Chapter VII: Part 7

In spite of the many attractions of the forest, it was with a sense of relief that we entered the canyon of Carbon River and had space to see about us. The river presents features of geographical interest, especially in the fact that it is filling in its valley. The load of stone contributed by the glaciers, from which the stream comes as a roaring turbid flood, is greater than it can sweep along, and much of its freight is dropped by the way. The bottom of the canyon is a desolate, flood-swept area of rounded bowlders, from 100 to 200 yards broad. The stream channel is continually shifting, and is frequently divided by islands of bowlders, heaped high during some period of flood. Many of the stream channels leading away from Mount Rainier are known to have the characteristics of the one we ascended, and show that the canyons were carved under different conditions from those now prevailing. The principal amount of canyon cutting must have been done before the streams were overloaded with débris contributed by glaciers--that is, the deep dissection of the lower slope of Mount Rainier and of the platform on which it stands must have preceded the Glacial epoch.

After a night's rest in the shelter of the forest, lulled to sleep by the roar of Carbon River in its tumultuous course after its escape from the ice caverns, we climbed the heavily moraine-covered extremity of Carbon Glacier. At night, weary with carrying heavy packs over the chaos of stones that cover the glaciers, we slept on a couch of moss beautified with lovely blossoms, almost within the spray of Philo Falls, a cataract of clear icy water that pours into the canyon of Carbon Glacier from snow fields high up on the western wall of the canyon.

I will ask the reader to defer the study of the glaciers until we have made a reconnaissance of the mountain and climbed to its summit, as he will then be better prepared to understand the relation of the glaciers, névés, and other features with which it will be necessary to deal. In this portion of our fireside explorations let us enjoy a summer outing, deferring until later the more serious task of questioning the glaciers.

From Philo Falls we ascended still higher, by following partially snow-filled lanes between the long lateral moraines that have been left by the shrinking of Carbon Glacier, and found three parallel, sharp-crested ridges about a mile long and from 100 to 150 feet high, made of bowlders and stones of all shapes, which record the former positions of the glacier. Along the western border of the oldest and most westerly of these ridges there is a valley, perhaps 100 yards wide, intervening between the abandoned lateral moraine and the western side of the valley, which rises in precipices to forest-covered heights at least 1,000 feet above. Between the morainal ridges there are similar narrow valleys, each of which at the time of our visit, July 15, was deeply snow-covered. The ridges are clothed with spruce and cedar trees, together with a variety of shrubs and flowering annuals. The knolls rising through the snow are gorgeous with flowers. A wealth of purple Bryanthus, resembling purple heather, and of its constant companion, if not near relative, the Cassiope, with white, waxy bells, closely simulating the white heather, make glorious the mossy banks from which the lingering snow has but just departed. Acres of meadow land, still soft with snow water and musical with rills and brooks flowing in uncertain courses over the deep, rich turf, are beautiful with lilies, which seemed woven in a cloth of gold about the borders of the lingering snow banks. We are near the upper limit of timber growth, where park-like openings, with thickets of evergreens, give a special charm to the mountain side. The morainal ridge nearest the glacier is forest-covered on its outer slope, while the descent to the glacier is a rough, desolate bank of stones and dirt. The glacier has evidently but recently shrunk away from this ridge, which was formed along its border by stones brought from a bold cliff that rises sheer from the ice a mile upstream. Standing on the morainal ridge overlooking the glacier, one has to the eastward an unobstructed view of the desolate and mostly stone and dirt covered ice. Across the glacier another embankment can be seen, similar to the one on the west, and, like it, recording a recent lowering of the surface of the glacier of about 150 feet. Beyond the glacier are extremely bold and rugged mountains, scantily clothed with forests nearly to their summits. The position of the timber line shows that the bare peaks above are between 8,000 and 9,000 feet high. Looking southward, up the glacier, we have a glimpse into the wild amphitheater in which it has its source. The walls of the great hollow in the mountain side rise in seemingly vertical precipices about 4,000 feet high. Far above is a shining, snow-covered peak, which Willis named the Liberty Cap. It is one of the culminating points of Mount Rainier, but not the actual summit. Its elevation is about 14,300 feet above the sea. Toward the west the view is limited by the forest-covered morainal ridges near at hand and by the precipitous slopes beyond, which lead to a northward-projecting spur of Mount Rainier, known as the Mother Mountains. This, our first view of Mount Rainier near at hand, has shown that the valley down which Carbon Glacier flows, as well as the vast amphitheater in which it has its source, is sunk in the flanks of the mountain. To restore the northern slope of the ancient volcano as it existed when the mountain was young we should have to fill the depression in which the glacier lies at least to the height of its bordering ridges. On looking down the glacier we see it descending into a vast gulf bordered by steep mountains, which rise at least 3,000 feet above its bottom. This is the canyon through which the water formed by the melting of the glacier escapes. To restore the mountain this great gulf would also have to be filled. Clearly the traveler in this region is surrounded by the records of mighty changes. Not only does he inquire how the volcanic mountain was formed, but how it is being destroyed. The study of the glaciers will do much toward making clear the manner in which the once smooth slopes have been trenched by radiating valleys, leaving mountain-like ridges between.

