Professor Edgar McClure.

XII. McCLURE'S ACHIEVEMENT AND TRAGIC DEATH, 1897
By HERBERT L. BRUCE and PROFESSOR H. H. McALISTER

Visitors to Paradise Valley, who climb above the Camp of the Clouds to the snowfields, are sure to be attracted to McClure Rock. It is the scene of one of the mountain's earliest tragedies, in which Professor Edgar McClure of the University of Oregon lost his life. He was trying to measure accurately the height of the great mountain as he had already done for Mount Adams and other peaks.

The record of his extensive observations was computed with the greatest care by his colleague, Professor H. H. McAlister of the University of Oregon. An account of the work so tragically ended was prepared by Herbert L. Bruce. Both articles were published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer for November 7, 1897, from which paper they are here reproduced. The portrait of Professor McClure is furnished by his brother, Horace McClure, editorial writer for the Seattle Daily Times.

The height of the mountain, 14,528 feet, thus obtained, remained in use until 1914, when the United States Geological Survey announced its new and latest findings to be 14,408 feet.

One of the most tragic incidents in modern science was the death of Professor Edgar McClure, who lost his life on Mount Rainier July 27, 1897. Occupying, as he did, the chair of chemistry in the University of Oregon, his personal tastes, instincts and ambitions were essentially scientific. In addition to this he was a member of the Mazamas, whose purposes in the line of scientific exploration have lent a romantic interest and a cumulative value to the geography of the northwest. The particular expedition with which Professor McClure was associated when he met his untimely death, left Portland with the distinct object of making the ascent of Mount Rainier, recording such geographical and topographical observations as might be feasible. As a member of the expedition Professor McClure was placed in charge of the elevation department and set before himself a somewhat more distinct and definite purpose, viz., to ascertain by the most approved methods and with the most accurately graduated instruments the precise height of the famous and beautiful mountain. How well he accomplished this purpose will best appear in the subjoined letter from Professor E. H. McAlister, his friend and colleague, who with infinite care and sympathetic zeal has worked out the data, which would otherwise have been undecipherable not only to the general public but to the average scholar. As he himself said when he had completed his arduous task: "I have done everything possible to wring the truth from the observations. In my judgment they should become historic on account of the probability of their great accuracy."

To the accomplishment of this object Professor McClure brought all the varied resources of a ripe culture and an ardent, vigorous young manhood. His plans were all laid with the greatest care. To him their fulfillment meant not so much a personal or selfish triumph as a victory for science. The very instrument on which he most relied for accurate determinations, as will be seen from Professor McAlister's statement, was not only hallowed by scientific associations, but was prepared for its high mission more lovingly and assiduously than a favorite racer would be groomed for the course. Twice had it looked upon the beauties of the Columbia river from the summit of Mount Hood, and on three other lofty peaks it had served its silent but efficient ministry to the cause of science. On one of these, Mount Adams, the altitude determined with this instrument was accepted by the United States government, yet a new tube was filled for it, Professor McClure himself preparing the mercury by distillation, and seeing to it that the vacuum was exceptionally perfect. That the barometer was most carefully handled at the time of observation will fully appear from the record below. It was suspended by a ring and allowed to hang until it had assumed the temperature of the surrounding air before being read. Not only this, but all the subsidiary phenomena which could have the slightest bearing on the result were laboriously determined. Concurrent observations were made at all salient surrounding stations, while for a week before the date of actual observation Professor McClure himself had made numerous observations both of pressure and of temperature at various sub-stations in the vicinity of Mount Rainier, and his collaborateur has secured simultaneous observations from Seattle and Portland. Uniting as he did the fervor of the pioneer explorer with the accuracy of the laboratory chemist, Professor McClure was peculiarly fitted to obtain a result which bids fair to become historic.

The broken barometer will appeal powerfully to every lover of science. If, as has been suggested, a monument be reared to mark the spot where the young scientist gave up his life, no fitter design could be adopted than a stone shaft bearing on its face a bas-relief of the historic instrument which he bore on his back with sacred care. It is entirely probable that this barometer, coupled with his unselfish solicitude for the safety of other members of the expedition, was the immediate cause of his death. He carried it in a double case; a wooden one which his own hands had constructed, and outside of this a strong leather tube. From the latter stout thongs enabled him to strap the instrument on his back, much as a pioneer huntsman would wear his trusty rifle. While standing on the perilous ledge whence he took the fatal plunge, he turned to sound warning to his companions whom he was leading in a search for the lost pathway down the mountain. "Don't come down here; it is too steep," he called, turning so as to make his voice more audible. These were his last words. He vanished in the night and the abyss. It is likely that the tube, three and a half feet in length, caught as he turned and helped to hurl him from his precarious footing. Like his own high strung frame, the delicate instrument was shattered; but neither of the twain went away from the world without leaving an imperishable record.

It is interesting to note the close correspondence of his independent observations with those made by others. The height of the mountain had been measured many times before he essayed to measure it. Some observers had measured it by triangulation, and others, notably Major E. S. Ingraham, of Seattle, had given its altitude from the readings of mercurial barometers. Major Ingraham gave the height at 14,524 feet. It will be noticed that the result obtained by Professor McClure was just four feet greater, a remarkable coincidence at that vast altitude and among conditions of hardship, exposure and uncertainty. Prior to Professor McClure's record, the latest measurement of Rainier had been made by George F. Hyde, of the United States Geological Survey, in 1896. He pursued the method of triangulation, and, taking as his base a line at Ellensburg, in connection with the sea level gauge at Tacoma, he figured out the extreme height of Rainier at 14,519 feet.

The value of Professor McClure's determination will be heightened rather than lessened by the peculiar difficulty and rareness of scientific work in an unexplored territory and from a base which has not all the appurtenances and advantages of the older scientific stations of the East and of Europe. In this respect his work is like that of Agassiz and of Audubon. Not unlike those great masters was he in his intense and lofty devotion to science. Not unlike them he wrought with rigid accuracy where others had worked almost at random. Not unlike them he aroused among his friends and students the conviction that he was a born high priest of nature, whose chief mission in the world was to reveal her secrets to mankind. He offered up his life virtually a sacrifice to the cause of popular and practical science, and in as lofty a sense as ever dignified a Roman arena he was a martyr to the cause of truth. To use the matchless figure employed by Byron in describing the death of Henry Kirk White, who died a victim to his own passionate devotion to literary art, he was like the struck eagle whose own feather "winged the shaft that quivered in his heart."

Just in harmony with this thought came countless expressions of sympathy and condolence to the members of Professor McClure's family when the sad news of his death went abroad. One of the most touching, and, to my mind, one of the most typical of all these came from an obscure man in an obscure corner of Kentucky. He was not a great man himself, as the world counts greatness, this man in Kentucky; but he knew a great man when he saw him. He had known Edgar McClure; and when he heard the circumstances of his death he sat down and wrote a brief note. One sentence in it was worthy of Whittier or Emerson. It was this: "Edgar McClure died as he had always lived—on the mountain top."

