exceedingly pleased to stand safely on the slope above without testing the efficiency of the rope. By this time the day was very hot, and the ensuing toil up the steep snow slopes, minus the enlivening element of broken ice, though certainly peaceful, tended towards monotony. Within about an hour's distance of the summit mists began to gather about us, and shortly everything but a few yards ahead of us was blotted out by the fog. Still we toiled on, and eventually reached the summit at twelve o'clock. At least Graham said it was the summit, and I presume he knew; it might have been anywhere. We were surrounded in swirling mists which obscured everything. Once for a second they blew apart, and disclosed a dark chasm on the West Coast side, and far away below we could hear the sound of rushing water. I believe some climbers consider the view from the summit but a small element when counting up the joys and rewards of a climb, consequently its absence owing to bad weather does not affect them. Personally, whenever I have conquered a mountain and seen nothing from its summit, I have experienced only a bitter sense of failure and disappointment. I don't consciously start out to climb for the view, and I do consciously enjoy overcoming difficulties, and have often mountaineered on a wet day for the joy of climbing and nothing else. Nevertheless, in an ordinary way the culminating moments of a climb are the last few, when you are nearing the summit and eagerly strain forward for the first glimpse of what lies beyond. It is then you know the thrill of victory and achievement in its fullness, a feeling so subtle and soul-satisfying as to defy analysis, and which is absent, no matter how great is your achievement, when you conquer and see nothing.
This is the reason, I suppose, that the Minarets have always been counted in amongst my failures; the only sensation I experienced on their summit was one of overwhelming disappointment. We did not stay very long,
