After wringing my sloppy underclothing, getting it
on was far from pleasant. My eyes are better and I feel no bad effect
from my icy bath. The last trace of my three months' cough is gone.
No lowland grippe microbe could survive such experiences.
I have had a fine telling day examining the ruins of the old forest
of Sitka spruce that no great time ago grew in a shallow mud-filled
basin near the southwest corner of the glacier. The trees were
protected by a spur of the mountain that puts out here, and when the
glacier advanced they were simply flooded with fine sand and
overborne. Stumps by the hundred, three to fifteen feet high, rooted
in a stream of fine blue mud on cobbles, still have their bark on. A
stratum of decomposed bark, leaves, cones, and old trunks is still in
place. Some of the stumps are on rocky ridges of gravelly soil about
one hundred and twenty-five feet above the sea. The valley has been
washed out by the stream now occupying it, one of the glacier's
draining streams a mile long or more and an eighth of a mile wide.
I got supper early and was just going to bed, when I was startled by
seeing a man coming across the moraine, Professor Reid, who had seen
me from the main camp and who came with Mr. Loomis and the cook in
their boat to ferry me over.
