The Brink

Monday Morning
July 13, 1925 DEAREST BILLY, I’m sending you a letter that I started and continued to write while we were marooned on a most perilous place, a narrow ledge in the mountains. We were directed over this pass and given a marked trail by one of the best mountain men in all this region, but it proved to be a death trap.
Dave went over a precipice and we don’t know whether he is dead now or has by some miracle escaped. A rescue party, the second that has tried to reach him, is at work now, but we don’t know anything definite. Not one of us did a reckless thing. We did n’t invite or seek danger and had no means of knowing we should be trapped so. You were so much in my thoughts, Billy, during those long hours that I want you to have what I was writing you then.

Friday Afternoon
July 10, 1925
BELOVED BILLY AND DEAR LITTLE BABY GIRL,Some day, my dear ones, if I don’t return to you, this letter may be found and sent to you. We ’re in an impossible pass in the mountains — with walls of stone above us that we cannot scale, and snow and ice, hundreds of feet deep, all around us and below us for miles.
Dave has gone. We had been at this spot scarcely a moment when he slipped on the snow and went with the speed of lightning down this terrifying slope into an enormous crevasse in the ice. I don’t know how to tell you about it; it’s so awful to think of — was so awful to witness. I only remember that suddenly he slipped, that Father risked his own life reaching over the edge to pull him back, failing because it was so sudden and he could catch only the neck of Dave’s sweater, while the rest of us stood appalled, vainly, vainly hoping that something might stop him. But it was vain hope, for he fairly bounded across a narrow ledge of stone jutting out from the snow and disappeared. I then remember falling down upon the snow — calling out to Dave— begging him to tell us he was all right. We all did.
The marvel of it was that he answered our calls and said he was n’t hurt — that he could get out if he had a stick. We debated whether or not to send him one of ours, but finally did n’t, as we were afraid he might lose his balance in trying to reach for it or that it might hit him. We answered him and told him we’d come to him, but after two hours of doing our very best we had to give it up. When we returned we called again, but this time there was no reply. We found that the crevasse opened right up to the mountain wall and extended farther than we could see down into the valley, which made getting down out of the question.
It’s right below us and I can see it as I write. It’s frightful, Billy, like the yawning, greedy mouth of a legendary monster. And somewhere between its walls is Dave, our friend and comrade.
He can’t be alive, and, just above him, we are helpless to do one thing for him. Father and I tried. We had n’t axes, but we took our sticks, which have strong spikes in the ends, and very slowly and cautiously, with them and our spiked boots, dug steps down to the ledge of rock over which Dave disappeared. It was terrific, the snow was so glazed and crusted over. Mrs. M — begged us not to go, and as we were about to start I said to Father, ’Is it worth it?’ To which he replied, looking me almost sternly in the eye, ‘Is Dave worth it?’ And so we went. Oh, he’s a Spartan, Father is, and I shall hope for years of both our lives to let him know that, tardily perhaps, I do appreciate him. My foot slipped once as I followed him down and but for his quick grasp I should have joined Dave below. I tell you eternity flashed before my eyes in that brief instant. We found a narrow crevasse at the foot of this first ledge that Dave must have slid entirely over, as we could see the path of his body down the snow and into the wider one below. We could go no farther and do no more, so had to return to the rocks above.
We’re expecting rescue to-night because the guide who gave us this trail told Mrs. M-he’d phone the chalet we left and the one we were bound for and if we were at neither he would come out and look us up. We have tried to find a way to get back up the mountain, but everywhere the risk is loo great. You see, we let ourselves down by putting all our belts and pack straps together, so it’s impossible to return the way we came.
If they reach us to-night I ’m coming home. The mountains are cruel and treacherous. I think I can never love them again. Oh, my dear, if only I can have the chance with you again — to live in your life! If I can come back to you, dearest, the small things will never matter, only the greatness of your love. I want you so and I want our baby girl.
But if this is the end, somehow, dearest ones, I know I shall find God and be waiting for you with Him.

Next Morning
DEAR ONES,The long, long night is over and the long day begun. There were fires in the valley far below us all night, but very early they disappeared and there’s been no sign since. We know nothing of Dave and perhaps it’s madness to think this, but we do think that he may miraculously have escaped from the crevasse as he told us he could and, while we were trying to get down to him, have gone on for help. We thought the fires might be his and so signaled all night, burning every scrap of paper we had; and we have called since daybreak.
You see, we are overlooking two small lakes in the foreground, and in the distance is Hidden Lake, which is absolutely wild and uninhabited, there being no chalets nor even a ranger cabin there. Both Father and Mrs.
Mknow the region well. It was on the shores of this lake that we saw the fire. When the moon came up a little after two the fire suddenly went out. All these things make us think — or hope — that Dave did get out, went as far as he could while daylight lasted, then built a fire to signal us, which, being a good woodsman, he put out when the moon came up, giving him light enough to go on. We can’t understand how his poor body is n’t battered to pieces, and yet — he called to us in the most natural voice in the world.
