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, 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, 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 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.
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.