In transmitting his results to Horace McClure, brother of the deceased scientist, Professor McAlister brings to a proper close a labor of love, one that is as creditable to his scholarly culture as it is to his unselfish and devoted friendship.

Herbert L. Bruce.

Letter of Transmission

University of Oregon,
Eugene, Or., October 28, 1897.

Mr. Horace McClure—Dear Sir: I herewith transmit to you for publication my report upon the observations of your late brother, Professor Edgar McClure, relative to the altitude of Mount Rainier, the data having been referred to me for reduction and computation by yourself and by the officials of the Mazama Club.

It is but just to myself to say that the long delay in the appearance of this report has been caused by unavoidable difficulties in the collection of subsidiary data; in particular, the comparison sheet showing the instrumental error of Professor McClure's barometer could not be found until the 9th of this month, when it was discovered among some effects left by him in Portland. A further delay has been occasioned in obtaining a few other important data. A report approximately correct could have been made some time ago, but I felt it was due to the memory of Professor McClure's reputation for extreme accuracy that no report whatever should be published until I was able to state a result for which I could vouch as being the very best that the observations were capable of affording.

The thanks of all concerned are due to Mr. B. S. Pague, Director of the Oregon Weather Bureau, for numerous courtesies and for his efficient aid in the collection of data.

Very respectfully,

E. H. McAlister,
Professor of Applied Mathematics.

The Result

For the benefit of those not interested in the scientific details of this report, it may be stated at once that the summit of Mount Rainier, according to Professor McClure's observations, is 14,528 feet above sea level. The altitudes of various sub-stations occupied en route will be found further on. An account of the data, with description of the methods employed in reduction and computation, is given, to indicate the degree of reliance to be placed upon the result.

The principal observation to which this report refers was made by Professor Edgar McClure, of the University of Oregon, on the summit of Mount Rainier, Washington, July 27, 1897, at 4:30 p.m., Pacific standard time. The observation consists of a reading of Green's standard mercurial barometer, No. 1612, together with readings of attached and detached thermometers. It appears that the barometer, which was suspended by a ring at the top, was allowed so to hang until it had assumed the temperature of the surrounding air, before being read; that the sky was clear at the time; and that the place of observation, the highest on the mountain, is designated as Columbia Crest.

The barometric reading, corrected for instrumental error and temperature, was 17.708 inches; the air temperature was 29 degrees Fahrenheit.

Concurrent observations were made at 9:30 a.m. and hourly during the afternoon by the regular observers at Seattle, Portland, Fort Canby, the University of Oregon at Eugene, Roseburg, and one observation at Walla Walla at 5 p.m.

In addition to these, during the week preceding the 27th Professor McClure made numerous observations both of pressure and temperature at various sub-stations in the vicinity of Mount Rainier, and simultaneous observations are furnished from Seattle and Portland.

At the very outset of the work of reduction it was evident that Eugene and Roseburg were under an area of relatively low barometric pressure on the 27th, representing atmospheric conditions that did not prevail in the region of Mount Rainier. I therefore rejected the observations at both these places, using only those at Seattle, Portland, Fort Canby and Walla Walla. The strategic position of these four points will be seen at once by a glance at the map.

The method followed in making the reduction was, in brief, to deduce from the observations at the four base stations surrounding the mountain the actual atmospheric conditions prevailing in the immediate region of the mountain. More specifically, the process consisted in determining the atmospheric pressure and temperature at an imaginary sea level vertically under the mountain, which level I shall subsequently call the "mean base."

In this I was greatly assisted by a careful study of the daily weather charts issued by the government, Mr. Pague having kindly loaned me his official file for July. I thus practically had at my disposal observations from all the important points on the Coast, both before and after the principal observation. With due regard to the position and direction of the isobars, and giving proper weight to the observations at each of the four base stations, I finally deduced 30.130 inches as the value of the pressure at the mean base which best satisfied all the data. It ought to be said, perhaps, that this result does not depend upon my judgment to any appreciable extent, but was legitimately worked out from the observations and isobaric lines.

In determining the mean temperature of the air column extending from the mean base to the summit of the mountain, the observations made by Professor McClure during the previous week in the vicinity were so numerous and well timed as to leave far less than the usual amount of uncertainty. Making due allowance for the moderate elevations of the stations, these observations show clearly that the temperature about the mountain at that time followed that of Seattle very closely, and was also not much different from that of Portland, but departed notably from both the heat of Walla Walla and the low temperature of Fort Canby. Allowing proper weight to these facts, the observations at the base stations, with that of Professor McClure at the summit, gave 49 degrees Fahrenheit as the mean temperature of the air column.

I regard the method of reduction outlined above as possessing decided advantages over any other that could be applied to the problem in hand; especially because it admits of using the isobaric charts with great freedom and effectiveness, thereby increasing the reliability of the result to a marked extent.

The reduction made, there remained for the final calculation the following data:

In making the calculation I used the amplified form of Laplace's formula given in the recent publications of the Smithsonian Institution, with the constants there adopted. Perhaps for the general reader it may be important to remark that this formula, besides the barometric pressures, contains corrections for the temperature of the air column; for latitude, and for the variation of gravity with altitude in its effect on the weight of the mercury in the barometer; for the average humidity of the air; and for the variation of gravity with altitude in its effect on the weight of the air. I used the latest edition of the Smithsonian tables, but afterward verified the result by a numerical solution of the formula—the altitude being, as stated at the beginning, 14,528 feet above sea level.

It should be noted as an evidence of the great care and foresight with which Professor McClure planned his work and the success with which he carried it out, that the result of his observations agrees within nine feet with that obtained by the United States Geological Survey in 1895, using, as we may suppose, the most refined methods of triangulation—the latter estimate being 14,519 feet. In connection with so great an altitude, nine feet is an insignificant quantity, and the close correspondence in the results of the two methods of measurement is truly remarkable. I am not inclined to regard it as accidental, but as due to the most careful work in both cases.

Having a full knowledge of all the available data, I am perhaps better prepared than anyone else to pass judgment upon the result set forth; and while it would be folly to give a numerical estimate of the probable error, I feel justified in saying that no single barometric determination is ever likely to prove more accurate than this one of Professor McClure's. At any rate, the outstanding error is now too small to justify the hazard of any future attempts.

From the observations made by Professor McClure while en route to the summit, together with simultaneous records from Seattle and Portland, the following altitudes are obtained:

The data in these cases were not sufficient to admit an elaborate working-out of the altitude, so that the figures given are to be regarded as rather close approximations, except in the case of Mazama camp, the altitude of which rests upon four observations and is correspondingly reliable.

