plain, a mile from the snow line. being the highest spot where the horses could find feed enough, camp was pitched and supper was prepared. After supper the time was spent in rambling around, gazing at various objects through a spy - glass, preparing alpenstocks, and so on. Much time was spent in looking for houses in the Klickitat Valley, and one house, forty or forty-five miles away, could be seen with the naked eye. An abundance of red snow was found a short distance from camp.

Two of the party climbed up the foot of the mountain for a little distance above the snow line, and did not return till almost dark. As soon as the shades of night began to fall, the trees (though they were rather few at this altitude) were lighted up by the glow of camp fires, and all gathered around to discuss the probable events of the morrow. Not a man there that was not sure he would reach the summit of Adams before another sun had set. Not a man there dreamed of the storm that even then was preparing to swoop down upon the little party next day. Scarcely a cloud was in sight, and everything seemed to indicate fair weather for the nation's birthday. To be sure, it was pretty cold, but this was not to be wondered at considering the elevation. We did not go to bed until late. We sat around the blazing fire, talking and discussing the chances for and against the success of our illumination. Would the fire we could make on the summit, with what material we were able to carry up, be visible to the surrounding country? That was the all important question. At last, knowing that rest must be secured to prepare us for the great task, we went to bed.

And now, perhaps, the reader would like to know the names of the party before we climb the mountain. There were six of us, and our names were: J. A. Rusk, Milt. Gilbreath, Harrison

The glorious Fourth had dawned,that immortal day when men are inspired anew with love of country; that day of great festivities destined to bring joy to so many throughout our land. It was to bring but toil and hardship to us.

One hundred and fifteen years ago that day, the greatest nation of the earth was born. And sixty-five years ago that day two great signers of the Declaration of Independence had gone to rest. On this morning we stood and gazed upward to the mighty mount that bears the name of one of those immortal heroes. Had ever man a grander monument? Soon we were all astir, getting breakfast, arranging packs, and tending the horses.

Grandly the sun rose over the eastern horizon, waking the world to new life. Brightly his beams sped westward, and the snow-crowned pinnacles flashed back his fire.

All nature seemed alive with the prospects of a perfect day. After doing ample justice to the breakfast prepared by Mr. Gilbreath, who had kindly volunteered to act as cook for the expedition, we shouldered our packs, grasped our alpenstocks, and started. It was twenty-five minutes past six, and the thermometer registered 52°.

For the first mile or so we followed the course of a stream that rushed down from the mountain, over a gently sloping country, broken here and there by small bluffs and little gullies which had been worn by the water during the flight of ages. Many of the rocks in this vicinity gave evidence of former glacial action. Whenever they were exposed to view they were worn almost smooth, with little furrows running parallel to each other ground into them by the irregularities of the glacier. As these rocks all sloped in a general direction, namely southward, and the little furrows worn in them all trended the same way,

it is evident that an immense glacier at one time moved down the slopes towards Camas Prairie. At present there are no glaciers on the south side of the mountain, its great glacier region being on the north and east sides.

Now and then we crossed small banks of snow, some of them well streaked with red. As we pressed onward over the glittering white carpet, the steady click, clack, of our alpenstocks broke the stillness of the morning air. It was a scene long to be remembered. It was such a picture as one often sees of Alpine mountaineers far up amid the snows of Switzerland.

A mile or so of such travel brought us to a point where climbing began in earnest. We were now at the snow line. The timber ceased, and there was nothing before us for miles but steep, rug ged slopes of big bowlders, glittering ice and snow, the snow in places hundreds of feet deep.

A few steps more, and the ascent of Mt. Adams was begun. We had climbed several hundred feet, when we were surprised to see a band of ten or fifteen head of horses below us, up as close to the rough mountain side as they could well get. I had noticed, at previous times, horses high up,—even among the glaciers, where scarcely any vegetation grows, while the lower slopes are covered with luxuriant grass. We saw something. else, also. The whole country lying to the southwest was hidden by a layer of low clouds. So low were they that from our camp in the scrubby timber we had not even seen them. And now we were thousands of feet above them. Hardly a cloud floated higher than our level.

