The great mountain in this part of the world is Mount Sarmiento. It is only seven thousand two hundred feet high, but its glaciers reach to the sea, so that it may be compared on an equality, from a climbing point of view, with Mont Blanc, if that be thought of as sunk into water up to the snow region. On clear days Sarmiento is visible to voyagers through Magellan's Straits. It is a glorious mountain, surrounded by many other noble peaks. In form it is of supreme beauty, and its surroundings are of the most romantic character. It was this peak, of course, that I desired to attempt, and I stopped at Sandy Point for that purpose. After much trouble I obtained the loan of a steam-launch for a few days, and set forth in the usual bad weather. We voyaged up various channels, between steep hillsides streaming with more waterfalls than, I think, can elsewhere exist in an equal area. In Cascade Reach, for instance, there are literally hundreds of them, succeeding one another every few yards. After a day's steaming we reached the foot of our peak, and with much difficulty found a treacherous anchorage. There were clouds everywhere above and below, and wooded banks loomed dimly into view close at hand; but towards sunset there were signs of the weather clearing up. It was one of those slow midsummer sunsets of high latitudes, when the colour comes very gradually and fades equally slowly. At first only the icy base of the mountain was visible in the grey shadow of clouds, with the dark forest ring around it, and the calm, black water below. Presently a soft, pink light crept up the tumbled ruin of the glacier, higher and higher, as the mist dissolved, and revealed steep ice walls scarred by serrated ridges, and a great arête set with pinnacles of splintered rock. Some white points on the summit crest appeared, but a soft cloud floated just above them, enveloping the top. Suddenly--so suddenly that all who saw cried out--away above this cloud, surprisingly high, appeared a point of light, as it were a brightly glowing coal. The fiery glow crept down and down till we beheld the likeness of a great pillar of red fire. It was a tower of ice-crusted rock reflecting the bright afterglow of sunset. Regathered mists wrapped the glorious vision away even before it had begun to fade. We remained afloat on the calm water, wondering at the utter silence all around. Not a breath of air stirred, no stone fell, no avalanche slipped. The babbling glacier-torrent above alone broke the evening stillness. [Illustration: THE VIEW FROM THE SLOPES. _From a Photograph._]