gradually made a grate in the pit large enough to sit on and then long enough to lie on, by kicking a cavern for his feet in the wall of the pit. Then he stretched himself on his grated bed, with back turned to the glowing embers and face to the sky, with no blanket, but with a sense of warmth exceeding that of his companions in the bed. At three the botanist was uneasy again; the new bed caught his fancy, and on it he rested until, toward morning, the fire sank into the depths of the snow.

Memorable was the day that succeeded. It began at sunrise and continued until 4:30 o'clock the next morning, when the party lay down again to rest. Variations, however, diversified the day, so that sun yielded to moon all too quickly, and the latter sank in the west like some speeding hour hand on the dial of the heavens. And all the time lay the broad expanse of Lake Tahoe before us— near and yet interminably far-its approach guarded by valleys and cornices which defied the sled and lured the toilers to loiter.

Beautiful nooks, from which long white vistas through green timber and mountain crags led the eye to wander as the body rested-great reservoirs of nature from which should come streams of springtime and fruits of summer. Into the last of these we slid and rolled to cook the second meal of the day in the bed of a rivulet that here cut its channel deeply in the snow. As we ate, large veils of mist came sailing over the mountain rim into the valley and the great forest around us grew gloomy as at twilight. The storm had returned once more.

Only a single mountain rim now intervened between us and the lake. If we must, we could tumble down this, even in the storm, and reach the water's edge. But Brockway still lay far west along the rim and down a long point that ran far out into the lake.

As we reached the summit of the rim a scene baffling description met our eyes. A fierce gale was sweeping over the lake. From our elevation of 3,000 feet above its waters the waves seemed not to rise in individual crests,

but to sweep in mighty impulse across it, as when the hand of the musician sweeps across the keyboard in one crescendo of sound. Mighty masses of clouds capped the mountains on the western shore and indicated the source of the impulses. In the center of the vast rhythmic sweep, low down to the west, stretched out the sinuous point which we were seeking. The wind was now sweeping the crest where we stood, and the clouds were gathering rapidly into mountain fog around us. But the Californian and the botanist both declared with one voice that they would take the highland route along the rim. The enthusiast's proposal to camp as on the preceding night was voted down. "Too much wind and too little bedding," said the botanist. So all was made snug for a midnight trip.

The Californian was sent ahead as sentinel to keep the sledding party from plunging over the lofty cornice which here reaches extreme proportions, on account of the unobstructed sweep of the gale from the west. All progress was now dependent upon feeling and the occasional glimpse of ghostly spectres of trees and castellated rocks which from time to time marked our progress.

When clumps of trees afforded sufficient shelter, compass and map were studied under the flickering light that shone through protecting fingers. But unfortunately we had no log to reel off the distance covered and to indicate when we should swing southward to the point. Once a sudden change in the apparent direction of the wind warned the sentinel that he had lost his sense of direction and the party drew together to consult. We were at the time endeavoring to pass an enormous rock that crowded us off the mountain crest. We tried again, but again were baffled. We could not round that rock, which continued to loom above us through the fog. The botanist declared that the compass could not lie, even though we thought it did, and finally won his point.

The original route was abandoned in favor of a direct descent to the lake. Down we went, following the impulse of gravity into a gigantic funnel whose mouth narrowed

rapidly into a precipitous gorge. An impromptu race between the botanist and the enthusiast on the ski and the sled was too much for the sled. The noble old frame that had weathered a winter journey up Mt. Whitney and two winters on Mt. Rose, collapsed under the strain, and left its burden as a penance for the enthusiast to drag down the cañon and round water holes yawning through

the snow.

The snow surface did not fail until the lake had almost been reached. Then packs were transferred to shoulders, and the party pitched down the sodden slope to where the waves from the recent storm were still churning against the rockbound shore.

It would

From out the scud appeared the moon once more. We were close to the eastern base of the point, but still five miles from Brockway, and the hour of midnight was upon us. We were too wet to sleep where we were, and the bushes were wet with rain and melting snow. not be much worse to proceed. The botanist devised the lunch-three inches of bologna and one small orange. The remnant of rice in the provision bag was uncooked. But the lunch was ample. We had grown accustomed to small rations.

The trip to Brockway, like the storm on the lake, can scarcely be described. We did not feel it-indeed, we were too tired to sense it. The botanist was seeking a bed and we were following the botanist. Snowshoes had been cached with the other outfit, for the snow along the point seemed shallow. The trail could rarely be found. Slippery snowbrush alternated with rotten snow, knee deep, and the slope pitched sharply toward the lake. Of the botanist's leggins only the safety pins remained, while each of us was soaked upward to the waist. Words were few. From each fall the victim rose more slowly than before, and the words on his lips grew inaudible. He could have fallen asleep where he fell by merely closing his eyes. Not so the Californian, however. His eyes were growing wider open. He was feeling responsible