THE RETURN
The next day was another bright, cloudless day, the second and last of
them. Perhaps never did men abandon as cheerfully stuff that had been
freighted as laboriously as we abandoned our surplus baggage at the
eighteen-thousand-foot camp. We made a great pile of it in the lee of
one of the ice-blocks of the glacier--food, coal-oil, clothing, and
bedding--covering all with the wolf-robe and setting up a shovel as a
mark; though just why we cached it so carefully, or for whom, no one of
us would be able to say. It will probably be a long time ere any others
camp in that Grand Basin. While yet such a peak is unclimbed, there is
constant goading of mountaineering minds to its conquest; once its top
has been reached, the incentive declines. Much exploring work is yet to
do on Denali; the day will doubtless come when all its peaks and ridges
and glaciers will be duly mapped, but our view from the summit agreed
with our study of its conformation during the ascent, that no other
route will be found to the top. When first we were cutting and climbing
on the ridge, and had glimpses, as the mists cleared, of the glacier on
the other side and the ridges that arose from it, we thought that
perhaps they might afford a passage, but from above the appearance
changed and seemed to forbid it altogether. At times, almost in despair
at the task which the Northeast Ridge presented, we would look across at
the ice-covered rocks of the North Peak and dream that they might be
climbed, but they are really quite impossible. The south side has been
tried again and again and no approach discovered, nor did it appear from
the top that such approach exists; the west side is sheer precipice; the
north side is covered with a great hanging glacier and is devoid of
practicable slopes; it has been twice attempted. Only on the northeast
has the glacier cut so deeply into the mountain as to give access to the
heights.
June 8th was Sunday, but we had to take advantage of the clear, bright
day to get as far down the mountain as possible. The stuff it was still
necessary to pack made good, heavy loads, and we knew not what had
happened to our staircase in our absence.
[Sidenote: The Record]
Having said Morning Prayer, we left at 9.30 A. M., after a night in
which all of us slept soundly--the first sound sleep some had enjoyed
for a long time. Contentment and satisfaction are great somnifacients.
The Grand Basin was glorious in sunshine, the peaks crystal-clear
against a cloudless sky, the huge blocks of ice thrown down by the
earthquake and scattered all over the glacier gleamed white in the
sunshine, deep-blue in the shadow. We wound our way downward, passing
camp site after camp site, until at the first place we camped in the
Grand Basin we stopped for lunch. Then we made the traverse under the
cliffs to the Parker Pass, which we reached at 1.30 P. M. The sun was
hot; there was not a breath of wind; we were exceedingly thirsty and we
decided to light the primus stove and make a big pot of tea and
replenish the thermos bottles before attempting the descent of the
ridge. While this was doing a place was found to cache the minimum
thermometer and a tin can that had held a photographic film, in which we
had placed a record of our ascent. Above, we had not found any
distinctive place in which a record could be deposited with the
assurance that it would be found by any one seeking it. One feels sure
that in the depth of winter very great cold must occur even at this
elevation. Yet we should have liked to leave it much higher. Without
some means, which we did not possess, of marking a position, there
would, however, have been little use in leaving it amid the boulders
where we hunted unsuccessfully for Professor Parker's instrument. We had
hoped to be able to grave some sign upon the rocks with the geological
hammer, but the first time it was brought down upon the granite its
point splintered in the same exasperating way that the New York dealer's
fancy ice-axes behaved when it was attempted to put them to practical
use. "Warranted cast steel" upon an implement ought to be a warning not
to purchase it for mountain work. Tool-steel alone will serve.
Our little record cache at the Parker Pass, placed at the foot of the
west or upward-facing side of the great slab which marks the natural
camping site, should stand there for many years. It is not a place where
snow lies deep or long, and it will surely be found by any who seek it.
We took our last looks up into the Grand Basin, still brilliant in the
sunshine, our last looks at the summit, still cloudless and clear. There
was a melancholy even in the midst of triumph in looking for the last
time at these scenes where we had so greatly hoped and endeavored--and
had been so amply rewarded. We recalled the eager expectation with which
we first gazed up between these granite slabs into the long-hidden
basin, a week before, and there was sadness in the feeling that in all
probability we should never have this noble view again.