Professor McClure's barometer had a notable history in mountaineering. To quote the professor's own words:

"It has twice looked upon the beauties of the Columbia river from the summit of Mount Hood. It was the first barometer taken to the top of Mount Hood, and gave the true elevation, 11,225 feet, in place of 17,000 or 18,000 feet previously claimed. This barometric measurement of Mount Hood was made in August, 1867, by a government party under the direction of Lieutenant R. S. Williamson. The second barometric measurement of Mount Hood was made with the same instrument in August, 1870, by Professor George H. Collier."

In August, 1891, the barometer was carried by Professor McClure to the summit of Diamond Peak; in August, 1894, by the writer, to the summit of the middle peak of the Three Sisters, in Oregon, giving an altitude of 10,080 feet, not hitherto published; in July, 1895, Professor McClure took it with the Mazamas to Mount Adams, and in July, 1897, to the summit of Mount Rainier.

A new tube was filled and inserted about two years ago, Professor McClure preparing the mercury by distillation and the writer boiling it in the tube. The vacuum was exceptionally perfect. The comparison sheet previously mentioned showed that the instrument on the occasion of its last trip read .005 inch above standard.

In thus completing the labors of Professor McClure, with whom I was so long and so intimately associated, I feel a very melancholy satisfaction. For his sake, I have spared no pains in collecting all the useful data that could be obtained, to make the result reliable to the last degree possible in such a case. I leave that result as a sufficient guarantee of the accuracy of the whole work from beginning to end.

Professor Henry Landes.

XIII. FIELD NOTES ON MOUNT RAINIER, 1905
By PROFESSOR HENRY LANDES

Henry Landes is Professor of Geology and Dean of the College of Science, University of Washington, and he has also served as State Geologist of Washington, since 1895. He was born at Carroll, Indiana, on December 22, 1867. He graduated from the University of Indiana in 1892 and obtained the Master of Arts degree at Harvard University in 1893. He was assistant to the State Geologist of New Jersey and Principal of the High School at Rockland, Maine, before being elected to his present professorship at the University of Washington in 1895. For a year and a half, 1914-1915, he was Acting President of the University of Washington.

He has published many articles and pamphlets on geological subjects. The one here given appeared in Mazama, published in December, 1905, by the Mazamas in Portland, Oregon. It is reproduced here with the permission of the author and of the mountaineering club.

The Columbia River afforded to the first people who came to Washington and Oregon the easiest and most feasible route across the Cascade Mountains. It was through this gateway that travel passed from one side of the range to the other until the advent of the railways in comparatively recent years. The early travelers along the river who were of an observing or scientific bent, noted that the rocks were, in general, dark, heavy and massive and of the class commonly known as basalt. Here and there a sort of pudding stone or agglomerate was observed, which in some instances might represent a sedimentary deposit, but which here had clearly an igneous origin.

The observations of the early travelers were supplemented later by the further studies of geologists; and from the facts noted along the Columbia River, the generalization holds good to a great extent on the Oregon side, but it is by no means true on the Washington side, as has been shown by later studies. Granite rocks are encountered within a few miles of the Columbia River as one travels north along the Cascade Range. Associated with these granite rocks are found rocks of a metamorphic type, such as gneiss, schists, quartzites, crystalline limestone, slate, etc. Such rocks exist south of Mount Rainier, but are not conspicuous. North of this point, however, and throughout all of the northern Cascades they form the great bulk of the rock.

In other words, in the Cascades of Washington, igneous activity has been much more common in the region south of Rainier than in that north of the mountain. When the first observations were made upon the great lava flows of southeastern Washington, which form a part of the greatest lava plain in the world, it was supposed that the lava had its origin in the volcanoes of the Cascades. Later investigations have shown this view to be erroneous. The lava of the plain has come directly from below through great longitudinal fissures instead of through circular openings such as one finds in volcanoes.

It is probable that the Cascades, like most other mountains, have had several different periods of uplift. We have several notable examples of mountains which have had an initial uplift and then have been reduced to base by erosion. By a second upheaval the plain has been converted into a plateau, and this in time assumes a very rugged, mountainous character as a result of the combined forces of air and water. Eventually these same forces would reduce the region to a plain again. Just how many times this thing has happened in the Cascades we do not know. Bailey Willis has shown that in the northern Cascades, at least, the whole country was reduced to a plain prior to the last uplift, which took place in comparatively recent times. Out of this plateau, formed by the uplifting of the plain, has arisen through the active attack of erosive forces the truly mountainous character of the district. Erosion has been at the maximum in the mountains because of the heavy precipitation. Precipitation in the high mountains being chiefly in the form of snow has led to the formation of glaciers, producing thereby a rapidity of erosion of the first order. The active work of ice and running water has given to the mountains an extremely rugged appearance, characterized by valleys of great depth extending into the very heart of the mountains and with precipitous divides.

It must be understood that the time consumed in the uplifting of the Cascades, and the conversion from plain to plateau, was of considerable duration. With the beginning of the uplift, the sluggish streams of the plain became rejuvenated, and took up actively once more the work of erosion. By the time the maximum uplift was reached, the plateau had lost to a certain degree its character of extreme levelness. The streams had already entrenched themselves in rather conspicuous valleys. It is believed that the great volcanoes of Washington—Rainier and its associates—began their activities about the time the uplift described above reached its maximum height. In the vicinity of Rainier the rock of the old plateau is granite; and the volcano may be said to be built upon a platform of that material. On the north side of the mountain granite appears conspicuously at a height of about 7,000 feet; while on the south side it appears at points varying from 5,000 to 6,000 feet above the sea.

That the surface of the granite platform was irregular and uneven may be seen in the walls of the Nisqually canyon, near the lower terminus of the glacier. As one ascends the canyon to the glacier, the contact between the lava rock and the granite shows quite plainly on both the right and the left side. On the left the contact is at least 1,000 feet above that on the right side. A little way above the lower end of the glacier, on each side of the canyon, a good opportunity presents itself to study the contact of the lava and granite. The granite at this place shows clearly that it was once a land surface; and one may note weathering for a distance downward of seventy-five or one hundred feet. The upper portion of the granite shows the usual characteristics of weathering, namely, the conversion of feldspar into kaolin, the oxidation of iron, etc. At this point the lava overlying the granite is quite basic and massive. The first flow reached a thickness here of fully three hundred feet, and exhibits a fine development of basaltic structure.

In following up the canyon walls one observes that the activity of the volcano for some time was characterized almost exclusively by lava flows. In the main the lava is an andesite, and is very generally of a porphyritic structure. Some of the lava flows were of great extent, and reached points many miles distant from the center of the mountain. While the earlier stages of the activity of the volcano were characterized by lava flows of great thickness, by and by explosive products began to appear, and interbedded with the sheets of lava one finds bombs, lapilli, cinders, etc.

It may be said in general that as the volcano grew in years it changed more and more from eruptions of the quiet type to those of the explosive character. It is plain that a long period of time was consumed in the making of that great volcanic pile, and that the eruptions were by no means continuous. It is clearly shown that after certain outflows of lava, quietude reigned for a time; that at last the surface of the rock became cool and that erosive agents broke it up into great masses of loose stones. In later flows of lava these stones were picked up and cemented into layers of pudding stone, which are styled agglomerates.

