en into a sullen, ominous
roar as the giant bowlders got under way.

For me the scene had changed abruptly; a moment since I had been
following the wild sheep with ready camera, stalking them, entertaining
them with antics, occasionally hiding for a moment to excite them. Now
pandemonium reigned. The first few stones I dodged; then they came too
thick to be avoided. I dived headlong behind a bowlder, partly buried
in the slide. Like a rabbit I hid there, clinging as the stones hailed
about me, afraid to lift my head. Rocks struck close, filling my eyes
with gritty dust, choking me. Then a giant slab came grinding
downward. I could hear it coming, its slow thunder drowned out all
other sounds. The whole mountain heaved. My rock fort shook, flinging
me backward amidst a deluge of smaller stones. Over and over I rolled,
with the loosened rocks, fighting frantically every instant.

Inside a few short, busy seconds the giant slab shot past, my bowlder
had halted it for only a second. As I leaped aside I was pelted by a
score of stones, battered, bruised, knocked half unconscious, eyes
filled with sharp, cutting grit. At last I gained the outer edge of
the whirlpool, where the movement was less rapid, where only the
smaller stones trickled down. Dazed, bleeding and breathless, I was
flung aside, too blinded to see and too stunned to avoid the
projectiles shooting my way.

The slide lessened; its roar diminished; only occasional rocks came
down. Then came silence, vast, still and awesome after the uproar.
But it was broken by the belated descent of tardy stones, loath to be
left behind. Miniature slides started, hesitated and scattered.

Like a battered bark I lay half submerged at the edge of the slide. My
cap was gone, my camera lost, my clothes torn; in a score of places I
was scratched or bruised. I crawled farther from the danger line,
found a trickle of water below a melting snowbank, where I drank and
laved my bruises. At length I started down the mountain, safe, but not
sound; somewhat wiser, thrilled tremendously at the experience that had
come unannounced.

It is always thus in mountain climbing--the unexpected is the rule!

The habit of estimating time by the number of miles to be traveled goes
by the board in mountain work. A mile stood on end ceases to be a mile
and becomes a nightmare. Trail miles, or those that stretch across the
mountain tops, are not even related to the miles of strai