[Sidenote: Harper Glacier]
Before the reader turns his back upon the Grand Basin once for all, I
should like to put a name upon the glacier it contains--since it is the
fashion to name glaciers. I should like to call it the Harper Glacier,
after my half-breed companion of three years, who was the first human
being to reach the summit of the mountain. This reason might suffice,
but there is another and most interesting reason for associating the
name Harper with this mountain. Arthur Harper, Walter's father, the
pioneer of all Alaskan miners, "the first man who thought of trying the
Yukon as a mining field so far as we know," as William Ogilvie tells us
in his "Early Days on the Yukon"[5] (and none had better opportunity of
knowing than Ogilvie), was also the first man to make written reference
to this mountain, since Vancouver, the great navigator, saw it from the
head of Cook's Inlet in 1794.
Arthur Harper, in company with Al. Mayo, made the earliest exploration
of the Tanana River, ascending that stream in the summer of 1878 to
about the present site of Fairbanks; and in a letter to E. W. Nelson, of
the United States Biological Survey, then on the Alaskan coast, Harper
wrote the following winter of the "great ice mountain to the south" as
one of the most wonderful sights of the trip.[6] It is pleasant to think
that a son of his, yet unborn, was to be the first to set foot on its
top; pleasantly also the office of setting his name upon the lofty
glacier, the gleam from which caught his eye and roused his wonder
thirty years ago, falls upon one who has been glad and proud to take, in
some measure, his place.
[Sidenote: Descent]
Then began the difficulty and the danger, the toil and the anxiety, of
the descent of the ridge. Karstens led, then followed Tatum, then the
writer, and then Walter. The unbroken surface of the ridge above the
cleavage is sensationally steep, and during our absence nearly two feet
of new snow had fallen upon it. The steps that had been shovelled as we
ascended were entirely obliterated and it was necessary to shovel new
ones; it was the very heat of the day, and by the canons of climbing we
should have camped at the Pass and descended in the early morning. But
all were eager to get down, and we ventured it. Now that our task was
accomplished, our minds reverted to the boy at the base camp long
anxiously expecting us, and we thought of him and spoke of him
continually and speculated how he had fared. One feels upon reflection
that we took more risk in descending that ridge than we took at any time
in the ascent. But Karstens was most cautious and careful, and in the
long and intensive apprenticeship of this expedition had become most
expert. I sometimes wondered whether Swiss guides would have much to
teach either him or Walter in snow-craft; their chief instruction would
probably be along the line of taking more chances, wisely. If the writer
had to ascend this mountain again he would intrust himself to Karstens
and Walter rather than to any Swiss guides he has known, for ice and
snow in Alaska are not quite the same as ice and snow in the Alps or the
Canadian Rockies.
[Illustration: Beginning the descent of the ridge; looking down 4,000
feet upon the Muldrow Glacier.]
The loose snow was shovelled away and the steps dug in the hard snow
beneath, and the creepers upon our feet gave good grip in it. Thus,
slowly, step by step, we descended the ridge and in an hour and a half
had reached the cleavage, the most critical place in the whole descent.
With the least possible motion of the feet, setting them exactly in the
shovelled steps, we crept like cats across this slope, thrusting the
points of our axes into the holes that had been made in the ice-wall
above, moving all together, the rope always taut, no one speaking a
word. When once Karstens was anchored on the further ice he stood and
gathered up the rope as first one and then another passed safely to him
and anchored himself beside him, until at last we were all across. Then,
stooping to pass the overhanging ice-cliff that here also disputed the
pack upon one's back, we went down to the long, long stretch of jagged
pinnacles and bergs, and our intricate staircase in the masonry of them.
Shovelling was necessary all the way down, but the steps were there,
needing only to be uncovered. Passing our ridge camp, passing the danger
of the great gable, down the rocks by which we reached the ridge and
down the slopes to the glacier floor we went, reaching our old camp at
9.30 P. M., six and a quarter hours from the Parker Pass, twelve hours
from the eighteen-thousand-foot camp in the Grand Basin, our hearts full
of thankfulness that the terrible ridge was behind us. Until we reached
the glacier floor the weather had been clear; almost immediately
thereafter the old familiar cloud smother began to pour down from above
and we saw the heights no more.
[Sidenote: The Glacier Camp]
The camp was in pretty bad shape. The snow that had fallen upon it had
melted and frozen to ice, in the sun's rays and the night frosts, and
weighed the tent down to the ground. But an hour's work made it
habitable again, and we gleefully piled the stove with the last of our
wood and used the last spoonfuls of a can of baking-powder to make a
batch of biscuits, the first bread we had eaten in two weeks.
