in

the packs.

Each man should be provided with a water-tight match-box, and should

have, besides, a bundle of wax matches wrapped in oil-cloth and sewed

in the collar of his shirt, to be held as a last reserve. Each man

should also have a small water-tight bag in which to carry salt enough

to last a week or ten days, in case he has to live by hunting or

fishing. A heavy hunting knife is very convenient, and can be used not

only in cutting trails through thick brush, but in cases of necessity

is serviceable in making steps in ice. Heavy woolen clothing is

preferable to furs. Sleeping bags were not used during our expedition,

but are highly recommended by others. For protection at night, a thick

woolen blanket with a light canvas cover and a sheet of light rubber

cloth to protect it are all that is necessary. Our tents were of

cotton drilling, seven feet square and about six feet high, and {166}

provided with ridge-ropes. Alpenstocks were used for tent poles.

"Sou'westers" and strong water-proof coats are indispensable in a

climate like that of Alaska, and at night may be used as a substratum

on which to sleep. While traveling over the snow-line we used colored

glasses to protect the eyes, and also found that a strip of dark

mosquito netting tied across the face below the eyes afforded great

protection. Some of the party found relief from the glare of the snow

by blacking their faces with grease and burnt cork, but one experiment

with that method is usually enough. While camping below timber-line

during the months of June to September fine mosquito netting is

indispensable. In carrying packs, hemp "cod-line" of the largest size

was found to answer every requirement, and is preferred by expert

packers to pack-straps.

It has been suggested that experienced Swiss guides are necessary to

ensure success in climbing Mount St. Elias. Having never followed a

guide in the mountains, I am not able to judge of their efficiency,

but it must be remembered that no one can _guide_ in a region that has

never been traversed. The "guide" as understood in Europe is unknown

in America. In the exploration of this country by engineers,

geologists, etc., the camp hands have followed their leaders and have

not shown them the way. In every frontier town there are hunters,

trappers, miners, prospectors, cow-boys, voyageurs, etc.--men who have

passed their lives on the plains or among "the hills" and are enured

to hardship and danger. This is the best material in the world from

which to recruit an exploring party. A foreigner engaging the services

of such men must take into account the independent spirit that

animates them and is the secret of their usefulness. They are not

servants, but retainers; that too in regions far beyond the reach of

civil law. They will follow their leader anywhere, support him in all

dangers, and do their work faithfully so long as their rights as men

are respected.

By taking proper precautions while traveling across crevassed snow and

ice, and guarding against avalanches and snow-blindness, an excursion

can be made above the snow-line with as little danger as in better

known and more frequented regions.

{167}