Outing . ess; a dust-heaped waste; a piece ofArizona desert. Higher, the very snowwas dingy. But no sign of steam or ashvents showed. The big ridge far inlandstill bore its oval cloud—the stringy, all-night alpine cap, from which the gale inex-haustibly hurled balloons of fog. Nearerand due east, but detached from the greatwall, did rise a single and beautiful aiguille,perhaps Applegates Okmok, though aglance proved that it had never itselfbeen a fire. So I hit for the long ridge,which now did seem to curve away east-ward. Should that cloud lift, which itprobably would not, I might get somelig
Outing . ess; a dust-heaped waste; a piece ofArizona desert. Higher, the very snowwas dingy. But no sign of steam or ashvents showed. The big ridge far inlandstill bore its oval cloud—the stringy, all-night alpine cap, from which the gale inex-haustibly hurled balloons of fog. Nearerand due east, but detached from the greatwall, did rise a single and beautiful aiguille,perhaps Applegates Okmok, though aglance proved that it had never itselfbeen a fire. So I hit for the long ridge,which now did seem to curve away east-ward. Should that cloud lift, which itprobably would not, I might get somelight on the mystery from up across blue Inanudak, glitteredfor a second the split needles of the eastridge of Vsevidov, behind grim sea-cliffs;flashed out the exquisite white cone itself,cloud-flecked and ash-ribbed, an ArcticFujiyama. I slid down the red ash. As I touchedthe valley, behold a distinct blue haze,curiously limpid, pervaded. I trudgedacross a strip of tundra, where the five-. On the Chase for Volcanoes 549 fingered lupine struggled for dwarfed exis-tence. Came then the black desert,gashed by transient watercourses, tornand desolate. A few fox-prints scarred it,too; a lone bumble-bee tumbled past; anAleutian sparrow bobbed his fire-yellowhead and inky throat, and once in a whileI found a skeleton gopher—maybe killedin some hot blast? I ploughed through the heavy ash, onand upward, breasting the angry gale. Istopped each mile to roll a cigarette. Ihad the false intoxication, and falser cour-age, of ones first loneliness in untroddenspaces. Did I scent sulphur? I so reekedwith it still, I could not tell. By tenoclock, I was abreast of the sharp pin-nacle. I struggled up and down fromgully to gully, crossing huge corrugationsat right angles, often stalled in the soggyash. I trod snowfields from which frenziedtrickles vanished abruptly into the thirstysand, where bowlders lay like spent cannonballs. All a paradox, for moss-soakedAlaska! Ahead, the cl
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade, booksubjectsports, booksubjecttravel