Another line of inquiry which we shall find of interest as we advance is suggested by the recent shrinkage of Carbon Glacier. Are all of the glaciers that flow from the mountain wasting away? If we find this to be the case, what climatic changes does it indicate?

From our camp among the morainal ridges by the side of Carbon Glacier we made several side trips, each of which was crowded with observations of interest. One of these excursions, made by Mr. Smith and myself, was up the snow fields near camp; past the prominent outstanding pinnacles known as the Guardian Rocks, one red and the other black; and through Spray Park, with its thousands of groves of spire-like evergreens, with flower-enameled glades between. On the bare, rocky shoulder of the mountain, where the trees now grow, we found the unmistakable grooves and striations left by former glaciers. The lines engraved in the rock lead away from the mountain, showing that even the boldest ridges were formerly ice-covered. Our route took us around the head of the deep canyon through which flows Cataract Creek. In making this circuit we followed a rugged saw-tooth crest, and had some interesting rock-climbing. Finally, the sharp divide between Cataract Creek and a small stream flowing westward to Crater Lake was reached, and a slide on a steep snow slope took us quickly down to where the flowers made a border of purple and gold about the margins of the snow. Soon we were in the forest, and gaining a rocky ledge among the trees, could look down on Crater Lake, deeply sunk in shaggy mountains which still preserve all of their primitive freshness and beauty. Snow lay in deep drifts beneath the shelter of the forest, and the lake was ice-covered except for a few feet near the margin. This was on July 20. I have been informed that the lake is usually free of ice before this date, but the winter preceding our visit was of more than usual severity, the snowfall being heavy, and the coming of summer was therefore much delayed.

The name Crater Lake implies that its waters occupy a volcanic crater. Willis states that Nature has here placed an emerald seal on one of Pluto's sally ports; but that the great depression now water-filled is a volcanic crater is not so apparent as we might expect. The basin is in volcanic rock, but none of the characteristics of a crater due to volcanic explosions can be recognized. The rocks, so far as I saw them, are massive lavas, and not fragmental scoriæ or other products of explosive eruptions. On the bold, rounded rock ledges down which we climbed in order to reach the shore, there were deep glacial scorings, showing that the basin was once deeply filled with moving ice. My observations were not sufficiently extended to enable me to form an opinion as to the origin of the remarkable depression, but whatever may have been its earlier history, it has certainly been profoundly modified by ice erosion.

Following the lake shore southward, groping our way beneath the thick, drooping branches which dip in the lake, we reached the notch in the rim of the basin through which the waters escape and start on their journey to Mowich River and thence to the sea. We there found the branch of the Willis trail leading to Spray Park, and turned toward camp. Again we enjoyed the luxury of following a winding pathway through silent colonnades formed by the moss-grown trunks of noble trees. On either side of the trail worn in the brown soil the ferns and flowering shrubs were bent over in graceful curves, and at times filled the little-used lane, first traversed fifteen years before.

The trail led us to Eagle Cliff, a bold, rocky promontory rising as does El Capitan from the Yosemite, 1,800 feet from the forest-lined canyon of Mowich River. From Eagle Cliff one beholds the most magnificent view that is to be had in all the wonderful region about Mount Rainier. The scene beheld on looking eastward toward the mighty mountain is remarkable alike for its magnificence and for the artistic grouping of the various features of the sublime picture. In the vast depths at one's feet the tree-tops, through which the mists from neighboring cataracts are drifting, impart a somber tone and make the valley's bottom seem far more remote than it is. The sides of the canyon are formed by prominent serrate ridges, leading upward to the shining snow fields of the mighty dome that heads the valley. Nine thousand feet above our station rose the pure white Liberty Cap, the crowning glory of the mountain as seen from the northward. The snow descending the northwest side of the great central dome is gathered between the ridges forming the sides of the valley, and forms a white névé from which flows Willis Glacier. In looking up the valley from Eagle Cliff the entire extent of the snow fields and of the river-like stream of ice flowing from them is in full view. The ice ends in a dirt-covered and rock-strewn terminus, just above a huge rounded dome that rises in its path. In 1881 the ice reached nearly to the top of the dome and broke off in an ice cliff, the detached blocks falling into the gulf below. The glacier has now withdrawn its terminus well above the precipice where it formerly fell as an ice cascade, and its surface has shrunk away from well-defined moraines in much the same manner as has already been noted in the case of Carbon Glacier. A more detailed account of the retreat of the extremity of Willis Glacier[25] will be given later.

From Eagle Cliff we continued our tramp eastward along the trail leading to Spray Park, climbed the zigzag pathway up the face of a cliff in front of Spray Falls, and gained the picturesque and beautiful parklike region above. An hour's tramp brought us again near the Guardian Rocks. A swift descent down the even snow fields enabled us to reach camp just as the shadows of evening were gathering in the deeper canyons, leaving the silent snow fields above all aglow with reflected sunset tints.