Next day we abandoned the camp, leaving all standing, and, putting our
packs upon a Yukon sled, rejecting the ice-creepers, and resuming our
rough-locked snow-shoes, we started down the glacier in soft, cloudy
weather to our base camp. Again it had been wiser to have waited till
night, that the snow bridges over the crevasses might be at their
hardest; but we could not wait. Every mind was occupied with Johnny. We
were two weeks overstayed of the time we had told him to expect our
return, and we knew not what might have happened to the boy. The four of
us on one rope, Karstens leading and Walter at the gee-pole, we went
down the first sharp descents of the glaciers without much trouble, the
new, soft snow making a good brake for the sled. But lower down the
crevasses began to give us trouble. The snow bridges were melted at
their edges, and sometimes the sled had to be lowered down to the
portion that still held and hauled up at the other side. Sometimes a
bridge gave way as its edge was cautiously ventured upon with the
snow-shoes, and we had to go far over to the glacier wall to get round
the crevasse. The willows with which we had staked the trail still
stood, sometimes just their tips appearing above the new snow, and they
were a good guide, though we often had to leave the old trail. At last
the crevasses were all passed and we reached the lower portion of the
glacier, which is free of them. Then the snow grew softer and softer,
and our moccasined feet were soon wet through. Large patches of the
black shale with which much of this glacier is covered were quite bare
of snow, and the sled had to be hauled laboriously across them. Then we
began to encounter pools of water, which at first we avoided, but they
soon grew so numerous that we went right through them.
[Sidenote: Flowers]
The going grew steadily wetter and rougher and more disagreeable. The
lower stretch of a glacier is an unhandsome sight in summer: all sorts
of rock débris and ugly black shale, with discolored melting ice and
snow, intersected everywhere with streams of dirty water--this was what
it had degenerated into as we reached the pass. The snow was entirely
gone from the pass, so the sled was abandoned--left standing upright,
with its gee-pole sticking in the air that if any one else ever chanced
to want it it might readily be found. The snow-shoes were piled around
it, and we resumed our packs and climbed up to the pass. The first thing
that struck our eyes as we stood upon the rocks of the pass was a
brilliant trailing purple moss flower of such gorgeous color that we all
exclaimed at its beauty and wondered how it grew clinging to bare rock.
It was the first bright color that we had seen for so long that it gave
unqualified pleasure to us all and was a foretaste of the enhancing
delights that awaited us as we descended to the bespangled valley. If a
man would know to the utmost the charm of flowers, let him exile himself
among the snows of a lofty mountain during fifty days of spring and come
down into the first full flush of summer. We could scarcely pass a
flower by, and presently had our hands full of blooms like schoolgirls
on a picnic.
But although the first things that attracted our attention were the
flowers, the next were the mosquitoes. They were waiting for us at the
pass and they gave us their warmest welcome. The writer took sharp blame
to himself that, organizing and equipping this expedition, he had made
no provision against these intolerable pests. But we had so confidently
expected to come out a month earlier, before the time of mosquitoes
arrived, that although the matter was suggested and discussed it was put
aside as unnecessary. Now there was the prospect of a fifty or sixty
mile tramp across country, subject all the while to the assaults of
venomous insects, which are a greater hindrance to summer travel in
Alaska than any extremity of cold is to winter travel.
Not even the mosquitoes, however, took our minds from Johnny, and a load
was lifted from every heart when we came near enough to our camp to see
that some one was moving about it. A shout brought him running, and he
never stopped until he had met us and had taken the pack from my
shoulders and put it on his own. Our happiness was now unalloyed; the
last anxiety was removed. The dogs gave us most jubilant welcome and
were fat and well favored.
[Sidenote: Johnny and the Sugar]
What a change had come over the place! All the snow was gone from the
hills; the stream that gathered its three forks at this point roared
over its rocks; the stunted willows were in full leaf; the thick, soft
moss of every dark shade of green and yellow and red made a foil for
innumerable brilliant flowers. The fat, gray conies chirped at us from
the rocks; the ground-squirrels, greatly multiplied since the wholesale
destruction of foxes, kept the dogs unavailingly chasing hither and
thither whenever they were loose. We never grew tired of walking up and
down and to and fro about the camp--it was a delight to tread upon the
moss-covered earth after so long treading upon nothing but ice and snow;
it was a delight to gaze out through naked eyes after all those weeks in
which we had not dared even for a few moments to lay aside the yellow
glasses in the open air; it was a delight to see joyful, eager animal
life around us after our sojourn in regions dead. Supper was a delight.