It’s cold here and we are so weary. We have had nothing to eat for more than twenty-four hours now, but somehow don’t feel at all hungry. Our anxiety about Dave and the uncertainty of everything make us forget. We can’t sleep, but we doze off now and then, and several times my mind has wandered into pleasant dreams only to come back with a shock when my eyes opened on this never, never varying scene. How beautiful it was when we first looked down upon it from the mountain top and how hateful now! Not one living thing before our eyes. Even the wind, which blows constantly, stirs only the red silk handkerchief tied to one of our sticks for a signal.
You can’t imagine — no one ever could — how intolerable it is to sit here with folded hands — waiting. To be so helpless; and all the while to think that Dave may be lying down there — still alive — needing us and not able to call to us.
It’s hard to be courageous. I’m not courageous, Billy. I’m selfish. Now that the show-down has come I find I want most intensely to live. We’ve only this one life, and out of all the ages of time past and time to come I greedily want my full share. Now in this moment of crisis I am weak and spineless, for inside I am whining at the possibility of being cheated. I hate writing you these things, but if this letter should be found and sent you I ’d rather you knew the thoughts that come.
I think of you two most dear ones every moment. I want you so and I want so to come back and make a sweeter home for you. I want another chance. I’ve tried to live too independently, tried too hard to be an individual. But if I can come home to you I want to merge my life in yours, to be one with you, and to have our adored baby girl grow up in a happy home.
I know you ’d be praying, Boy, if you knew. I’ve been talking with Father and he’s been reading to us out of the Testament he carries. Billy, there has to be God. We mortals are too weak in physical and moral and spiritual strength to cope with this.
I ’ll write you more later.
BELOVED ONES,It’s now evening of our second day in this mountain prison. No relief has come, though we continue to expect it every hour. We can’t believe that Ed does not know by this time that we are lost. This afternoon we saw a boat, a tiny speck it looked, on the distant lake. We watched it as it made three trips from the head of the lake to the very spot where we saw the fire. At first we were sure it was bringing us help, but as the hours passed by we gave that up and with it goes the hope that Dave got out alive.
And twice to-day we heard voices on some trail over the mountains at our left. We called and called until we could n’t utter another sound, but the wind which brought the voices so clearly to us did n’t carry ours back, and we had to hear the laughter die away in the distance. Those happy people did n’t need to have us hear them, but we needed so desperately to have them hear us! How hope did flare up when we heard them — only to perish as the hours passed, leaving us more lonely and discouraged than before.
We don’t understand why no help comes. If there is none by to-morrow we must take any risks in making every effort to get out.
We set up a sort of housekeeping today. The sun worked its way around to our corner for a while this morning and was hot enough for us to shed sweaters and scarfs and make ourselves quite comfortable. Harry had some fishline in his pack that he stretched between two of our sticks for a clothesline, so we changed our clothes throughout and hung them up to dry. The fresh ones from our packs did feel so good! Then we cleared the snow off the ledge that had been so disagreeably damp, and with pieces of rock even paved the part of the snow bank we rested our feet on. But most refreshing of all were the snow baths. You’ve no idea until you try it how sudsy snow and soap can be!
Father has been splendid. He has told us stories constantly all day and we’ve sung all the songs we know. And we’ve prayed, Boy — I did n’t think I could. You know it’s five years since I last prayed. I thought I was so wise and I reasoned there was no God. So after five years of ignoring Him it did n’t seem sporting to cry for help now. I told this to Father. We’ve been talking since and I know how far off I’ve been.
It helps me so to write to you. It brings you near and I need you so. I shall keep on writing until it’s all over or I come back to you.
It’s seven o’clock now and we’re lying on the rocks praying for help.

Monday Morning
July 13, 1925
MY DEAREST ONES,Now I can write you all that has happened in the last day and two nights. Four of the five of us who started out so gayly from this very chalet in that other era which was four days ago are back here again. Dave is still missing and we’ve a day of suspense before us while a second rescue party works to get him. They give us no hope, however.
Oh, but it’s been a frightful experience! I know that all my life I shall see the picture of Dave crashing over that cliff, nor will the long, dreary hours of waiting soon be forgotten.
Half an hour after I was writing you on Saturday evening Mrs. M-and I started to find a way out. Her boy had lost his nerve, — it’s hardly to be wondered at, — and could n’t be relied on, so Father had to stay with him. The situation there was becoming more perilous every hour, as the snow was melting away from the mountain wall, opening up a crevasse which made staying there impossible.
We were lying there cold and wet and so tired, as close as possible to keep ourselves warm. Father and I were next each other and I could feel every muscle and fibre in him shaking and trembling from the cold. That settled it for me. I knew that twenty-eight years could stand this exposure and fatigue, but that sixty-three could not, in spite of years of mountain climbing. So Mrs. M-and I talked it over once more and decided to try again that night while there still was light. Father rather reluctantly consented, as he did n’t want us to take such risk alone and yet someone had to stay with the boy.