Taking heavy packs on our backs on the morning of July 21, we descended the steep broken surface of the most recent moraine bordering Carbon Glacier in its middle course, and reached the solid blue ice below. Our course led us directly across the glacier, along the lower border of the rapidly melting covering of winter snow. The glacier is there about a mile across. Its central part is higher than its border, and for the most part the ice is concealed by dirt and stones. Just below the névé, however, we found a space about half a mile long in which melting had not led to the concentration of sufficient débris to make traveling difficult. Farther down the glacier, where surface melting was more advanced, the entire glacier, with the exception of a few lanes of clear ice between the ill-defined medial moraines, was completely concealed beneath a desolate sheet of angular stones. On reaching the east side of the glacier we were confronted with a wall of clay and stones, the inner slope of a moraine similar in all respects to the one we had descended to reach the west border of the glacier. A little search revealed a locality where a tongue of ice in a slight embayment projected some distance up the wall of morainal material, and a steep climb of 50 or 60 feet brought us to the summit. The glacier has recently shrunk--that is, its surface has been lowered from 80 to 100 feet by melting.

On the east side of the glacier we found several steep, sharp-crested ridges, clothed with forest trees, with narrow, grassy, and flower-strewn dells between, in which banks of snow still lingered. The ridges are composed of bowlders and angular stones of a great variety of sizes and shapes, and are plainly lateral moraines abandoned by the shrinking of the glacier. Choosing a way up one of the narrow lanes, bordered on each side by steep slopes densely covered with trees and shrubs, we found secure footing in the hard granular snow, and soon reached a more open, parklike area, covered with mossy bosses of turf, on which grew a great profusion of brilliant flowers. Before us rose the great cliffs which partially inclose the amphitheater in which Carbon Glacier has its source. These precipices, as already stated, have a height of about 4,000 feet, and are so steep that the snow does not cling to them, but descends in avalanches. Above the cliffs, where the inclination is less precipitous, the snow lies in thick layers, the edges of which are exposed in a vertical precipice rising above the avalanche-swept rock-slope below. Far above, and always the central object in the wild scenery surrounding us, rose the brilliant white Liberty Cap, one of the pinnacles on the rim of the great summit crater. Our way then turned eastward, following the side of the mountain, and led us through a region just above the timber line, which commands far reaching views to the wild and rugged mountains to the northeast. This open tract, leading down to groves of spruce trees and diversified by charming lakelets, bears abundant evidence of having formerly been ice-covered, and is known as Moraine Park.

In order to retain our elevation we crossed diagonally the steep snow slopes in the upper portion of the Moraine Park. Midway over the snow we rested at a sharp crest of rock, and found that it is composed of light-colored granite. Later we found that much of the area between the Carbon and Winthrop glaciers is composed of this same kind of rock. Granite forms a portion of the border of the valley through which flow the glaciers just named, and furnished them with much granitic débris, which is carried away as moraines and later worked over into well-rounded bowlders by the streams flowing from the ice. The presence of granite pebbles in the course of Carbon and White rivers, far below the glaciers, is thus accounted for.

A weary tramp of about 4 miles from the camp we had left brought us to the border of Winthrop Glacier. In the highest grove of trees, which are bent down and frequently lie prone on the ground, although still living, we selected a well-sheltered camping-place. Balsam boughs furnished luxuriant beds, and the trees killed by winter storms enabled us to have a roaring camp fire. Fresh trail of mountain goats and their but recently abandoned bed showed that this is a favorite resort for those hardy animals. Marmots were also abundant, and frequently awakened the echoes with their shrill, whistling cries. The elevation of our camp was about 8,000 feet.

From our camp on the cliffs above the west border of Winthrop Glacier we made excursions across that glacier and to its heavily moraine-covered extremity. The snow mantle that is spread over the region about Mount Rainier each winter melts first on the rugged plateau surrounding the base of the mountain, and, as the summer's heat increases, gradually withdraws up the mountain sides, but never so as to uncover the more elevated region. The snow line--that is, the position to which the lower border of the mantle of perennial snow withdraws late in summer--has an elevation of about 9,000 feet. The lower margin of the wintry covering is always irregular, however, extending farthest down on the glaciers and retreating highest on the rocks. At the time of our visit the snow had melted off of nearly all the region below our camp, leaving only dirt-stained snow banks in the more completely sheltered recesses and in deeply shaded dells in the adjacent forests. On the glaciers all the region at a greater elevation than our camp was white and free from dirt and stones, while the hard glacial ice was abundantly exposed at lower altitudes and ended in a completely moraine-covered terminus. Above us all was barren, white, and wintry; below lay the flowery vales and grass parks, warm and inviting, leading to the welcome shade of noble forests. Our course led upward into the frozen region.

On leaving the camp on the border of Winthrop Glacier we began our alpine work. There were five in the party selected for the difficult task of scaling Mount Rainier; namely: Willis, Smith, Ainsworth, Williams, and myself. Taking our blankets, a small supply of rations, an alcohol lamp, alpenstocks, a rope 100 feet long to serve as a life line, and a few other articles necessary for traveling above timber line, we began the ascent of Winthrop Glacier early on the morning of July 23. Our route was comparatively easy at the start, but became steeper and steeper as we advanced. The snow was firm and, except for the numerous crevasses, presented no great difficulties to be overcome. In several places the névé rises in domes as if forced up from beneath, but caused in reality by bosses of rock over which the glacier flows. These domes are broken by radiating crevasses which intersect in their central portions, leaving pillars and castle-like masses of snow with vertical sides. At one locality, in attempting to pass between two of these shattered domes, we found our way blocked by an impassable crevasse. Considerable time was lost in searching for a practicable upward route, but at length, by making a detour to the right, we found a way which, although steep, allowed us to pass the much crevassed area and gain the sharp ridge of rock which divides the névé snow flowing from the central dome of the mountain, and marks the separation between Winthrop and Emmons glaciers. This prow-like promontory, rising some 500 feet above the glaciers on either hand, we named The Wedge. This is the upward pointing, acute angle of a great V-shaped portion of the lower slope of the mountain, left in bold relief by the erosion of the valleys on either side. As will be described later, there are several of these remnants about the sides of the mountain at the same general horizon, which record a somewhat definite stage in the destruction of the mountain by ice erosion.