As we were angling across a steep snow-covered slope, a screw-driver, which was carried in one of our packs, vigorously objected to being taken any higher. It evidently held the same opinion then that some of the party did farther on it "did not propose to expose itself on that mountain." At all events,

it slipped from the pack, and went sliding down the hill until its career was brought to a sudden halt by some big rocks. Mr. Thompson doffed his load, straddled his alpenstock, slid down after it, and triumphantly brought it back, while the rest of us took in the scenery. When the runaway had been made captive the expedition marched on. After reaching the top of the incline that the screw driver had used for a toboggan slide, our route lay for a considerable distance over a glacis, which seemed to be formed by an old crater filled with snow. Arriving at the opposite side of this, we scrambled on to a bowlderstrewn ridge, and clambered along it for quite a while, until turning slightly to the left we again reached snow.

The ascent for a long way after this was up a big ridge, and comparatively gradual. While we were resting two of the party went on ahead, evidently thinking they would walk right up to the summit in a short time. The others moved along more calmly, and finally arrived at the longest, steepest slope on the route. It was deeply snow-covered, dotted with large patches of volcanic rock. Looking upward, we spied far above, almost half an hour's travel ahead, our two hasty friends. They were not traveling so rapidly as when they left us, and pauses were frequent.

We soon found that we had got ourselves into business. The mountain became steeper, the packs grew heavier, and the wind blew colder. And as a warning of the approaching storm, a cloud whirled along the mountain side, high above.

We toiled slowly onward, every few minutes stopping to rest, only to start on again and go a little farther. But one member of the outfit found it no trouble to climb. This one was a dog, a big, noble-looking fellow named Nero, who frisked along over the snow as though he thought it was the greatest fun in the world.

As we got higher we saw that we had discovered an extensive climate and a "mean temperature," as Bill Nye calls it. The climate stretched away, as far as the eye could reach, in solid lumps of frigidness, and as for the mean temperature, I do not think I ever saw a meaner one. The scenery would have been sublime had it not been so mixed up with smoke, clouds, and the aforesaid climate. In fact, the more we looked the more they got tangled, until it was hard to tell which was climate and which was scenery. Far to the south and east the country spread away like a great map, for miles and miles, until it was lost in the smoky haze from the forest fires. But to the west and southwest rolled a sea of ragged white clouds thousands of square miles in extent, with Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens riding proudly upon it like two lonely islands in the midst of a stormtossed ocean.

We found at different times during the day quite a lot of birds and of butterflies and other kinds of insects; two of the party found two humming birds and a duck. All of these had perished in the snow far from their native haunts.

But of all things that interested us that day the big rocks took the lead. Now rocks are not a very desirable thing for a man to have on his farm; but on a bleak snow-peak, when the thermometer is fooling around in the vicinity of freezing, they look as inviting as a drug store to a Kentucky colonel in a prohibition town. If you do not believe it, you will if you ever see a lot of half-frozen fellows on the side of some snow-wrapped mount, as they dodge head first under the bowlders to get a few moments' relief from the ice-laden wind. We put on our overcoats, but it was no use. The wind only blew the harder, seemingly making sport of our discomfiture as we scrambled over the friendly stones. And how we did hug those bare, rocky ridges, sprawling along the best we could, until we

found our two comrades that had run away and left us in the early part of the climb.

They were nestled down in the rocks looking rather blue. The rest of the expedition nestled with them, and discussed the situation. Old Nero was the only one that did not take kindly to the rocks. He would lie, apart from the rest, curled up on the snow, trying to take some comfort, but the attempt likely resulted in failure. About this time the clouds began to roll around us. One would come sailing along, whirl by us, and be gone almost in the twinkling of an eye. Another would follow it; then another, till they were rushing by almost constantly.

Unable to keep warm sitting down, we again climbed on for a few steps, but the next big bowlder looked so tempting that every man scrambled for it. It was a ridiculous sight to see six men go crawling up, single file, over the jagged rocks, and then every man scramble for the biggest stone, to nestle down by it as though it was the only friend he had in the world. It was during the nestling process that quite a relic-an old rubber overshoe- was found. Some one threw it out on the snow and away it went, sliding and rolling, down the mountain.

There was actually no way to get warm. If we hugged the rocks we obtained temporary relief from the wind, but our inactivity chilled us almost to the bone. If we began to climb, the biting wind struck us, and almost blew invisible little icicles clear through our bodies, until we were only too glad to seek shelter again in the bowlders. Taken altogether we suffered less sitting down than climbing, but sitting down. would not carry a fellow to the summit. You can imagine that it must be pretty chilly, when a man wrapped in a heavy overcoat with a pack on his back, climbing a steep mountain, cannot keep warm.

How dismal it was to sit there, vainly