Johnny had killed four mountain-sheep and a caribou while we were gone,
and not only had fed the dogs well, but from time to time had put aside
choice portions expecting our return. But what was most grateful to us
and most extraordinary in him, the boy had saved, untouched, the small
ration of sugar and milk left for his consumption, knowing that ours was
all destroyed; and we enjoyed coffee with these luxurious appurtenances
as only they can who have been long deprived of them. There are not many
boys of fifteen or sixteen of any race who would voluntarily have done
the like.
[Illustration: Johnny Fred who kept the base camp and fed the dogs and
would not touch the sugar.]
The next day there was much to do. There were pack-saddles of canvas to
make for the dogs' backs that they might help us carry our necessary
stuff out; our own clothing and footwear to overhaul, bread to bake,
guns to clean and oil against rust. Yet withal, we took it lazily, with
five to divide these tasks, and napped and lay around and continually
consumed biscuits and coffee which Johnny continually cooked. We all
took at least a partial bath in the creek, cold as it was, the first
bath in--well, in a long time. Mountain climbers belong legitimately to
the great unwashed.
It was a day of perfect rest and contentment with hearts full of
gratitude. Not a single mishap had occurred to mar the complete success
of our undertaking--not an injury of any sort to any one, nor an
illness. All five of us were in perfect health. Surely we had reason to
be grateful; and surely we were happy in having Him to whom our
gratitude might be poured out. What a bald, incomplete, and
disconcerting thing it must be to have no one to thank for crowning
mercies like these!
On Tuesday, the 10th June, we made our final abandonment, leaving the
tent standing with stove and food and many articles that we did not need
cached in it, and with four of the dogs carrying packs and led with
chains, packs on our own backs and the ice-axes for staves in our hands,
we turned our backs upon the mountain and went down the valley toward
the Clearwater. The going was not too bad until we had crossed that
stream and climbed the hills to the rolling country between it and the
McKinley Fork of the Kantishna. Again and again we looked back for a
parting glimpse of the mountain, but we never saw sign of it any more.
The foot-hills were clear, the rugged wall of the glacier cut the sky,
but the great mountain might have been a thousand miles off for any
visible indication it gave. It is easy to understand how travellers
across equatorial Africa have passed near the base of the snowy peaks of
Ruwenzori without knowing they were even in the neighborhood of great
mountains, and have come back and denied their existence.
[Sidenote: Across Country]
The broken country between the streams was difficult. Underneath was a
thick elastic moss in which the foot sank three or four inches at every
step and that makes toilsome travelling. The mosquitoes were a constant
annoyance. But the abundant bird life upon this open moorland,
continually reminding one as it did of moorlands in the north of England
or of Scotland, was full of interest. Ptarmigan, half changed from their
snowy plumage to the brown of summer, and presenting a curious piebald
appearance, were there in great numbers, cackling their guttural cry
with its concluding notes closely resembling the "ko-ax, ko-ax" of the
Frogs' Chorus in the comedy of Aristophanes; snipe whistled and curlews
whirled all about us. Half-way across to the McKinley Fork it began to
rain, thunder-peal succeeding thunder-peal, and each crash announcing a
heavier downpour. Soon we were all wet through, and then the rain turned
to hail that fell smartly until all the moss was white with it, and that
gave place to torrents of rain again. Dog packs and men's packs were
alike wet, and no one of us had a dry stitch on him when we reached the
banks of the McKinley Fork and the old spacious hunting tent that stands
there in which we were to spend the night. Rather hopelessly we hung our
bedding to dry on ropes strung about some trees, and our wet clothing
around the stove. By taking turns all the night in sitting up, to keep a
fire going, we managed to get our clothes dried by morning, but the
bedding was wet as ever. Fortunately, the night was a warm one.