Rocks of an agglomerate type are well shown in the walls of Gibraltar. This massive pile is largely made up of boulders, great and small, rather loosely held together by a lava cement. The work of frost and ice, expansion and contraction, loosens the boulders readily, and their constant falling from the cliffs gives to this part of the mountain's ascent its dangerous character. While this volcano belongs to a very late period in the history of the earth, it is very clear that there has been no marked activity for many thousands of years. The presence of steam, which is emitted from the hundreds of small openings about the crater, undoubtedly shows the presence of heated rock at no great distance below the surface. Rock is a poor conductor, however, and cooling takes place with very great slowness after a depth of comparatively few feet is reached.

Like most volcanoes, the composite character of the cone is shown on Mount Rainier. After a certain height is reached in the building up of a cone, the rising lava in the throat, or the explosive activities within, sometimes produce an opening through the walls of the cone, and a new outlet to the surface is formed. This often gives the volcano a sort of hummocky or warty appearance, and produces a departure from the symmetrical character. In the case of Rainier it seems to the writer that upon the summit four distinct craters, or outlets, are distinguishable. The first crater reached by the usual route of ascent is the largest one, and may be styled the East crater. It is nearly circular in outline, with a diameter of about one-half mile. Its walls are bare of snow for nearly the whole of its circumference, but the pit is filled with snow and ice. Going across the crater to the westward, one passes over what is really the highest point on the mountain, and then goes down into a smaller crater, or the West crater. This is similar in character and outline to its neighbor, but here the many jets of issuing steam are much more prominent. At a point a few hundred feet lower on the mountain-side there is a peak known as Liberty Cap. A cross-section of the cap is in plain view and shows very clearly that this is a minor cone or local point of eruption. It is made up of rock very similar to the main mass of the mountain; and it is likely that the volcanic activity of the mountain was centered here for some time. Looking directly south from the West crater one sees at a distance of less than a mile another peak which is entirely snow-covered; but which may represent an instance parallel with that of the peak on the north side.

Mount Rainier is so deeply covered with ice and snow that the glacial aspects of the mountain are far more conspicuous than the volcanic ones. The facts about the vulcanism and the history of the growth of the mountain are very difficult to study; and it will be a long time before they are fully known. The glaciers, on the other hand, are very conspicuous, comparatively easy of access, and the many facts concerning their extent, rate of motion, recession, or advance, may be quite readily determined. The glaciers, while very prominent at the present time, were at one time much larger than now. There are many things which go to prove that they formerly reached much farther down the valleys.

From the top of the mountain one may see off to the westward for many miles south of Puget Sound prairies of large size, covering a great many square miles. These prairies represent the plains of gravel derived from the melting glaciers, when these stood in their vicinity. From these points of maximum extension the glaciers have slowly receded to their present position.

That the glaciers are receding at the present time is a matter of common observation. At the lower end of the Nisqually glacier the advancing line of vegetation is about one-fourth mile below the present limit of the ice. It is the opinion of Mr. Longmire that the glacier has retreated about that far since he first came to the valley, twenty-five years ago. General Stevens was able to point out several instances of notable shrinkages in the glaciers, especially in the Paradise glacier, since his ascent of the mountain in 1870. It will interest students of glaciers to know that some permanent monuments have been set up at the lower end of the Nisqually glacier; and that arrangements have been made whereby the retreat of the ice may be accurately measured from year to year.

François Émile Matthes.

XIV. GLACIERS OF MOUNT RAINIER
By F. E. MATTHES

François Émile Matthes was born at Amsterdam, Holland, on March 16, 1874. After pursuing studies in Holland, Switzerland and Germany, he came to the United States in 1891 and graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1895. Since 1896 he has been at work with the United States Geological Survey, mostly in the field of topography. He has been honored by and is a member of many scientific societies.

His topographic work on the maps of Yosemite and Mount Rainier National Parks made for him many appreciative friends on the Pacific Coast. His pamphlet on "Mount Rainier and Its Glaciers" was published by the United States Department of the Interior in 1914. He secured consent for its republication in the present work.

The impression still prevails in many quarters that true glaciers, such as are found in the Swiss Alps, do not exist within the confines of the United States, and that to behold one of these rare scenic features one must go to Switzerland, or else to the less accessible Canadian Rockies or the inhospitable Alaskan coast. As a matter of fact, permanent bodies of snow and ice, large enough to deserve the name of glaciers, occur on many of our western mountain chains, notably in the Rocky Mountains, where only recently a national reservation—Glacier National Park—was named for its ice fields; in the Sierra Nevada of California, and farther north, in the Cascade Range. It is on the last-named mountain chain that glaciers especially abound, clustering as a rule in groups about the higher summits of the crest. But this range also supports a series of huge, extinct volcanoes that tower high above its sky line in the form of isolated cones. On these the snows lie deepest and the glaciers reach their grandest development. Ice clad from head to foot the year round, these giant peaks have become known the country over as the noblest landmarks of the Pacific Northwest. Foremost among them are Mount Shasta, in California (14,162 feet); Mount Hood, in Oregon (11,225 feet); Mount St. Helens (9,697 feet), Mount Adams (12,307 feet), Mount Rainier (14,408 feet), and Mount Baker (10,730 feet), in the State of Washington.

Easily king of all is Mount Rainier. Almost 250 feet higher than Mount Shasta, its nearest rival in grandeur and in mass, it is overwhelmingly impressive, both by the vastness of its glacial mantle and by the striking sculpture of its cliffs. The total area of its glaciers amounts to no less than 45 square miles, an expanse of ice far exceeding that of any other single peak in the United States. Many of its individual ice streams are between 4 and 6 miles long and vie in magnitude and in splendor with the most boasted glaciers of the Alps. Cascading from the summit in all directions, they radiate like the arms of a great starfish. All reach down to the foot of the mountain and some advance considerably beyond.

As for the plea that these glaciers lie in a scarcely opened, out-of-the-way region, a forbidding wilderness as compared with maturely civilized Switzerland, it no longer has the force it once possessed. Rainier's ice fields can now be reached from Seattle or Tacoma, the two principal cities of western Washington, in a comfortable day's journeying, either by rail or by automobile. The cooling sight of crevassed glaciers and the exhilarating flower-scented air of alpine meadows need no longer be exclusive pleasures, to be gained only by a trip abroad.

