snowshoe had to be lifted high, until my knee almost touched my
chest. The webs accumulated snow, too, until each shoe weighed many
additional pounds.

But the fairyland that I found on top of the Divide was worth all the
effort required to reach it. It was the first time I had found the
wind quiet; every peak stood out sharp and clear, many miles away
seemed but a few minutes' walk. There were none of the usual objects
that help estimate distance; no horses or cattle, no trees or trails,
nothing but unbroken space. The glare of the sun was blinding; even my
very dark snow glasses failed to protect my eyes.

The silence was tremendous. Always before there had been the wind
shrieking and crashing. Now there was not a sound, not a breath of
wind, not even a snow-swirl. I shouted, and my voice came back across
the canyon without the usual blurring; each word was distinct. I
whistled softly and other echoes came hurrying back. Never have I felt
so alone, or so small. As far as the eye could reach were mountains,
one beyond the other. Near by loomed the jagged Never-summer range,
while farther down the Divide Gray's and Terry's peaks stood out; then
the Collegiate range--Harvard, Yale and Princeton.

In the midst of my reverie there came a creaking, groaning sound from
almost beneath my feet. I had paused on the brink of the same
precipice over which I had fallen on my way to Grand Lake. Before I
could move, the snow-cornice broke away and several hundred feet of it
crashed down the cliff. In places it appeared to be ten to forty feet
thick. It must have weighed thousands of tons. It fell with a
swishing roar, with occasional sharp reports, as loose rocks dropped to
the clean-swept ledges of the cliff. It seemed to explode as it
struck, to fly into powder which filled the gorge between Flat top and
Hallett peaks.

The wind had drifted the snow over the edge of the precipice where some
of it had clung. Farther and farther it had crept out, overhanging the
abyss, its great weight slowly bending the cornice downward until it
had at last given way.

I shuddered a little at the awfulness of it; felt smaller than ever,
backed away from the rim of the canyon, and headed for home.

CHAPTER FIVE

TRAPPING--MOUNTAIN-TOP DWELLERS

Gold and fur have ever been beckoning sirens, luring men into the
unknown. As I have said, the famous trapper, Kit Carson, was the first
white man to look down upon the pict