On reaching The Wedge we found it an utterly desolate rocky cape in a sea of snow. We were at an altitude of about 10,000 feet, and far above timber. Water was obtained by spreading snow on smooth rocks or on rubber sheets, and allowing it to melt by the heat of the afternoon sun. Coffee was prepared over the alcohol lamp, sheltered from the wind by a bed sheet supported by alpenstocks. After a frugal lunch, we made shelf-like ledges in a steep slope of earth and stones and laid down our blankets for the night. From sheltered nooks amid the rocks, exposed to the full warmth of the declining sun, we had the icy slopes of the main central dome of the mountain in full view and chose what seemed the most favorable route for the morrow's climb.

Surrounded as we were by the desolation and solitude of barren rocks, on which not even a lichen had taken root, and pure white snow fields, we were much surprised to receive passing visits from several humming-birds which shot past us like winged jewels. They came up the valley occupied by the Emmons Glacier, turned sharply at The Wedge, and went down the way of the Winthrop Glacier. What tempts these children of the sunlight and the flowers into the frozen regions seems a mystery. That the humming-birds are bold explorers was not new to me, for the reason that on several occasions in previous years, while on the snow-covered slopes of Mount St. Elias, far above all vestiges of vegetation, my heart had been gladdened by glimpses of their brilliant plumage.

When the sun declined beyond the great snow-covered dome that towered above us, and the blue shadows crept down the previously dazzling cliffs, the air became cold and a strong wind made our perch on the rocks uncomfortable. Wrapping ourselves in our blankets we slept until the eastern sky began to glow with sunrise tints.

Early on the morning of July 24 [1896] we began the climb of the steep snow slopes leading to the summit of the mountain. Roped together as we had been on the previous day, we slowly worked our way upward, in a tortuous course, in order to avoid the many yawning crevasses. The way was steep and difficult. Some members of the party felt the effects of the rarefied air, and as we lacked experience in true alpine work our progress was slow and laborious. Many of the crevasses that our course crossed were of the nature of faults. Their upper rims stood several feet above their lower margins, and thus added to the difficulty of passing them. Our aim at first was to traverse the névé of Emmons Glacier and gain the less rugged slope bordering it on the south, but the intervening region was greatly broken and, as we found after several approaches to it, utterly impassable. The climb presented no special difficulties other than the extreme fatigue incident to climbing steep snow slopes, especially while attached to a life line, and the delays necessitated by frequently turning and retracing our steps in order to get around wide crevasses.

Once while crossing a steep snow slope diagonally, and having a wide crevasse below us, Ainsworth, who was next to the rear of the line, lost his footing and slid down the slope on his back. Unfortunately, at that instant, Williams, who was at the rear of the line, removed his alpenstock from the snow, was overturned by the pull on the line, and shot headfirst down the slope and disappeared over the brink of the crevasse. A strong pull came on the members of the party who were in advance, but our alpenstocks held fast, and before assistance could be extended to the man dangling in midair, he climbed the taut rope and stood unhurt among us once more. The only serious result of the accident was the loss of an alpenstock.

Pressing on toward the dark rim of rock that we could now and then catch glimpses of at the head of the snow slopes and which we knew to be the outer portion of the summit crater, we crossed many frail snow bridges and climbed precipitous slopes, in some of which steps had to be cut. As we neared the summit we met a strong westerly gale that chilled us and benumbed our fingers. At length, weary and faint on account of the rarity of the air, we gained the lower portion of the rim of stones marking the position of the crater. While my companions rested for a few moments in the shelter of the rocks, I pressed on up the rugged slope and gained the top of the rim.

The stones exposed at the summit are bare of snow, possibly on account of the heat from below, and are rounded and their exposed surfaces polished. The smooth, black bowlders shine in the sunlight much the same as the sand-burnished stones in desert regions. Here on the mountain's brow, exposed to an almost continuous gale, the rocks have been polished by drifting snow crystals. The prevailing rounded form that the stones present may be the result of weathering, or possibly is due to the manner in which the fragments were ejected from the volcano. My hasty examinations suggested the former explanation.

Descending into the crater, I discovered crevices from which steam was escaping, and on placing my hands on the rocks was rejoiced to find them hot. My companions soon joined me, and we began the exploration of the crater, our aim being to find the least uncomfortable place in which to take refuge from the freezing blast rather than to make scientific discoveries.

The crater that we had entered is one of the smaller and more recent ones in the truncated summit of the peak, and is deeply filled with snow, but the rim is bare and well defined. The steam and heat from the rocks have melted out many caverns beneath the snow. In one of these we found shelter.