Mount Rainier stands on the west edge of the Cascade Range, overlooking the lowlands that stretch to Puget Sound. Seen from Seattle or Tacoma, 60 and 50 miles distant, respectively, it appears to rise directly from sea level, so insignificant seem the ridges about its base. Yet these ridges themselves are of no mean height. They rise 3,000 to 4,000 feet above the valleys that cut through them, and their crests average 6,000 feet in altitude. Thus at the southwest entrance of the park, in the Nisqually Valley, the elevation above sea level, as determined by accurate spirit leveling, is 2,003 feet, while Mount Wow (Goat Mountain), immediately to the north, rises to an altitude of 6,045 feet. But so colossal are the proportions of the great volcano that they dwarf even mountains of this size and give them the appearance of mere foothills. In the Tatoosh Range Pinnacle Peak is one of the higher summits, 6,562 feet in altitude. That peak rises nearly 4,000 feet above the Nisqually River, which at Longmire has an elevation of 2,700 feet, yet it will be seen that Mount Rainier towers still 7,846 feet higher than Pinnacle Peak.

From the top of the volcano one fairly looks down upon the Tatoosh Range, to the south; upon Mount Wow, to the southwest; upon the Mother Mountains, to the northwest, indeed, upon all the ridges of the Cascade Range. Only Mount Adams, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Hood loom like solitary peaks above the even sky line, while the ridges below this line seem to melt together in one vast, continuous mountain platform. And such a platform, indeed, one should conceive the Cascade Range once to have been. Only it is now thoroughly dissected by profound, ramifying valleys, and has been resolved into a sea of wavelike crests and peaks.

Mount Rainier stands, in round numbers, 10,000 feet high above its immediate base, and covers 100 square miles of territory, or one-third of the area of Mount Rainier National Park. In shape it is not a simple cone tapering to a slender, pointed summit like Fuji Yama, the great volcano of Japan. It is, rather, a broadly truncated mass resembling an enormous tree stump with spreading base and irregularly broken top. Its life history has been a varied one. Like all volcanoes, Rainier has built up its cone with the material ejected by its own eruptions—with cinders and bombs (steam-shredded particles and lumps of lava), and with occasional flows of liquid lava that have solidified into layers of hard, basaltic rock. At one time it attained an altitude of not less than 16,000 feet, if one may judge by the steep inclination of the lava and cinder layers visible in its flanks. Then a great explosion followed that destroyed the top part of the mountain, and reduced its height by some 2,000 feet. The volcano was left beheaded, and with a capacious hollow crater, surrounded by a jagged rim.

Later on this great cavity, which measured nearly 3 miles across, from south to north, was filled by two small cinder cones. Successive feeble eruptions added to their height until at last they formed together a low, rounded dome—the eminence that now constitutes the mountain's summit. It rises only about 400 feet above the rim of the old crater, and is an inconspicuous feature, not readily identifiable from all sides as the highest point. In fact, so broad is the mountain's crown that from no point at its base can one see the top. The higher portions of the old crater rim, moreover, rise to elevations within a few hundred feet of the summit, and, especially when viewed from below, stand out boldly as separate peaks that mask and seem to overshadow the central dome. Especially prominent are Peak Success (14,150 feet) on the southwest side, and Liberty Cap (14,112 feet) on the northwest side.

The altitude of the main summit has for many years been in doubt. Several figures have been announced from time to time, no two of them in agreement with each other; but all of these, it is to be observed, were obtained by more or less approximate methods. In 1913 the United States Geological Survey, in connection with its topographic surveys of the Mount Rainier National Park, was able to make a new series of measurements by triangulation methods at close range. These give the peak an elevation of 14,408 feet, thus placing it near the top of the list of high summits of the United States. This last figure, it should be added, is not likely to be in error by more than a foot or two and may with some confidence be regarded as final. Greater exactness of determination is scarcely practicable in the case of Mount Rainier, as its highest summit consists actually of a mound of snow the height of which naturally varies somewhat with the seasons and from year to year.

This crowning snow mound, which was once supposed to be the highest point in the United States, still bears the proud name of Columbia Crest. It is essentially a huge snowdrift or snow dune, heaped up by the westerly winds. Driving furiously up through the great breach in the west flank of the mountain, between Peak Success and Liberty Cap, they eddy lightly as they shoot over the summit and there deposit their load of snow.

The drift is situated at the point where the rims of the two summit craters touch, and represents the only permanent snow mass on these rims, for some of the internal heat of the volcano still remains and suffices to keep these rock-crowned curving ridges bare of snow the better part of the year. It is intense enough, even, to produce numerous steam jets along the inner face of the rim of the east crater, which appears to be the most recently formed of the two. The center of this depression, however, is filled with snow, so that it has the appearance of a shallow, white-floored bowl some 1,200 feet in diameter. Great caverns are melted out by the steam jets under the edges of the snow mass, and these caverns afford shelters which, though uninviting, are not to be despised. They have proved a blessing to more than one party that has found itself compelled to remain overnight on the summit, saving them from death in the icy gales.

That Mount Rainier should still retain so much of its internal heat is not surprising in view of the recency of its eruptions. It is known to have been active at intervals during the last century, and actual record exists of slight eruptions in 1843, 1854, 1858, and 1870. Indian legends mention a great cataclysmal outburst at an earlier period.

At present the volcano may be regarded as dormant and no apprehension need be felt as to the possibility of an early renewal of its activity. The steam jets in the summit crater, it is true, as well as the hot springs at the mountain's foot (Longmire Springs), attest the continued presence of subterranean fires, but they are only feeble evidences as compared with the geysers, the steam jets, and the hot springs of the Yellowstone National Park. Yet that region is not considered any less safe to visit because of the presence of these thermal phenomena.

In spite of Mount Rainier's continued activity until within the memory of man its sides appear to have been snow clad for a considerable length of time. Indeed, so intense and so long-continued has been the eroding action of the ice that the cone is now deeply ice-scarred and furrowed. Most of its outer layers, in fact, appear already to have been stripped away. Here and there portions of them remain standing on the mountain's flanks in the form of sharp-crested crags and ridges, and from these one may roughly surmise the original dimensions of the cone. Mere details in the volcano's sculpture, these residual masses are, some of them, so tall that, were they standing among ordinary mountains, they would be reckoned as great peaks. Particularly noteworthy is Little Tahoma, a sharp, triangular tooth on the east flank, that rises to an elevation of 11,117 feet. In its steep, ice-carved walls one may trace ascending volcanic strata aggregating 2,000 feet in thickness that point upward to the place of their origin, the former summit of the mountain, which rose almost half a mile higher than the present top.

Nor is the great crater rim left by the explosion that carried off the original summit preserved in its entirety. Peak Success and Liberty Cap are the only two promontories that give trustworthy indication of its former height and strength. Probably they represent the more massive portions on the southwest and northwest sides, respectively, while the weaker portions to the east and south have long since crumbled away under the heavy ice cascades that have been overriding them for ages. Only a few small rocky points remain upon which the snows split in their descent. The most prominent, as well as the most interesting, is the one on the southeast side, popularly known as Gibraltar Rock. Really a narrow, wedge-shaped mass, it appears in profile like a massive, square-cut promontory. The trail to the summit of the mountain passes along its overhanging south face and then ascends by a precipitous chute between ice and rock. It is this part of the ascent that is reputed as the most precarious and hazardous.

