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disorderly manner. Then came hours of toil, wallowing through deep drifts that had accumulated among great blocks of ice. Changing from snowshoe to crampon time and time again during the night was wearisome work, but steady, sustained effort brought us on, and we finally passed safely through the crevassed ice cliffs and MacCarthy Gap.

The sight of the three tents still standing away below us on the King col brought a solace that one cannot describe.

June 27 was a day of complete rest, during which Colonel Foster's efficient clinic gave relief to frozen parts.

Our way now lay straight down the King Glacier, and, with a good surface upon the snow, we reached the sledge which we had left at the base of the King icefall. After some digging we got it out, and for the first time in many days we moved forward with free backs. At Observation Camp we tunneled for some few articles left behind and pressed on.

A mile farther down, coming to the ice dome, our first stop above Quartz Ridge, we abandoned the sledge, with many articles that it had been supposed might be useful and even indispensable for the journey out, and again submitted to the toil of back packing.


From the summit of Quartz Ridge we saw the tents of Cascades Camp 1,000 feet below, and after two hours of struggle through deep, soft snow we came to the wreckage of what was a month before our luxurious base camp. The whole surface of the ice had dropped several feet, leaving the tents and their contents precariously perched upon ice pillars.

One big tent was repitched, and in the early hours of the next morning we finally had the camp in order and had consumed. astonishing quantities of food.

As we were now actually "off" the mountain and permitted ourselves to relax, we became more conscious of the strain we had been under. We were not lulled to sleep by any false sense that all was over, however, as 138 miles still separated us from the railway at McCarthy.

Two blessed days of rest passed in this camp. Here we celebrated the conquest of Mount Logan by dining largely upon

almost every conceivable delicacy that the genius of man has contrived to put in a can, and by sleeping at great length (see page 627).

We started on our long homeward trek across the glaciers on July 1.

On July 4 we crossed over to the Baldwin-Fraser cache, where our feet once more touched terra firma, after 44 days on the ice. The ecstasy of being once more amid green shrubbery and of feeling the soft turf underfoot can hardly be understood except by those who have had a similar experience.

At this camp we found that a bear had successfully solved the problem of a bearproof cache and had made away with most of our store of provisions; so perforce we had a slim meal.


At Hubrick's Camp material and tools had been left for the purpose of whipsawing lumber and building two boats to take us down the swift stream of the Chitina River. But with only one or two members of our party in fit condition to undertake such work, it was finally decided to abandon any idea of the boats and instead to trust ourselves to the mercies of two rafts, five logs in width and 16 feet long. The dunnage was lashed on an elevated rack in the center, and the rafts were ready to take the water on the 11th (see page 630).

With some few forced stops, when we grounded violently on the gravel bars, the exciting run of the swift waters continued the whole afternoon.

The Alaskan glacial stream is a power to be dealt with in no trifling manner. It is quite unlike other streams. Excessively cold and carrying in suspension great quantities of silt, the water has a decidedly thick appearance and, in the case of the Chitina River, careers down the wide, open valley at six miles per hour in treacherous, constantly changing channels.

On July 12 we set out on our long walk of 32 miles into McCarthy and arrived in high spirits at 1:30 the next morning.

Sailing from Cordova on July 22, we left behind us the bleak shores of Alaska and turned our faces to the south-and home.



HE Versailles treaty-makers stripped Germany of much of her territory and much of her pride. They trimmed her horizontal dimensions north, east, south, and west; but they did not lessen her height, for the highest peaks that were ever included within the old empire-her rugged Alps, her eternal snows are still her own.

The Bavarian Alps have been less press-agented, less talked about, and therefore less visited by foreigners, than any other section of the mountainous country of Central Europe.

Switzerland holds out her arms in welcome to the visitor. No passport visés are required, customs regulations are slurred over, and the traveler is made to feel at home immediately. The Italian Alps and Northern lakes run Switzerland a close second in being advertised and therefore visited by outsiders.

On the other hand, Bavaria until very recently threw many difficulties in the path of the foreign visitor.

Happily, most of these irksome restrictions are now things of the past; but even so, the Bavarian Alps seem more remote, more inaccessible, than the mountain districts of the neighbor states. This is due, of course, to the fact that we read and hear less of them.


In Bavaria I have drifted leisurely from place to place, have taken the unbeaten track, lived in clean little pensions at the foot of some rugged pile, preferred the slow-moving coach to the swifter motorcar, and whenever and wherever the appeal came to me sufficiently strong-which was often the case have unpacked and settled down to remain as long as I wished or as long as the spell of the surrounding beauty held me.

Sometimes I am fully aware that this impulse to stay on is not due entirely to the natural wonders. I know that the little villages, with the exterior walls of their houses painted in many colors and almost invariably adorned with scenes from Biblical history or legends of the

country, shrines built into these walls, window sills gay with flowers, outside in summer and inside in winter, crucifixes at every turn in the village street, or perched here and there in the fields or along the unfrequented roadsides, have added charm to the jagged skyline that hems them in (see Color Plates IV, IX, XIII, and XIV).

On cloudy days, when the mountains are entirely obscured from view, there still remains a lure of street and dwelling that makes it a delight to walk around, discovering something new and interesting at every twist of the road. There is also a sure attractiveness about the native dress. It blends so perfectly with house. and hill that mountains, woods, dwellings, and peasants seem each in perfect harmony, perfect liaison, with the other.

And yet again, there is such a clear-cut appreciation of art among all classes and all classes are so intelligent. Even the smallest villages have specialized in some line of endeavor that is truly artistic. Music, painting, etching, drama, woodcarving, pottery, sculpture, and photography-all the arts and crafts, in facthave innumerable patrons and students.

Oberammergau has its marvelous Passion Play. In the years that intervene between the productions, the little village is not dead dramatically, for every soul of the 1,500 there has an opportunity to demonstrate his or her histrionic ability in the productions that are staged in the off years.

It is in this way that talent is produced which every decade astounds the world with the finished characterizations in many difficult rôles (see Color Plates III and IV).

But Oberammergau does not stand ahead-certainly not far ahead-of other Bavarian villages from the artistic standpoint, and the Passion Play is not its only pride. The wood-carvers and potters of Oberammergau are artists, not laborers. The school of wood-carving there is an art school in every sense.

Mittenwald is a town of less than a thousand inhabitants. With the exception

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Here, on a green promontory jutting out into this gemlike lake, are a hunting lodge and tiny chapel, the latter a place of pilgrimage during the festival of St. Bartholomew, when the surrounding heights are lit with bonfires.


Pilgrim throngs flock to this Bavarian village every ten years to see that most impressive of dramatic spectacles, the Passion Play, enacted by peasants in the fulfillment of a vow made in 1633.

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