The cavern we chose in which to pass the night, although irregular, was about 60 feet long by 40 wide, and had an arched ceiling some 20 feet high. The snow had been melted out from beneath, leaving a roof so thin that a diffused blue light penetrated the chamber. The floor sloped steeply, and on the side toward the center of the crater there was a narrow space between the rocks and the descending roof which led to unexplored depths. As a slide into this forbidding gulf would have been exceedingly uncomfortable, if not serious, our life line was stretched from crag to crag so as to furnish a support and allow us to walk back and forth during the night without danger of slipping. Three arched openings or doorways communicated with other chambers, and through these drafts of cold air were continually blowing. The icy air chilled the vapor rising from the warm rocks and filled the chamber with steam which took on grotesque forms in the uncertain, fading light. In the central part of the icy chamber was a pinnacle of rock, from the crevices of which steam was issuing with a low hissing sound. Some of the steam jets were too hot to be comfortable to the ungloved hand. In this uninviting chamber we passed the night. The muffled roar of the gale as it swept over the mountain could be heard in our retreat and made us thankful for the shelter the cavern afforded.

The floor of our cell was too uneven and too steeply inclined to admit of lying down. Throughout the night we leaned against the hot rocks or tramped wearily up and down holding the life line. Cold blasts from the branching ice chambers swept over us. Our clothes were saturated with condensed steam. While one side of the body resting against the rocks would be hot, the strong drafts of air with a freezing temperature chilled the other side. After long hours of intense darkness the dome of snow above us became faintly illuminated, telling that the sun was again shining. After a light breakfast and a cup of tea, prepared over our alcohol lamp, we resumed our exploration, none the worse for the exposures of the night.

Following the inner rim of the crater so as to be sheltered from the gale still blowing steadily from the west, we gained its northern border and climbed to the topmost pinnacle, known as Columbia's Crest. This pinnacle rises about 50 feet above the general level of the irregular rim of the crater, and is the highest point on the mountain. Its elevation, as previously stated, is 14,526 feet.[26]

The magnificent view described by former visitors to this commanding station, which we had hoped would reward our efforts, was concealed beneath a canopy of smoke that covered all of the region about the mountain to a depth of about 10,000 feet. The surface of the layer of smoke was sharply defined, and appeared like an undulating sea surrounding the island on which we stood. Far to the northward rose the regular conical summit of Mount Baker, like an isolated sea-girt island. A few of the rugged and more elevated summits, marking the course of the Cascade Mountains, could be discerned to the eastward. The summits of Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens were in plain view and seemingly near at hand. All of the forest-covered region between these elevated summits was blotted out by the dense, heavy layer of smoke, which rose until it met the westerly gale of the upper regions.

During the ascent of Mount Rainier by Emmons and Wilson, previously referred to, more favorable atmospheric conditions prevailed than at the time of my visit, and the region about the base of the mountain was clearly revealed. In describing the view from the summit Emmons says:

From the northeastern rim of the crater we could look down an
unbroken slope of nearly 10,000 feet to the head of the White
River, the upper half or two-thirds of which was so steep
that one had the feeling of looking over a perpendicular
wall. [It was up this slope that the climb briefly described
above was made.] The systems of glaciers and the streams
which flowed from them lay spread out as on a map at our
feet; radiating out in every direction from the central mass,
they all with one accord curve to the westward to send their
waters down toward Puget Sound or the Lower Columbia.
[Attention has already been directed to the westward
curvature of the streams from Mount Rainier on reaching the
tilted peneplain on which the mountain stands, and the
explanation has been suggested that they are consequent
streams the direction of which was determined by the original
slope of the now deeply dissected plateau.]

Looking to the more distant country, the whole stretch of
Puget Sound, seeming like a pretty little lake embowered in
green, could be seen in the northwest, beyond which the
Olympic Mountains extend out into the Pacific Ocean. The
Cascade Mountains, lying dwarfed at our feet, could be traced
northward into British Columbia, and southward into Oregon,
while above them, at comparatively regular intervals, rose
the ghost-like forms of our companion volcanoes. To the
eastward the eye ranged for hundreds of miles over chain on
chain of mountain ridges, which gradually disappeared in the
dim, blue distance.

In the truncated summit of Mount Rainier there are three craters. The largest one, partially filled by the building of the two others, is the oldest, and has suffered so greatly from subsequent volcanic explosions and erosion that no more than its general outline can be traced. Peak Success and Liberty Cap are prominent points on the rim of what remains of this huge crater. Its diameter, as nearly as can be judged, is about 2-1/2 miles. Within the great crater, in the formation of which the mountain was truncated and, as previously stated, lost fully 2,000 feet of its summit, there are two much smaller and much more recent craters. The larger of these, the one in which we took refuge, is about 300 yards in diameter, and the second, which is an incomplete circle, its rim having been broken by the formation of its more recent companion, is perhaps 200 yards across. The rim of each now partially snow-filled bowl is well defined, and rises steeply from within to a sharp crest. The character of the inner slopes shows that much rocky material has been detached and has fallen into the cavities from which it was ejected. The rock in the crater walls is in fragments and masses, some of them well rounded and probably of the nature of volcanic bombs. In each of the smaller craters there are numerous steam jets. These show that the rock below is still hot, and that water percolating downward is changed to steam. These steam jets evidently indicate the presence of residual heat and not an actual connection with a volcanic center deep below the surface. All the evidence available tends to show that Rainier is an extinct volcano. It belongs, however, to the explosive type of volcanoes, of which Vesuvius is the best-known example, and there is no assurance that its energies may not be reawakened.