[Sidenote: Glacial Streams]
The next morning there was the McKinley Fork to cross the first thing,
and it was a difficult and disagreeable task. This stream, which drains
the Muldrow Glacier and therefore the whole northeast face of Denali,
occupies a dreary, desolate bed of boulder and gravel and mud a mile or
more wide; rather it does not occupy it, save perhaps after tremendous
rain following great heat, but wanders amid it, with a dozen channels of
varying depth but uniform blackness, the inky solution of the shale
which the mountain discharges so abundantly tingeing not only its waters
but the whole Kantishna, into which it flows one hundred miles away.
Commonly in the early morning the waters are low, the night frosts
checking the melting of the glacier ice; but this morning the drainage
of yesterday's rain-storm had swollen them. Channel after channel was
waded in safety until the main stream was reached, and that swept by,
thigh-deep, with a rushing black current that had a very evil look.
Karstens was scouting ahead, feeling for the shallower places, stemming
the hurrying waters till they swept up to his waist. The dogs did not
like the look of it and with their packs, still wet from yesterday, were
hampered in swimming. Two that Tatum was leading suddenly turned back
when half-way across, and the chains, entangling his legs, pulled him
over face foremost into the deepest of the water. His pack impeded his
efforts to rise, and the water swept all over him. Karstens hurried back
to his rescue, and he was extricated from his predicament, half drowned
and his clothes filled with mud and sand. There was no real danger of
drowning, but it was a particularly noxious ducking in icy filth. The
sun was warm, however, and after basking upon the rocks awhile he was
able to proceed, still wet, though he had stripped and wrung out his
clothes--for we had no dry change--and very gritty in underwear, but
taking no harm whatever. I think Tatum regretted losing, in the mad rush
of black water, the ice-axe he had carried to the top of the mountain
more than he regretted his wetting.
[Sidenote: Birds and Beasts]
On the further bank of the McKinley Fork we entered our first wood, a
belt about three miles wide that lines the river. Our first forest trees
gave us almost as much pleasure as our first flowers. Animal life
abounded, all in the especially interesting condition of rearing
half-grown young. Squirrels from their nests scolded at our intrusion
most vehemently; an owl flew up with such a noisy snapping and
chattering that our attention was drawn to the point from which she
rose, and there, perched upon a couple of rotten stumps a few feet
apart, were two half-fledged owlets, passive, immovable, which allowed
themselves to be photographed and even handled without any indication of
life except in their wondering eyes and the circumrotary heads that
contained them. Moose signs and bear signs were everywhere; rabbits, now
in their summer livery, flitted from bush to bush. That belt of wood was
a zoological garden stocked with birds and mammals. And we rejoiced with
them over their promising families and harmed none.
From the wood we rose again to the moorland--to the snipe and ptarmigan
and curlews, some yet sitting upon belated eggs--to the heavy going of
the moss and the yet heavier going of niggerhead. Our journey skirted a
large lake picturesquely surrounded by hills, and we spoke of how
pleasantly a summer lodge might be placed upon its shores were it not
for the mosquitoes. The incessant leaping of fish, the occasional flight
of fowl alone disturbed the perfect reflection of cliff and hill in its
waters. At times we followed game trails along its margin; at times
swampy ground made us seek the hillside.
Thus, slowly covering the miles that we had gone so quickly over upon
the ice of the lake two months before, we reached Moose Creek and the
miners' cabins at Eureka late at night and received warm welcome and
most hospitable entertainment from Mr. Jack Hamilton. It was good to see
men other than our own party again, good to sleep in a bed once more,
good to regale ourselves with food long strange to our mouths. Here we
had our first intimation of any happenings in the outside world for the
past three months and sorrowed that Saint Sophia was still to remain a
Mohammedan temple, and that the kindly King of Greece had been murdered.
Here also Hamilton generously provided us with spare mosquito-netting
for veils, and we found a package of canvas gloves I had ordered from
Fairbanks long before, and so were protected from our chief enemies.
From Moose Creek we went over the hills to Caribou Creek and again were
most kindly welcomed and entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Quigley, and
discussed our climb for a long while with McGonogill of the "pioneer"
party. Then, mainly down the bed of Glacier Creek, now on lingering ice
or snow-drift, with the water rushing underneath, now on the rocks, now
through the brush, crossing and recrossing the creek, we reached the
long line of desolate, decaying houses known as Glacier City, and found
convenient refuge in one of the cabins therein, still maintained as an
occasional abode. On the outskirts of the "city" next morning a moose
and two calves sprang up from the brush, our approach over the moss not
giving enough notice to awake her from sleep until we were almost upon
her.
