remnants of glaciers, along the beach, stood poised on one point, or
perchance on two points, and arched between. These icebergs were dotted
with stones imbedded; great bowls were melted out and filled with water,
and little cups made of ice would afford you a drink of fresh water on
the shore of this salt sea.
At five o'clock in the morning, with the sun kissing the cold majestic
glacier into a glad awakening from its icy sleep, the ascent was begun.
Too eager to be among the first to see the top, many started without
breakfast, while others chose the wiser part, and waited to be physically
fortified.
The ascent is not so difficult as it is dangerous. There is no trail and
no guide, and many a step had to be retraced to get across or around some
bottomless fissure. For some distance the ground seemed quite solid. Soon
it was discovered that there was but a thin covering of dirt on the solid
ice below; but anon in striking the ground with the end of an alpine stick
it would prove to be but an inch of ice and dirt mixed, and a dark abyss
below which we could not fathom. It is to be hoped, for the good of
future tourists, that there are not many such places, or that they may
soon be exposed so they can be avoided. Reaching the top after a tedious
and slippery climb, there was a long view of icy billows, as if the sea
had suddenly congealed amid a wild tempestuous storm. Deep chasms
obstructed the way on all sides, and a misstep or slip would send one
down the blue steps where no friendly rope could rescue, and only the
rushing water could be heard. To view the solid phalanxes of icy floes,
as they fill the mountain fastnesses and imperceptibly march through the
ravines and force their way to the sea, fills one with awe indescribable.
The knowledge that the ice is moving from beneath one's feet thrills one
with a curious sensation hard to portray.
Below, it seems like the constant wooing of the sea that wins the
offering from this wealth of purity, instead of the voluntary act of this
giant of the Arctic zone.
For twenty-four hours the awful grandeur of these scenes was gloried in,
when Captain Hunter gave the order to draw the anchor and steam away. The
whistles call the passengers back to the steamer, where they were soon
comparing specimens, viewing instantaneous photographs, hiding bedraggled
clothing, casting away tattered mufflers, and telling of hair-breadth
escapes from peril and death. Many a tired head sought an early pillow,
and floated away in dreams of ghoulish icebergs, until the call for
breakfast disclosed to opening eyes that the boat was anchored in the