In descending we chose the south side of the mountain, knowing from the reports of many excursionists who had ascended the peak from that direction that a practicable route could probably be found. Threading our way between numerous crevasses we soon came in sight of a bold, outstanding rock mass, which we judged to be Gibraltar, and succeeded in reaching it with but little difficulty. On gaining the junction of the rock with the snow fields rising above it, we found evidences of a trail, which was soon lost, however, and only served to show that our general course was the right one. A deep, narrow space between the border of Nisqually Glacier and the precipitous side of Gibraltar, from which the snow and ice had been melted by the heat reflected from the cliffs on our left, led us down to a shelf on the lower side of the promontory, which proved a safe and easy way to the crest of a rocky rib on the mountain side which extended far down toward the dark forests in view below.

Gibraltar is a portion of the cone of Rainier built before the explosion which truncated the mountain. It is an outstanding and very prominent rock mass, left in bold relief by the ice excavation which has carved deep valleys on each side. The rock divides the descending névé in the same manner as does The Wedge, and causes a part of the snow drainage to flow to the Cowlitz and the other part to be tributary to the Nisqually Glacier. The rocks forming Gibraltar consist largely of fragments ejected from the crater above, but present a rude stratification due to the presence of lava flows. When seen from the side and at a convenient distance, it is evident that the planes of bedding, if continued upward at the same angle, would reach above the present summit of the mountain. Gibraltar, like The Wedge, and several other secondary peaks on the sides of Mount Rainier, are, as previously explained, the sharp, upward-pointing angles of large V-shaped masses of the original volcanic cone, left in bold relief by the excavation of deep valleys radiating from the central peak. On the backs, so to speak, of these great V-shaped portions of the mountain which now seem to rest against the central dome, secondary glaciers, or interglaciers as they may be termed, have excavated valleys and amphitheaters. In the V-shaped mass of which Gibraltar is the apex, a broad amphitheater-like depression has been cut out, leaving a bold cliff above it. The excavation of the amphitheater did not progress far enough up the mountain to cut away the apex of the V-shaped mass, but left it with a precipice on its lower side. This remnant is Gibraltar. An attempt will be made later to describe more fully the process of glacial erosion of a conical mountain, and to show that the secondary topographic features of Mount Rainier are not without system, as they appear at first view, but really result from a process which may be said to have a definite end in view.

Below Gibraltar the descent was easy. Our life line was no longer needed. Tramping in single file over the hard surfaces of the snow field, remnants of the previous winter's snow, we made rapid progress, and about noon gained the scattered groves of spruce trees which form such an attractive feature of Paradise Park.

Fortunately, we found Prof. E. S. Ingraham, of Seattle, and a party of friends, including several ladies, encamped in Paradise Park, and the hospitality of the camp was extended to us. During the afternoon we basked in the warm sunshine, and in the evening gathered about a roaring campfire and enjoyed the society of our companions, who were enthusiastic in their praise of the wonderful scenes about their camp.

The southern side of Mount Rainier is much less precipitous than its northern face, and the open park-like region near timber line is broader, more diversified, and much more easy of access. The general elevation of the park is between 5,000 and 7,000 feet, and it is several thousand acres in extent. Its boundaries are indefinite. It merges into the heavily forested region to the south, and into more alpine regions on the side toward the mountain, which towers above it on the north. To the east it is bordered by Cowlitz Glacier, and on the west by Nisqually Glacier. Each of these fine ice rivers descends far below timber line. The small interglacier, known as the Paradise Glacier, may be considered as lying within the limits of the park.

Paradise Park presents many and varied charms. It is a somewhat rugged land, with a deep picturesque valley winding through it. The trees grow in isolated groves. Each bunch of dark-green firs and balsams is a cluster of gracefully tapering spires. The undulating meadows between the shady groves are brilliant in summer with a veritable carpet of gorgeous blossoms. In contrast to the exquisite charms of the groves and flower-decked rolling meadows are desolate ice fields and rugged glaciers which vary, through many tints and shades, from silvery whiteness to intense blue. Added to these minor charms, and towering far above them, is the massive summit of Rainier. At times the sublime mountain appears steel blue in the unclouded sky, or rosy with the afterglow at sunset, or all aflame with the glories of the newborn day. Clouds gather about the lofty summit and transform it into a storm king. Avalanches rushing down its side awaken the echoes in the neighboring forest. The appearance of the mountain is never the same on different days; indeed, it changes its mood and exerts a varying influence on the beholder from hour to hour.

