When the birds fly south

by Stanton A. Coblentz

This hope found support when, before the morning was half over, we reached a more sparsely timbered area, and shortly afterwards came out into a region of straggling shrubs. The rocky ribs of the mountain now stretched bare and gigantic before us, the dismal gray slopes inclining at an angle of from twenty to fifty degrees. Far above, perched on a little cone not unlike the tip of a volcano, that curious statue-like formation loomed encouragingly larger; and a wisp of cloud dangled playfully about the summit and beckoned us to be of good cheer and make haste.

But it was not easy to make haste along those unsheltered ridges under the glaring mid-July sun. More than once, as Damon and I sweltered upward, we glanced regretfully back at the green valley; and more than once we observed that the peak, like the fruit of Tantalus, seemed only to retreat as we toiled to approach it.

The higher we mounted, the less likely did it appear that we could gain the summit and return by evening. We encountered no impassable obstacles, and never had to use the climbing tackle; yet in places we literally had to crawl, relying upon our arms as much as upon our legs, and consequently were so delayed that when the sun stood in mid-heaven the peak still beckoned from the remote blue.

Had any trace of our wits remained, we would now have recognized that we sought the unattainable. But that inscrutable figure above had woven a charm about us; upward, still upward we trudged, pausing only for an occasional drink from an icy little stream. Our eyes were so fascinated by the peak, and by its amazing woman-shaped crown, that we did not notice signs which could hardly have escaped us in a more cautious mood. Not until too late did we observe the increasing murkiness of the atmosphere, the gradual formation of bands of mist that gathered as if from nowhere, the merging of those bands into clouds that obscured the further ranges and approached us with silent and deceptive velocity.

I was just speculating as to the distance still before us, when an exclamation from Damon startled me back to reality. And suddenly I was aware of the menace.

The skies were no longer blue, but gray with vapor; the slopes below us were disappearing in fog, and even the peak was being blotted from view!

"Back! Let's go back!" I muttered, thoroughly frightened.

Without a word, Damon joined me in frantic retreat.

But we had delayed too long. Before we had returned many hundred yards, the fog was all about us. Like some evil unearthly thing, it blocked our pathway with intangible streamers, and reared a gray wall before us and to every side, and stretched a gray roof just overhead; and it drew closer, insidiously closer, until we could see not ten feet beyond, and the wild panorama of the mountains had given way to a hazy cell the size of a small room.

A cautious man, no doubt, would have proposed remaining where we were. But neither of us relished the prospect of camping possibly for twenty-four hours in this solitary spot; and both of us vaguely felt that, after descending a little, we would come out into the daylight beneath the clouds. Besides—and this was most unreasonable, and most unlike me—I was agitated by a dim, superstitious fear, I could scarcely say what of, as if by some sixth sense I knew of shadowy horrors that lurked unseen and unheard in the gloom.