From the rim points downward the ice cover of the cone divides into a number of distinct stream-like tongues or glaciers, each sunk in a great hollow pathway of its own. Between these ice-worn trenches the uneroded portions of the cone stand out in high relief, forming as a rule huge triangular "wedges," heading at the sharp rim points and spreading thence downward to the mountain's base. There they assume the aspect of more gently sloping, grassy table-lands, the charming alpine meadows of which Paradise Park and Spray Park are the most famous. Separating these upland parks are the profound ice-cut canyons which, beyond the glacier ends, widen out into densely forested valleys, each containing a swift-flowing river. No less than a dozen of these ice-fed torrents radiate from the volcano in all directions, while numerous lesser streams course from the snow fields between the glaciers.

Thus the cone of Mount Rainier is seen to be dissected from its summit to its foot. Sculptured by its own glacier mantle, its slopes have become diversified with a fretwork of ridges, peaks, and canyons.

The first ice one meets on approaching the mountain from Longmire Springs lies in the upper end of the Nisqually Valley. The wagon road, which up to this point follows the west side of the valley, winding in loops and curves along the heavily wooded mountain flank, here ventures out upon the rough bowlder bed of the Nisqually River and crosses the foaming torrent on a picturesque wooden bridge. A scant thousand feet above this structure, blocking the valley to a height of some 400 feet, looms a huge shapeless pile of what seems at first sight only rock débris, gray and chocolate in color. It is the dirt-stained end of one of the largest glaciers—the Nisqually. From a yawning cave in its front issues the Nisqually stream, a river full fledged from the start.

The altitude here, it should be noted, is a trifle under 4,000 feet (elevation of bridge is 3,960 feet); hence the ice in view lies more than 10,000 feet below the summit of the mountain, the place of its origin. And in this statement is strikingly summed up the whole nature and economy of a glacier such as the Nisqually.

A glacier is not a mere stationary blanket of snow and ice clinging inert to the mountain flank. It is a slowly moving streamlike body that descends by virtue of its own weight. The upper parts are continually being replenished by fresh snowfalls, which at those high altitudes do not entirely melt away in summer; while the lower end, projecting as it does below the snow line, loses annually more by melting than it receives by precipitation, and is maintained only by the continued accession of masses from above. The rate at which the ice advances has been determined by Prof. J. N. Le Conte, of the University of California. In 1903 he placed a row of stakes across the glacier, and with the aid of surveying instruments obtained accurate measurements of the distances through which they moved from day to day. He found that in summer, when the movement is greatest, it averages 16 inches per day. This figure, however, applies only to the central portion of the glacier—the main current, so to speak—for the margins necessarily move more slowly, being retarded by friction against the channel sides.

The snout of the Nisqually Glacier, accordingly, is really composed of slowly advancing ice, but so rapid is the melting at this low altitude that it effectually counterbalances the advance, and thus the ice front remains essentially stationary and apparently fixed in place. Actually, it is subject to slight back and forward movements, amounting to a foot or more per day; for, as one may readily imagine, fluctuations in snowfall and in temperature, above or below the normal, are ever likely to throw the balance one way or another.

A glacier may also make periodic advances or retreats on a larger scale in obedience to climatic changes extending over many years. Thus all the glaciers on Mount Rainier, as well as many in other parts of the world, are at present, and have been for some time, steadily retreating as the result of milder climate or of a lessening in snow supply. Only so recently as 1885 the Nisqually Glacier reached down to the place now occupied by the bridge, and it is safe to say that at that time no engineer would have had the daring to plan the road as it is now laid. In the last 25 years, however, the Nisqually Glacier has retreated fully 1,000 feet.

Evidences of similar wholesale recession are to be observed at the ends of the other glaciers of Mount Rainier, but the measure of their retreat is not recorded with the precision that was possible in the case of the Nisqually Glacier. Eyewitnesses still live at Longmire Springs who can testify to the former extension of the Nisqually Glacier down to the site of the wagon bridge.

As one continues the ascent by the wagon road a partial view of the glacier's lower course is obtained, and there is gained some idea of its stream-like character. More satisfying are the views from Paradise Park. Here several miles of the ice stream (its total length is nearly 5 miles) lie stretched out at one's feet, while looking up toward the mountain one beholds the tributary ice fields and ice streams, pouring, as it were, from above, from right and left, rent by innumerable crevasses and resembling foaming cascades suddenly crystallized in place. The turmoil of these upper branches may be too confusing to be studied with profit, but the more placid lower course presents a favorable field for observation, and a readily accessible one at that.

A veritable frozen river it seems, flowing between smooth, parallel banks, half a mile apart. Its surface, in contrast to the glistening ice cascades above, has the prevailingly somber tint of old ice, relieved here and there by bright patches of last winter's snow. These lie for the most part in gaping fissures or crevasses that run athwart the glacier at short intervals and divide its body into narrow slices. In the upper course, where the glacier overrides obstacles in its bed, the crevasses are particularly numerous and irregularly spaced, sometimes occurring in two sets intersecting at right angles, and producing square-cut prisms. Farther down the ice stream's current is more sluggish and the crevasses heal up by degrees, providing a united surface, over which one may travel freely.

Gradually, also, the glacier covers itself with débris. Angular rock fragments, large and small, and quantities of dust, derived from the rock walls bordering the ice stream higher up, litter its surface and hide the color of the ice. At first only a narrow ridge of such material—a moraine, as it is called—accompanies the ice river on each side, resembling a sharp-crested embankment built by human hands to restrain its floods; but toward the lower end of the glacier, as the ice wastes away, the débris contained in it is released in masses, and forms brown marginal bands, fringing the moraines. In fact, from here on down it becomes difficult to tell where the ice of the glacier ends at the sides and where the moraines begin.

The lower part of the glacier also possesses a peculiar feature in the form of a débris ridge about midway on its back—a medial moraine. Most of the way it stretches like a slender, dark ribbon, gradually narrowing upstream. One may trace it with the eye up to its point of origin, the junction of the two main branches of the glacier, at the foot of a sharp rock spur on the mountain's flank.

In the last mile of the Nisqually's course, this medial moraine develops from a mere dirt band to a conspicuous embankment, projecting 40 feet above the ice. Not the entire body of the ridge, however, is made up of rock débris. The feature owes its elevation chiefly to the protective influence of the débris layer on its surface, which is thick enough to shield the ice beneath from the hot rays of the sun, and greatly retards melting, while the adjoining unprotected ice surfaces are rapidly reduced.

A short distance above the glacier's terminus the medial moraine and the ever-broadening marginal bands come together. No more clear ice remains exposed, irregular mounds and ridges of débris cover the entire surface of the glacier, and the moraine-smothered mass assumes the peculiar inchoate appearance that is so striking upon first view.