While the central attraction to the lover of mountain scenery in Paradise Park is the vast snow-covered dome of Mount Rainier, there are other mountains in view that merit attention. To the east rises the serrate and rugged Tattoosh range, which is remarkable for the boldness with which its bordering slopes rise from the forested region about it and the angularity of its many serrate summits. This range has never been explored except by miners and hunters, who have made no record of their discoveries. It is virgin ground to the geologist and geographer. Distant views suggest that the Tattoosh Mountains have been sculptured from a plateau, probably an upraised peneplain in which there existed a great mass of igneous rock rounded by less resistant Tertiary sediments. The softer rocks have been removed, leaving the harder and more resistant ones in bold relief, to become sculptured by rain and frost into a multitude of angular peaks. This attractive, and as yet unstudied, group of peaks is in plain view from Paradise Park, and may be easily reached from there by a single day's tramp. Many other delightful excursions are open to one who pitches his tent in the alpine meadows on the south side of Mount Rainier.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Called the North Mowich Glacier on the present map.

[26] Since shown to be 14,408 feet.

XII. McCLURE'S ACHIEVEMENT AND TRAGIC DEATH, 1897

BY HERBERT L. BRUCE AND PROFESSOR H. H. McALISTER

Visitors to Paradise Valley, who climb above the Camp of the
Clouds to the snowfields, are sure to be attracted to McClure
Rock. It is the scene of one of the mountain's earliest
tragedies, in which Professor Edgar McClure of the University
of Oregon lost his life. He was trying to measure accurately
the height of the great mountain as he had already done for
Mount Adams and other peaks.

The record of his extensive observations was computed with
the greatest care by his colleague, Professor H. H. McAlister
of the University of Oregon. An account of the work so
tragically ended was prepared by Herbert L. Bruce. Both
articles were published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer for
November 7, 1897, from which paper they are here reproduced.
The portrait of Professor McClure is furnished by his
brother, Horace McClure, editorial writer for the Seattle
Daily Times.

The height of the mountain, 14,528 feet, thus obtained,
remained in use until 1914, when the United States Geological
Survey announced its new and latest findings to be 14,408
feet.

One of the most tragic incidents in modern science was the death of Professor Edgar McClure, who lost his life on Mount Rainier July 27, 1897. Occupying, as he did, the chair of chemistry in the University of Oregon, his personal tastes, instincts and ambitions were essentially scientific. In addition to this he was a member of the Mazamas, whose purposes in the line of scientific exploration have lent a romantic interest and a cumulative value to the geography of the northwest. The particular expedition with which Professor McClure was associated when he met his untimely death, left Portland with the distinct object of making the ascent of Mount Rainier, recording such geographical and topographical observations as might be feasible. As a member of the expedition Professor McClure was placed in charge of the elevation department and set before himself a somewhat more distinct and definite purpose, viz., to ascertain by the most approved methods and with the most accurately graduated instruments the precise height of the famous and beautiful mountain. How well he accomplished this purpose will best appear in the subjoined letter from Professor E. H. McAlister, his friend and colleague, who with infinite care and sympathetic zeal has worked out the data, which would otherwise have been undecipherable not only to the general public but to the average scholar. As he himself said when he had completed his arduous task: "I have done everything possible to wring the truth from the observations. In my judgment they should become historic on account of the probability of their great accuracy."

To the accomplishment of this object Professor McClure brought all the varied resources of a ripe culture and an ardent, vigorous young manhood. His plans were all laid with the greatest care. To him their fulfillment meant not so much a personal or selfish triumph as a victory for science. The very instrument on which he most relied for accurate determinations, as will be seen from Professor McAlister's statement, was not only hallowed by scientific associations, but was prepared for its high mission more lovingly and assiduously than a favorite racer would be groomed for the course. Twice had it looked upon the beauties of the Columbia river from the summit of Mount Hood, and on three other lofty peaks it had served its silent but efficient ministry to the cause of science. On one of these, Mount Adams, the altitude determined with this instrument was accepted by the United States government, yet a new tube was filled for it, Professor McClure himself preparing the mercury by distillation, and seeing to it that the vacuum was exceptionally perfect. That the barometer was most carefully handled at the time of observation will fully appear from the record below. It was suspended by a ring and allowed to hang until it had assumed the temperature of the surrounding air before being read. Not only this, but all the subsidiary phenomena which could have the slightest bearing on the result were laboriously determined. Concurrent observations were made at all salient surrounding stations, while for a week before the date of actual observation Professor McClure himself had made numerous observations both of pressure and of temperature at various sub-stations in the vicinity of Mount Rainier, and his collaborateur has secured simultaneous observations from Seattle and Portland. Uniting as he did the fervor of the pioneer explorer with the accuracy of the laboratory chemist, Professor McClure was peculiarly fitted to obtain a result which bids fair to become historic.

The broken barometer will appeal powerfully to every lover of science. If, as has been suggested, a monument be reared to mark the spot where the young scientist gave up his life, no fitter design could be adopted than a stone shaft bearing on its face a bas-relief of the historic instrument which he bore on his back with sacred care. It is entirely probable that this barometer, coupled with his unselfish solicitude for the safety of other members of the expedition, was the immediate cause of his death. He carried it in a double case; a wooden one which his own hands had constructed, and outside of this a strong leather tube. From the latter stout thongs enabled him to strap the instrument on his back, much as a pioneer huntsman would wear his trusty rifle. While standing on the perilous ledge whence he took the fatal plunge, he turned to sound warning to his companions whom he was leading in a search for the lost pathway down the mountain. "Don't come down here; it is too steep," he called, turning so as to make his voice more audible. These were his last words. He vanished in the night and the abyss. It is likely that the tube, three and a half feet in length, caught as he turned and helped to hurl him from his precarious footing. Like his own high strung frame, the delicate instrument was shattered; but neither of the twain went away from the world without leaving an imperishable record.

