proudly back into the rugged mountains. The valley was cut up with many streams. They were all deep and swift enough to be troublesome. At times the rivers ran from one side of the valley to the other and we had either to climb the mountain sides or ford the swift water. The hillsides were covered with dense alder thickets, and with packs on our backs we made little headway. Once we traveled for three hours through the thickets, and at the end we had scarcely a mile to show for our toil.

Usually we held to the middle of the valley and forded as best we could. At times we encountered streams that we could not ford. The water was mostly glacial, and at noon the streams were strong from the melting of the snow and ice under the sun, so we would wait until midnight came and ford when the water was low.

At that time of the year it was never dark and we traveled at all hours. After a day's travel we met two prospectors with a river boat. The roar and rattle of a glacier stream separated us, but we could hear them yelling, "The glacier streams are runnin' on edge up above, yuh can't cross 'em." We yelled back that we had already. forded the west branch and that we were going on. They watched us dubiously as we started off and did not answer the "so long" that we shouted across the water.

When we traveled at night the mountains took on a certain grandeur and solemnity. We saw unnamed glaciers blush from the red of the rising or setting sun. Through the heat waves of midday the mountains seemed to draw back and become hazy, and the glare of the sun on the snow and the water-washed rocks was blinding.

Our camps scarcely deserved the dignity of the name; a small silk tent; a wisp of smoke from a brush pile surrounded by steaming, ragged clothes; a small black pot and three sun- and smoke-browned men hugging the fire that was all. At a short distance we were nothing but an indistinct blur in the shadow of the mountains. A few chips and blunt axe marks on fallen trees is the only impression we made on the valley of the Yentna.

Our real interest began when the valley narrowed up. We found the rivers growing swifter day by day, the gravel was giving way to large bowlders, and we were

forced more often to the rugged mountain sides. By this time we had all had narrow escapes while crossing the streams. A man with a heavy pack is helpless when he loses his footing in swift water, and is rolled. He is lucky if he reaches the bank with no worse hurt than bleeding hands and a bruised body. The Doctor and Porter used Alpine ruksacks-to my mind a poor contrivance for wilderness packing. They hang badly when heavily loaded, are unsteady, and in swift water are dangerous, as they cannot be loosened quickly. I used a home-made canvas adaptation of the "Russian Aleut" strap, to my mind the easiest and safest strap in the world.

At last we came in sight of a mighty glacier that headed in the neighborhood of Mt. Dall; beyond we saw our Meccathe cañon of the Yentna. On it depended all our hopes-if we could get horses through or around it our route to the McKinley was assured. The indications of a pass were a'so favorable. The mountains seemed to fall away to the westward, and— best sign of all to a mountaineer—a long line of clouds drifted steadily through a gap between two giant peaks. We were beginning to be worried about our food. We were three days' travel from our base and the first half of our journey was still far ahead of us. We had only taken three or four days' grub, thinking that we could get a view of the pass from some high mountain. The windings of the valleys made this impossible, so we took in our belts a hole or two and went on short rations.

Before reaching the cañon we were forced to climb the mountain side. As the range was fairly regu'ar we climbed above brush line and followed on parallel to the course of the valley. The scenery was of great grandeur and beauty. Below us spread the Yentna valley with its savage streams, wandering like silver bands across its brown floor. Ahead the dark cañon rose sharply from a cup-shaped basin. We noticed with misgiving that most of the water came from the cañon.

Beyond the valley was a large glacier, winding around a grand unnamed deltaformed peak, and to the westward rose the mountains we wished to penetrate. They had a more cheerful atmosphere than the silent valley. Hoary marmots whistled at us from their sheltered homes in the rock

slides. Bear sign was fairly plentiful, and ptarmigan feathers lay among the willows.

We had hopes of seeing sheep, but did not expect to find any until we reached the western side of the Alaskan Range. We progressed very slowly; the sun was hot, our packs heavy, and the climbing at times was difficult. A shoulder of the mountain hid the view to the westward and we panted on with the optimistic idea that once beyond the ridge we would see the Kuskoquim.

Before long we encountered a small gorge that barred our path, and we were forced to climb still higher. Other obstructions came in their turn until we were no longer of the earth, but moving in that sphere where the valleys are a haze below you and your only companions are the wind-swept rocks and snow-slides.

At last at the foot of a cliff I found white mountain sheep hair. It meant many things to me-the excitement of the chase, fresh meat, and the knowledge that we were within reach of the Kuskoquim side of the range. The snow-slides were

more numerous as we advanced, and on one of them, a wicked slope of snow that lay at a dizzy angle, the Doctor had an unpleasant experience. Porter and I were above and crossed where the angle was not dangerous, but the Doctor started across at a place where the snow sloped downward till it was lost in the haze of the valley. After starting he could not turn back and we were unable to help him. We watched from above while he carefully worked across the slide, cutting steps with a small axe.

At the next shoulder we camped at a mossy pool below a snow-slide, and on climbing a little hill we saw the sloping sheep mountains of the Kuskoquim! It was a wonderful feeling to stand there and look on a view that no mortal eye had rested on before. Even at that height the mosquitoes were troublesome. So with my rifle and the plain table tripod we pitched our silk tent and, tired but happy, rolled into our sleeping-bags.

Camps above timber line are cold and cheerless. We had no fuel, and our food consisted of dry fruit and hardtack washed down with the coldest water I have ever tasted. Early the next morning found us on a mossy shoulder where we could see the pass to better advantage. Porter did

some plain table work and the Doctor and I made a moss fire and studied the valley below. As far as we could see the route looked possible for pack-train travel.

Beyond us the cañon split. One fork flowed in a westerly direction toward the Tonzona River. The other headed between two large mountains, and offered a possible route for our horses. Between the forks was a mountain of great beauty. It rose from dim mile-long sweeps of talus and sheep meadows far below us, to a rugged pinnacled top that tore great rents in the evening sky and scattered the clouds broadcast.

Since finding the sheep hair I had been continuously on the lookout for moving white spots. When one realizes that even to a well-fed man sheep meat is a delicacy, you can understand with what anxiety we searched the mountain sides. By this time all the food remaining was a half-pound sausage of erbswurst, a handful of tea and a little square of bacon. Our fruit, bread and sugar were gone and we were four long days' travel from our base camp.

After talking things over we decided to climb down the mountainside and explore the bottom of the cañon. There was no use in going further, as we could see more than a day's travel ahead. The descent to the cañon was the most difficult task we encountered on the reconnoissance. The mountain fell off in numerous precipices and was covered with a jungle of gnarled and twisted alders. We traveled on our hands and knees, our packs catching on the brush and "devil's club." Our hands were filled with the "devil's club" thorns and our bodies covered with bruises. We advanced in the hope that once in the bottom of the cañon we would find easy walking.

Looking down from a great height is always deceiving. When we reached the bottom we found the stream dangerous and unfordable. So swift was the water that in a ford I attempted I could scarcely keep my feet in water that barely reached my knees.

We were tired and hungry, so we built a fire of driftwood and cooked a pot of erbswurst. The cañon was a dreary spot; the roaring of the water was deafening, and cold, damp winds swept down from the snow-fields above. After our meal and rest we slung our packs, and the thought