In utter contrast with the glacier's dying lower end are the bright snow fields on the summit in which it commences its career. Hard by the rock rim of the east summit crater the snows begin, enwrapping in an even, immaculate layer the smooth sides of the cinder cone. Only a few feet deep at first, they thicken downward by degrees, until, a thousand feet below the crater, they possess sufficient depth and weight to acquire movement. Occasional angular crevasses here interrupt the slope and force the summit-bound traveler to make wearying detours.

Looking down into a gash of this sort one beholds nothing but clean snow, piled in many layers. Only a faint blue tinges the crevasse walls, darkening but slowly with the depth, in contrast to the intense indigo hue characteristic of the partings in the lower course of the glacier. There the material is a dense ice, more or less crystalline in texture; here it is scarcely more than snow, but slightly compacted and loosely granular—what is generally designated by the Swiss term "névé."

For several thousand feet down, as far as the 10,000-foot level, in fact, does the snow retain this granular consistency. One reason for the slowness with which it compacts is found in the low temperatures that prevail at high altitudes and preclude any considerable melting. The air itself seldom rises above the freezing point, even in the middle of the day, and as a consequence the snow never becomes soft and mushy, as it does at lower levels.

When snow assumes the mushy, "wet-sugar" state, it is melting internally as well as at its outer surface, owing both to the water that soaks into it and to the warming of the air inclosed within its innumerable tiny pores (which tiny air spaces, by the way, give the snow its brilliant whiteness). Snow in this condition has, paradoxical though it may sound, a temperature a few tenths of a degree higher than the melting point—a fact recently established by delicate temperature measurements made on European glaciers. It is this singular fact, no doubt, that explains how so many minute organisms are able to flourish and propagate in summer on the lower portions of many glaciers. It may be of interest to digress here briefly in order to speak of these little known though common forms of life.

Several species of insects are among the regular inhabitants of glaciers. Most of them belong to a very low order—the Springtails, or Thysanura—and are so minute that in spite of their dark color they escape the attention of most passers-by. If one looks closely, however, they may readily be observed hopping about like miniature fleas or wriggling deftly into the cavities of the snow. It seems to incommode them but little if in their acrobatic jumps they occasionally alight in a puddle or in a rill, for they are thickly clad with furry scales that prevent them from getting wet—just as a duck is kept dry by its greasy feathers.

Especially plentiful on the lower parts of the Rainier glaciers, and more readily recognized, are slender dark-brown worms of the genus Mesenchytraeus, about 1 inch in length. Millions and millions of them may be seen on favorable days in July and August writhing on the surface of the ice, evidently breeding there and feeding on organic matter blown upon the glacier in the form of dust. So essential to their existence is the chill of the ice that they enter several inches, and sometimes many feet below the surface on days when the sun is particularly hot, reappearing late in the afternoon.

Mention also deserves to be made of that microscopic plant Protococcus nivalis, which is responsible for the mysterious pink or light, rose-colored patches so often met with on glaciers—the "red snow" of a former superstition. Each patch represents a colony or culture comprising billions of individuals. It is probable that they represent but a small fraction of the total microflora thriving on the snow, the other species remaining invisible for lack of a conspicuous color.

To return to the frigid upper névés, it is not to be supposed that they suffer no loss whatever by melting. The heat radiated directly to them by the sun is alone capable of doing considerable damage, even while the air remains below the freezing point. At these high altitudes the sun heat is astonishingly intense, as more than one uninitiated mountain climber has learned to his sorrow by neglecting to take the customary precaution of blacking his face before making the ascent. In a few hours the skin is literally scorched and begins to blister painfully.

At the foot of the mountain the sun heat is relatively feeble, for much of it is absorbed by the dust and vapor in the lower layers of the atmosphere, but on the summit, which projects 2 miles higher, the air is thin and pure, and lets the rays pass through but little diminished in strength.

The manner in which the sun affects the snow is peculiar and distinctive. Instead of reducing the surface evenly, it melts out many close-set cups and hollows, a foot or more in diameter and separated by sharp spires and crests. No water is visible anywhere, either in rills or in pools, evaporation keeping pace with the reduction. If the sun's action is permitted to continue uninterrupted for many days, as may happen in a hot, dry summer, these snow cups deepen by degrees, until at length they assume the aspect of gigantic bee cells, several feet in depth. Snow fields thus honeycombed may be met with on the slopes above Gibraltar Rock. They are wearisome to traverse, for the ridges and spines are fairly resistant, so that one must laboriously clamber over them. Most exasperating, however, is the going after a snowstorm has filled the honeycombs. Then the traveler, waist deep in mealy snow, is left to flounder haphazard through a hidden labyrinth.

Of interest in this connection is the great snow cliff immediately west of Gibraltar Rock. Viewed from the foot of that promontory, the sky line of the snow castle fairly bristles with honeycomb spines; while below, in the face of the snow cliff, dark, wavy lines, roughly parallel to the upper surface, repeat its pattern in subdued form. They represent the honeycombs of previous seasons, now buried under many feet of snow, but still traceable by the dust that was imprisoned with them.

The snow cliff west of Gibraltar Rock is of interest also for other reasons. It is the end of a great snow cascade that descends from the rim of the old crater. Several such cascades may be seen on the south side of the mountain, separated by craggy remnants of the crater rim. Above them the summit névés stretch in continuous fields, but from the rim on down, the volcano's slopes are too precipitous to permit a gradual descent, and the névés break into wild cascades and falls. Fully two to three thousand feet they tumble, assembling again in compact, sluggish ice fields on the gentler slopes below.

Of the three cascades that feed the Nisqually Glacier only the central one, it is to be observed, forms a continuous connection between the summit névés and the lower ice fields. The two others, viz. the one next to Gibraltar and the westernmost of the three, terminate in vertical cliffs, over great precipices of rock. From them snow masses detach at intervals and produce thundering avalanches that bound far out over the inclined ice fields below. Especially frequent are the falls from the cliff near Gibraltar. They occur hourly at certain times, but as a rule at periods of one or more days.

From the westernmost cascade avalanches are small and rare. Indeed, as one watches them take place at long intervals throughout a summer one can not but begin to doubt whether they are in themselves really sufficient to feed and maintain so extensive an ice field as lies stretched out under them. Surely much more snow must annually melt away from the broad surface of that field, exposed as it lies to the midday sun, than the insignificant avalanches can replace. Were they its only source of supply, the ice field, one feels confident, would soon cease to exist.

The fact is that the ice field in question is not dependent for its support on the avalanches from above. It may receive some contributions to its volume through them, but in reality it is an independent ice body, nourished chiefly by direct snow precipitation from the clouds. And this is true, in large measure, of all the ice fields lying under the ice cascades. The Nisqually Glacier, accordingly, is not to be regarded as composed merely of the cascading névés, reunited and cemented together, but as taking a fresh start at these lower levels. Improbable though this may seem at first, it is nevertheless a fact that is readily explained.

