p the mountain above the dead
ones in the glade. Yet my lady insisted that the altitude had singled
out and killed the little grove in the midst of the forest--so we let
it go at that.

Of course, some persons really are affected by altitude, but weariness,
lack of muscular as well as mental control, often creates altitudinous
illusion. Of this condition I had an example while guiding a party of
three women and one man to the top of Long's Peak. We climbed above
timberline, headed through Storm Pass, and finally reached Keyhole
without a single incident to mar the perfect day. The ladies were new,
but plucky, climbers; the man rather blustery, but harmless.

Beyond Keyhole lies rough going, smooth, sloping rocks and the "Trough"
with its endless rock-slides that move like giant treadmills beneath
the climber's feet. The pace I set was very slow. The man wanted to
go faster, but I called attention to Glacier Gorge below, the color of
the lakes in the canyon, in short, employed many tactics to divert him
from his purpose.

My refusal to travel faster excited him, he became extremely nervous
and made slighting remarks regarding my guiding ability that ruffled me
and embarrassed the ladies. Hoping to convince him of his error, I
speeded up. He remonstrated at once, but when I slowed down to our
customary pace he still objected, saying we'd never reach the top
before dark.

Suddenly he developed a new notion. Climbing out upon a ledge he
lifted his arms and poised, as though to dive off the cliff.

"Guide," he called, his voice breaking, "I must jump."

After some confusion we were on our way again, the man within clutch of
my hand. All progressed without further trouble until we reached the
top of the trough, where we halted to rest and to look down into Wild
Basin, memorable scene of my first camp! My charge craftily escaped my
clutches, walked out on a promontory, and again threatened to jump.
Secretly I hoped he would carry out his threat.

Before we began scaling the home stretch, I tried to persuade the
erratic idiot to remain behind, but he refused. However, we all made
the top safely. He relapsed into glum silence, which I hoped would
last until we were safely off the peak. But as we stood near the brink
of the three-thousand-foot precipice overlooking Chasm Lake, we were
startled to hear his voice once more, raised to high pitch.

"I must jump over, I've got to jump," he screamed.

He waved