e an idea of one of my briefer winter walks, I close
this chapter with an account of a round-trip snowshoe journey from
Estes Park to Grand Lake, the most thrilling and adventurous that has
ever entertained me on the trail.

One February morning I set off alone on snowshoes to cross the
"range," for the purpose of making some snow-measurements. The nature
of my work for the State required the closest observation of the
character and extent of the snow in the mountains. I hoped to get to
Grand Lake for the night, but I was on the east side of the range, and
Grand Lake was on the west. Along the twenty-five miles of trail there
was only wilderness, without a single house. The trail was steep and
the snow very soft. Five hours were spent in gaining timber-line,
which was only six miles from my starting-place, but four thousand
feet above it. Rising in bold grandeur above me was the summit of
Long's Peak, and this, with the great hills of drifted snow, out of
which here and there a dwarfed and distorted tree thrust its top, made
timber-line seem weird and lonely.

From this point the trail wound for six miles across bleak heights
before it came down to timber on the other side of the range. I set
forward as rapidly as possible, for the northern sky looked stormy.
I must not only climb up fifteen hundred feet, but must also skirt
the icy edges of several precipices in order to gain the summit. My
friends had warned me that the trip was a foolhardy one even on a
clear, calm day, but I was fated to receive the fury of a snowstorm
while on the most broken portion of the trail.

The tempest came on with deadly cold and almost blinding violence. The
wind came with awful surges, and roared and boomed among the crags.
The clouds dashed and seethed along the surface, shutting out all
landmarks. I was every moment in fear of slipping or being blown over
a precipice, but there was no shelter; I was on the roof of the
continent, twelve thousand five hundred feet above sea-level, and to
stop in the bitter cold meant death.

[Illustration: THE CREST OF THE CONTINENT IN WINTER, 13,000 FEET
ABOVE SEA-LEVEL]

It was still three miles to timber on the west slope, and I found it
impossible to keep the trail. Fearing to perish if I tried to follow
even the general course of the trail, I abandoned it altogether, and
started for the head of a gorge, down which I thought it would be
possible to climb to the nearest timber. Nothing definite