So we set out, and after three hours of the most desperate climbing we conquered that beast of a mountain. Mrs. Mwould boost me from behind until I could get a foothold and pull her up from above. For a considerable stretch we crawled along a narrow ledge on our hands and knees, digging into the slightest projection with our finger nails. The ledge sloped upward and we were making some progress when suddenly it ended and we found ourselves on a far more perilous place than the rock ledge where we left the others. For the ice wall opposite was higher than our heads above us, entirely cutting us off from the valley and possible help from there. We could not scale the wall; we could not go back down that steep, winding ledge; we could not stay — so we had to go on. For a dizzy space we hitched ourselves along with our backs to the mountain, bracing our feet against the snow opposite, which all along there had melted away from the rock, leaving a space that was bottomless below us. Finally we came to a small waterfall that had worn away steps in the rock, by which we climbed to safety. The chief ranger said afterward, ‘The arms of God must surely have been around those two women.’ Furthermore he told Father that if we had waited until morning we never could have got out, as a part of the ice wall on which we had to depend had broken off during the night. I do believe in miracles now, my dear, for I have lived one.
I can’t tell you the thoughts that flashed through my mind as we stood once more on the mountain top — free! It was Life after Death. The air seemed milder, the wind blew softer, weariness fell away, and strength returned to mind and body. For it was not I who crawled out that narrow way, but some primitive being in me that goaded me on and on, supplying-trength I did not possess.
We went at once to a saddle between the mountains — a spot we’d been watching from the ledge — and called down to Father and Harry to let them see that both of us had reached the top. Then, as we were above timber line, we crawled down the mountain side until we found a patch of scrub pine, and there we built a fire.
How I wish I might describe that night to you. Oh, the beauty of it — and the silence of it! Not a sound except the music of dozens of waterfalls emptying into Avalanche Lake far, far below. I know I shall never forget the sight—the mighty glacier lying so calm, so cold, so treacherous way down at our feet, the dignity of the snow caps all about us, and the magnificence of the stars above. Billy, I’ve known Mrs. Monly one week, but we have had that night together, which means more than a lifetime of acquaintanceship with most people. We built a fire together and lay in each other’s arms while we waited for the moon to come up that we might have light enough to go on. At three o’clock we were on our way, working slowly down the slippery shale until we dropped on to the glacier below.
You should have seen us crossing the glacier. Mrs. M—— had lost her stick, so I went ahead to sound each step, as crevasses open up very unexpectedly. She followed — holding one end of a pink silk shirt while I held on to the other. It must have been quite a sight! We had to hurry, as we needed to get back to the chalet before the guides and rangers got out on the trails. We picked up the trail we had made just three days before. What thoughts we had! Both Father’s and Dave’s shoes were peculiarly hobbed, and often we were able to pick out the footprint of one or the other. And evidently a bear had followed our trail, for we traced his tracks all the way across in just the path we had made before.
At six-thirty we reached here, and from then on it’s a tale of the utmost kindness. There was such speedy response from the chief ranger, seven miles away, who immediately organized parties for Dave and for those left on the cliff; such thoughtfulness from everyone here at the chalet, from the guests who brought us fresh clothing to the waitresses who dried and oiled our shoes and packed lunches for us to take back to the others.
In a couple of hours the rangers came and we went back with them, so that no time would be lost in finding the place. They were superb! We skimmed across the glacier we had had to cross with such caution, as they knew all the tricky places. And those men climb mountains as easily as they might cross prairies!
I can’t tell you the thrill that came through me when again we stood on the mountain top and the leader of the party fired the shots that told our dear ones waiting below that help was at hand. We had listened, at first with such eagerness and then with such despair, for just that signal!
Mrs. Mand I waited there while the men went down with ropes for Father and Harry. Later they tried to get down into the crevasse where we know Dave must be. But they had n’t the right equipment, so marked the spot for the other party. They could only see on a rocky ledge about forty feet down what they thought must be his kodak and a battered tin cup.
When Father joined me once more he breathed into my ear, ‘Thank God.’ It was a prayer. And he was right.
It’s all too fresh for us to unravel now — why it all had to be; why such a man as Dave had to lose his life, as he must have. But out of the jumbled thoughts that confuse my mind these things stand out clearly: that I owe my life from now on to the Power that guided me back to this spot, and that I must somehow carry on for Dave, who was doing such splendid things while he lived.
To return without him is unspeakably sad; to see around us chairs on which he sat, the table round which we all ate that last breakfast together, the step just at my feet on which we sat and talked the evening before. This has hurt Father cruelly. Just how cruelly no one — not even I, who am closest to him in this experience — will ever know. We don’t leave each other’s side, and though he does n’t speak, I know. There are no tears in his eyes, but now and then deep from within him there comes a great dry sob, and I know his heart is breaking. Father has known Dave from boyhood, you know, and they have hiked many a trail in the mountains before.
Billy, dear, I’m tired now, so I’ll not write any more. It has been an infinite relief to write this all out to you, and you’ll never know how thankful I am to post it to you myself.