Before giving an account of our ascent of the glacier, it may be well to attempt a brief description of this great mountain of ice, about which so much has been written, and upon which we toiled so hard for sixty days, getting our goods over. The glacier is a large body of ice, lying between two mountains, which rise above it on either side from three to five thousand feet. Its length is thirty miles, and it has an average width of three miles. It is twenty miles to the summit, and it has an elevation in this distance of five thousand feet. And down the opposite side to the valley beyond it has an average descent of three hundred and twenty-five feet to the mile. Upon the summit of this ice mountain, from early fall until late in the spring, fierce snowstorms rage almost every day, so that during the winter the snow accumulates to a great depth. During the summer the snow melts from the ice, and leaves the whole surface of the glacier one mass of yawning crevices, many of them hundreds of feet deep, which make its passage impossible in the latter part of summer and early winter, and extremely difficult and dangerous at any time but the latter part of winter, when they become so filled with snow that there is little danger in passing over them. In making the ascent there is a series of five benches to go over, the last of which is called the summit.

Our camp was at the foot of the first bench, which is about sixty yards in length, and so steep that it was necessary to cut steps in the ice to get up. At the top we drilled a hole in the ice, into which was set a post, attaching to it a pulley, through which we passed the end of a rope. Then attaching each end of the rope to a sled, about ten men would climb to the top, get hold of the rope and empty sled there, and come down the incline, drawing the loaded sled up, carrying from six to eight hundred pounds of goods at a load. Other companies were doing this also, and often several lines were being worked on the same bench at once. We would frequently have to wait several minutes for others to get out of our way, and they as often waited for us; but I do not recall a single instance in which any hard feelings or angry words were indulged by any of the various companies who worked upon these benches. I consider this a remarkable thing, when men were working so hard as almost naturally to become irritable when very tired; and if anybody doubts that they were very tired, he would soon be convinced by a day or two of actual trial of it. Many hundreds were passing and repassing upon this narrow trail, and necessarily were often much in one another's way. And each one seemed ever ready to lend his neighbor any assistance needed, when it was possible for him to do so. Quite often some man's sled would slide out of the trail, and tip over with its load in the snow, but the first men passing him would get out of their harnesses, help him back into the track, and assist him to reload. This same spirit seemed to be manifested during our entire trip over the glacier. (Chapter 4, pp. 42-43.)

Snow-slides became so frequent that not three minutes would pass but what we could hear one somewhere in the mountains, and often they would be so great that the noise of them was like the rolling of heavy thunder.

One night the great mass of snow which had accumulated on the mountain side in the rear of the camp at the foot of the summit, gave way, and came crashing down the mountain. Nearly every one was in bed, little dreaming of the danger in store, when suddenly, with little warning, upward of twenty tents were buried under this great mass of snow from six to fourteen feet deep. Two of our tents, containing nine men, were among the number. No alarm had to be sounded, for everybody was awakened by the noise, and soon two hundred shovels in the hands of willing men were plying, to rescue the unfortunates who were underneath. Many men, barefooted, and clad only in their nightclothes-which were simply their underclothes,-set to work, and for hours labored with might and main to liberate their imprisoned tent-mates and comrades. Many were rescued just in time to save their lives.

My friend, Harry Sweet, of Hornellsville, N. Y., was the last of our party to be rescued, and says that he owes his life to the almost superhuman efforts of his tent-mates, who, as soon as they were liberated, sprang to shoveling, not thinking of their bare feet or scanty clothes, and shoveled with all their might till they saw that he was saved.

It may be of interest to the readers of these pages to give Mr. Sweet's story of his experiences upon this never-to-be-forgotten night. Relating them to me he said:

"I was the first to get into my sleeping bag that night. I had been in bed some time, and my companions had either retired, or were preparing to do so, when I heard a great roaring noise, which seemed to grow louder, and to come nearer. All at once it dawned upon me that a slide was coming toward the camp. I raised up in my sleeping bag, and shouted, 'Look out, boys, a snowslide is coming!' The words had hardly escaped my lips when it struck me, as I sat up in my sleeping bag, and pushed me over toward the center of the tent, where my tent-mate, Charles Priceler, was preparing for bed. The tent was crushed down on us in an instant, the side-pole coming across Priceler's feet, and as I was thrown over by the weight of the snow, my hand came in contact with one of his bare heels, which I clung to as well as I could. I do not know how long I lay in this position, but it was some time. I had no difficulty in breathing, but I could feel the great weight of snow settling down upon me. I could hear, now and then, the faint sound of shovels, as they occasionally clashed together, and I knew that men were digging for us. Soon I felt the foot moving upon which I had a grasp, and it quickly slipped away from me altogether. As soon as this occurred, it seemed as if the supply of breathing air was being shut off; and though I could hear more plainly the shovels of my rescuers, I began to feel that it was all up with me. I faintly heard these words: 'Let me have that shovel; I know just where he is.' I recognized it as the voice of Priceler, and knew that he had got out. I could feel my senses leaving me. My head began to whirl; I thought I was dying. I remember nothing more until I was being taken to a tent, and was put into a sleeping bag, and given a large drink of liquor. It seemed to warm and revive me, and I soon felt quite comfortable.

"During the night some one came to the tent, and yelled, 'Look out! another slide is coming.' I was out of that sleeping bag in a jerk, and went dashing after my companions as they swept out of the tent. We started across the glacier, floundering in snow nearly to our waists, trying to get out of harm's way. The alarm proved to be a false one, and we waded back to the tent more leisurely. On my way back I met a woman, and having only my underclothing on, in which I flew during the scare, she said to me, 'My dear boy, why don't you get on some more clothes ?' I answered, 'My good woman, I haven't any.' On my arrival at the tent I borrowed some to wear until I could get mine out from under the snow, where they had been left. Everybody remained up the balance of that night, and several trails were made for some distance out on the glacier to enable us more readily to escape, in case of another slide." (Chapter 5, pp. 53-55).