Up the bottom of the great glacier-basin toward the mountain at its
head, we made our slow and painful way. More dust, more mosquitoes. Even
the beauty of the snow-capped peaks overhead could not atone for the
ugliness of that destroyed region. Yet, although it was not lovely, it
was vastly impressive. Literally, hundreds of waterfalls cascaded down
the mountain wall from hidden lakes and glaciers above, and towering
before us was the mountain wall which we were to climb later that day.
We had seen no human creature since leaving the lake, but as we halted
for luncheon by a steep little river, we suddenly found that we were not
alone. Standing beside the trail was an Italian bandit with a knife two
feet long in his hands.
Ha! Come adventure! Come romance! Come rifles and pistols and all the
arsenal, including the Little Boy, with pure joy writ large over him! A
bandit, armed to the teeth!
But this is a disappointing world. He was the cook from a mine--strange,
the way we met cooks, floating around loose in a world that seems to be
growing gradually cookless.
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