The winter snows on Mount Rainier are heaviest in the vicinity of its base; indeed, the snowfall at those low levels is several times greater than that on the summit. This in itself may seem anomalous. So accustomed is one to think that the snowfall on high mountains increases with the altitude that it seems strange to find a case in which the opposite is true. Yet Mount Rainier stands by no means alone in this regard. The Sierra Nevada and the Andes, the Himalayas and the Alps, all show closely analogous conditions.

In each of these lofty mountain regions the precipitation is known to be heaviest at moderate altitudes, while higher up it decreases markedly. The reason is that the storm clouds—the clouds that carry most of the rain and snow—hang in a zone of only moderate elevation, while higher up the atmosphere contains but little moisture and seldom forms clouds of any great density.

In the Rainier region the height of the storm clouds is in large measure regulated by the relief of the Cascade Range; for it is really this cooling mountain barrier that compels the moisture-laden winds from the Pacific Ocean to condense and to discharge. It follows that the storm clouds are seldom much elevated above the sky line of the Cascade Mountains; they cling, so to speak, to its crest and ridges, while the cone of Mount Rainier towers high above them into serener skies. Many a day may one look down from the summit, or even from a halfway point, such as Camp Muir (10,062 feet), upon the upper surface of the clouds. Like a layer of fleecy cotton they appear, smothering the lower mountains and enveloping the volcano's base.

Clouds, it is true, are frequently seen gathering about the mountain's crown, usually in the form of a circular cap or hood, precursor of a general storm, but such clouds yield but very little snow.

No accurate measurements have been made of the snowfall at the mountain's foot, but in the Nisqually Valley, at Longmire Springs, the winter snows are known often to exceed 20 feet in depth. The summer heat at this low level (2,762 feet) is, of course, abundantly able to remove all of it, at least by the end of May. But higher up every thousand feet of elevation suffices to prolong appreciably the life of the snowy cover. In Paradise Park, for instance, at altitudes between 5,000 and 6,000 feet, huge snowdrifts encumber the flowering meadows until far into July. Above an altitude of 6,000 feet permanent drifts and snow fields survive in certain favored spots, while at the 7,000-foot level the snow line, properly speaking, is reached. Above this line considerable snow remains regularly from one winter to the next, and extensive ice fields and glaciers exist even without protection from the sun.

It is between the 8,000 and 10,000 foot levels, however, that one meets with the conditions most favorable for the development of glaciers. Below this zone the summer heat largely offsets the heavy precipitation, while above it the snowfall itself is relatively scant. Within the belt the annual addition of snow to the ice fields is greater than anywhere else on Mount Rainier. The result is manifest in the arrangement and distribution of the glaciers on the cone. By far the greater number originate in the vicinity of the 10,000-foot level, while those ice streams which cascade from the summit, such as the Nisqually, are in a sense reborn some 4,000 feet lower down.

A striking example of an ice body nourished wholly by the snows falling on the lower slope of Mount Rainier is the Paradise Glacier. In no wise connected with the summit névés, it makes its start at an elevation of less than 9,000 feet. Situated on the spreading slope between the diverging canyons of the Nisqually on the west and of the Cowlitz on the northeast, it constitutes a typical "interglacier," as intermediate ice bodies of this kind are termed.

Its appearance is that of a gently undulating ice field, crevassed only toward its lower edge and remarkably clean throughout. No débris-shedding cliffs rise anywhere along its borders, and this fact, no doubt, largely explains its freedom from morainal accumulations.

The absence of cliffs also implies a lack of protecting shade. Practically the entire expanse of the glacier lies exposed to the full glare of the sun. As a consequence its losses by melting are very heavy, and a single hot summer may visibly diminish the glacier's bulk. Nevertheless it seems to hold its own as well as any other glacier on Mount Rainier, and this ability to recuperate finds its explanation in the exceeding abundance of fresh snows that replenish it every winter.

The Paradise Glacier, however, is not the product wholly of direct precipitation from the clouds. Much of its mass is supplied by the wind, and accumulates in the lee of the high ridge to the west, over which the route to Camp Muir and Gibraltar Rock is laid. The westerly gales keep this ridge almost bare of snow, permitting only a few drifts to lodge in sheltered depressions. But east of the ridge there are great eddies in which the snow forms long, smooth slopes that descend several hundred feet to the main body of the glacier. These slopes are particularly inviting to tourists for the delightful "glissades" which they afford. Sitting down on the hard snow at the head of such a slope, one may indulge in an exhilarating glide of amazing swiftness, landing at last safely on the level snows beneath.

The generally smooth and united surface of the Paradise Glacier, it may be added, contributes not a little to its attractiveness as a field for alpine sports. On it one may roam at will without apprehension of lurking peril; indeed one can journey across its entire width, from Paradise Park to the Cowlitz Rocks, without encountering a single dangerous fissure. This general absence of crevasses is accounted for largely by the evenness of the glacier's bed and by its hollow shape, owing to which the snows on all sides press inward and compact the mass in the center. Only toward its frontal margin, where the glacier plunges over an abrupt rock step, as well as in the hump of that part known as Stevens Glacier, is the ice rent by long crevasses and broken into narrow blades. Here it may be wise for the inexperienced not to venture without a competent guide, for the footing is apt to be treacherous, and jumping over crevasses or crossing them by frail snow bridges are feats never accomplished without risk.

In the early part of summer the Paradise Glacier has the appearance of a vast, unbroken snow field, blazing, immaculate, in the sun. But later, as the fresh snows melt away from its surface, grayish patches of old crystalline ice develop in places, more especially toward the glacier's lower margin. Day by day these patches expand until, by the end of August, most of the lower ice field has been stripped of its brilliant mantle. Its countenance, once bright and serene, now assumes a grim expression and becomes crisscrossed by a thousand seams, like the visage of an aged man.

Over this roughened surface trickle countless tiny rills which, uniting, form swift rivulets and torrents, indeed veritable river systems on a miniature scale that testify with eloquence to the rapidity with which the sun consumes the snow. Strangely capricious in course are these streamlets, for, while in the main gravitating with the glacier's slope, they are ever likely to be caught and deflected by the numerous seams in the ice. These seams, it should be explained, are lines of former crevasses that have healed again under pressure in the course of the glacier's slow descent. As a rule they inclose a small amount of dirt, and owing to its presence are particularly vulnerable to erosion. Along them the streamlets rapidly intrench themselves—perhaps by virtue of their warmth, what little there is of it, as much as by actual abrasion—and hollow out channels of a freakish sort, here straight and canal-like, there making sharp zigzag turns; again broadening into profound, canoe-shaped pools, or emptying into deeper trenches by little sparkling cataracts, or passing under tiny bridges and tunnels—a veritable toy land carved in ice.

But unfortunately these pretty features are ephemeral, many of them changing from day to day; for, evenings, as the lowering sun withdraws its heat, the melting gradually comes to a halt, and the little streams cease to flow. The soft babbling and gurgling and the often exquisitely melodious tinkle of dripping water in hidden glacial wells are hushed, and the silent frost proceeds to choke up passages and channels, so that next day's waters have to seek new avenues.