[Illustration: "Muk," the author's pet malamute.]
[Sidenote: The Boat]
Instead of pursuing our way across the increasingly difficult and swampy
country to the place where our boat and supplies lay cached, we turned
aside at midday to the "fish camp" on the Bearpaw, and, after enjoying
the best our host possessed from the stream and from his early garden,
borrowed his boat, choosing twenty miles or so on the water to nine of
niggerhead and marsh. But the river was very low and we had much trouble
getting the boat over riffles and bars, so that it was late at night
when we reached that other habitation of dragons known as Diamond City.
While we submerged our cached poling boat to swell its sun-dried seams,
Walter and Johnny returned the borrowed boat, and, since the stream had
fallen yet more, were many hours in reaching the fish camp and in
tramping back.
[Sidenote: The Beaver and the Indians]
But the labor of the return journey was now done. A canvas stretched
over willows made a shelter for the centre of the boat, and at noon on
the second day men, dogs, and baggage were embarked, to float down the
Bearpaw to the Kantishna, to the Tanana, to the Yukon. The Bearpaw
swarmed with animal life. Geese and ducks, with their little terrified
broods, scooted ahead of us on the water, the mothers presently leaving
their young in a nook of the bank and making a flying détour to return
to them. Sometimes a duck would simulate a broken wing to lure us away
from the little ones. We had no meat and were hungry for the usual early
summer diet of water-fowl, but not hungry enough to kill these birds.
Beaver dropped noisily into the water from trees that exhibited their
marvellous carpentry, some lying prostrate, some half chiselled through.
It seemed, indeed, as though the beaver were preparing great irrigation
works all through this country. Since the law went into effect
prohibiting their capture until 1915 they have increased and multiplied
all over interior Alaska. They are still caught by the natives, but
since their skins cannot be sold the Indians are wearing beaver garments
again to the great advantage of health in the severe winters. One wishes
very heartily that the prohibition might be made perpetual, for only so
will fur become the native wear again. It is good to see the children,
particularly, in beaver coats and breeches instead of the wretched
cotton that otherwise is almost their only garb. Would it be altogether
beyond reason to hope that a measure which was enacted to prevent the
extermination of an animal might be perpetuated on behalf of the
survival of an interesting and deserving race of human beings now sorely
threatened? Or is it solely the conservation of commercial resources
that engages the attention of government? There are few measures that
would redound more to the physical benefit of the Alaskan Indian than
the perpetuating of the law against the sale of beaver skins. With the
present high and continually appreciating price of skins, none of the
common people of the land, white or native, can afford to wear furs.
Such a prohibition as has been suggested would restore to Alaskans a
small share in the resources of Alaska. Is there any country in the
world where furs are actually needed more?
Not only beaver, but nearly all fur and game animals have greatly
increased in the Kantishna country. In the year of the stampede, when
thousands of men spent the winter here, there was wholesale destruction
of game and trapping of fur. But the country, left to itself, is now
restocked of game and fur, except of foxes, the high price of which has
almost exterminated them here and is rapidly exterminating them
throughout interior Alaska. They have been poisoned in the most reckless
and unscrupulous way, and there seems no means of stopping it under the
present law. We saw scarcely a fox track in the country, though a few
years ago they were exceedingly plentiful all over the foot-hills of the
great range. Mink, marten, and muskrat were seen from time to time
swimming in the river; a couple of yearling moose started from the bank
where they had been drinking as we noiselessly turned a bend; brilliant
kingfishers flitted across the water. So down these rivers we drifted,
sometimes in sunshine, sometimes in rain, until early in the morning of
the 20th June, we reached Tanana, and our journey was concluded three
months and four days after it was begun. When the telegraph office
opened at 8 o'clock a message was sent, in accordance with promise, to a
Seattle paper, and it illustrates the rapidity with which news is spread
to-day that a ship in Bering Sea, approaching Nome, received the news
from Seattle by wireless telegraph before 11 A. M. But a message from
the Seattle paper received the same morning asking for "five hundred
more words describing narrow escapes" was left unanswered, for, thank
God, there were none to describe.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Ottawa: Thorburn & Abbott, 1913, p. 87.
[6] "Mt. McKinley Region": Alfred H. Brooks, Washington, 1911, p. 25.