It is interesting to note the close correspondence of his independent observations with those made by others. The height of the mountain had been measured many times before he essayed to measure it. Some observers had measured it by triangulation, and others, notably Major E. S. Ingraham, of Seattle, had given its altitude from the readings of mercurial barometers. Major Ingraham gave the height at 14,524 feet. It will be noticed that the result obtained by Professor McClure was just four feet greater, a remarkable coincidence at that vast altitude and among conditions of hardship, exposure and uncertainty. Prior to Professor McClure's record, the latest measurement of Rainier had been made by George F. Hyde, of the United States Geological Survey, in 1896. He pursued the method of triangulation, and, taking as his base a line at Ellensburg, in connection with the sea level gauge at Tacoma, he figured out the extreme height of Rainier at 14,519 feet.

The value of Professor McClure's determination will be heightened rather than lessened by the peculiar difficulty and rareness of scientific work in an unexplored territory and from a base which has not all the appurtenances and advantages of the older scientific stations of the East and of Europe. In this respect his work is like that of Agassiz and of Audubon. Not unlike those great masters was he in his intense and lofty devotion to science. Not unlike them he wrought with rigid accuracy where others had worked almost at random. Not unlike them he aroused among his friends and students the conviction that he was a born high priest of nature, whose chief mission in the world was to reveal her secrets to mankind. He offered up his life virtually a sacrifice to the cause of popular and practical science, and in as lofty a sense as ever dignified a Roman arena he was a martyr to the cause of truth. To use the matchless figure employed by Byron in describing the death of Henry Kirk White, who died a victim to his own passionate devotion to literary art, he was like the struck eagle whose own feather "winged the shaft that quivered in his heart."

Just in harmony with this thought came countless expressions of sympathy and condolence to the members of Professor McClure's family when the sad news of his death went abroad. One of the most touching, and, to my mind, one of the most typical of all these came from an obscure man in an obscure corner of Kentucky. He was not a great man himself, as the world counts greatness, this man in Kentucky; but he knew a great man when he saw him. He had known Edgar McClure; and when he heard the circumstances of his death he sat down and wrote a brief note. One sentence in it was worthy of Whittier or Emerson. It was this: "Edgar McClure died as he had always lived--on the mountain top."

In transmitting his results to Horace McClure, brother of the deceased scientist, Professor McAlister brings to a proper close a labor of love, one that is as creditable to his scholarly culture as it is to his unselfish and devoted friendship.

HERBERT L. BRUCE.

LETTER OF TRANSMISSION

University of Oregon,
Eugene, Or., October 28, 1897.

MR. HORACE MCCLURE--Dear Sir: I herewith transmit to you for publication my report upon the observations of your late brother, Professor Edgar McClure, relative to the altitude of Mount Rainier, the data having been referred to me for reduction and computation by yourself and by the officials of the Mazama Club.

It is but just to myself to say that the long delay in the appearance of this report has been caused by unavoidable difficulties in the collection of subsidiary data; in particular, the comparison sheet showing the instrumental error of Professor McClure's barometer could not be found until the 9th of this month, when it was discovered among some effects left by him in Portland. A further delay has been occasioned in obtaining a few other important data. A report approximately correct could have been made some time ago, but I felt it was due to the memory of Professor McClure's reputation for extreme accuracy that no report whatever should be published until I was able to state a result for which I could vouch as being the very best that the observations were capable of affording.

The thanks of all concerned are due to Mr. B. S. Pague, Director of the Oregon Weather Bureau, for numerous courtesies and for his efficient aid in the collection of data.

Very respectfully,

E. H. MCALISTER,
Professor of Applied Mathematics.

THE RESULT

For the benefit of those not interested in the scientific details of this report, it may be stated at once that the summit of Mount Rainier, according to Professor McClure's observations, is 14,528 feet above sea level. The altitudes of various sub-stations occupied en route will be found further on. An account of the data, with description of the methods employed in reduction and computation, is given, to indicate the degree of reliance to be placed upon the result.

The principal observation to which this report refers was made by Professor Edgar McClure, of the University of Oregon, on the summit of Mount Rainier, Washington, July 27, 1897, at 4:30 P.M., Pacific standard time. The observation consists of a reading of Green's standard mercurial barometer, No. 1612, together with readings of attached and detached thermometers. It appears that the barometer, which was suspended by a ring at the top, was allowed so to hang until it had assumed the temperature of the surrounding air, before being read; that the sky was clear at the time; and that the place of observation, the highest on the mountain, is designated as Columbia Crest.

The barometric reading, corrected for instrumental error and temperature, was 17.708 inches; the air temperature was 29 degrees Fahrenheit.

Concurrent observations were made at 9:30 A.M. and hourly during the afternoon by the regular observers at Seattle, Portland, Fort Canby, the University of Oregon at Eugene, Roseburg, and one observation at Walla Walla at 5 P.M.