rail turned at right angles, was the acutely dangerous spot. With
heavy and bulky packs it was exceedingly difficult to squeeze past this
projection. Ice gives no such entrance to the point of the axe as hard
snow does, yet the only aid in steadying the climber, and in somewhat
relieving his weight on the loose snow, was afforded by such purchase
upon the ice-wall, shoulder high, as that point could effect. Not a word
was spoken by any one; all along the ice-wall rang in the writer's ears
that preposterous line from "The Hunting of the Snark"--"Silence, not
even a shriek!" It was with a deep and thankful relief that we found
ourselves safely across, and when a few minutes later we had climbed the
steep snow that lay against the cleavage wall and were at last upon the
smooth, unbroken crest of the ridge, we realized that probably the worst
place in the entire climb was behind us.

Steep to the very limit of climbability as that ridge was, it was the
easiest going we had had since we left the glacier floor. The steps were
already cut; it was only necessary to lift one foot after the other and
set the toe well in the hole, with the ice-axe buried afresh in the snow
above at every step. But each step meant the lifting not only of oneself
but of one's load, and the increasing altitude, perhaps aggravated by
the dense vapor with which the air was charged, made the advance
exceedingly fatiguing. From below, the foreshortened ridge seemed only
of short length and of moderate grade, could we but reach it--a
tantalizingly easy passage to the upper glacier it looked as we chopped
our way, little by little, nearer and nearer to it. But once upon it, it
lengthened out endlessly, the sky-line always just a little above us,
but never getting any closer.

[Sidenote: The Cock's Comb]

Just before reaching the steepest pitch of the ridge, where it sweeps up
in a cock's comb,[3] we came upon the vestiges of a camp made by our
predecessors of a year before, in a hollow dug in the snow--an empty
biscuit carton and a raisin package, some trash and brown paper and
discolored snow--as fresh as though they had been left yesterday instead
of a year ago. Truly the terrific storms of this region are like the
storms of Guy Wetmore Carryl's clever rhyme that "come early and avoid
the _rush_." They will sweep a man off his feet, as once threatened to
our advance party, but will pass harmlessly over a cigarette stump and a
cardboard box; our tent in