Then climbing sixty or more perpendicular feet on an amateur ladder, whose stoutness is its only reassuring feature, built by the discoverer of the Bridge, Scotch old Dave Goodfellow, you reach the second floor, devoted to one room apartments hollowed by drippings of age-old streams, and slippery with crusted lime. The cliff is honeycombed with caves in which stalactite and stalagmite meet, resembling twisted cedar trunks. Wolves and coyotes have made their homes here, and even somnolent grizzlies; in the smaller niches on warm spring days one has to take care that one’s fingers do not grasp a twining mass of sluggish rattlesnake. In one of these caves the human rattlesnake, Geronimo, hid for a month in the Apache revolt of the nineties, while the United States scouts scoured Arizona to find him, and a story and a half above, the canny Goodfellow hid in his little one-room cabin, each fearing discovery by the other. Above this floor is a mezzanine with another nest of caverns. Three sets of ladders riveted to a vertical shelf of rock lead you to the most interesting cave of them all, where the fairy tale comes true of the wizard who had to climb a mountain of glass. Toby knows no fear of aerial heights, so I had to pretend not to. A grandnephew of the elder Goodfellow led us where I hope never to return. We entered through a hole just wide enough to admit our bodies, and barely high enough to stand upright in. Then up a grade of 40 per cent over a limestone surface glassy from age-long accumulations of dripping chemicals, we wriggled flat on our backs, with feet braced against the ceiling to prevent our slipping out of the cave. Only a bat could have felt completely nonchalant under such circumstances. Harry Goodfellow worked himself along swiftly and easily, with an extraordinary hitch, hands and feet braced against the ceiling of the cave. After him, less expertly, we came, using his ankles for ladder rungs, and clinging to them frantically. How I prayed, not altruistically, that his ankles were not weak! My imagination took the wrong moment to visualize his grip failing, and his sudden descent out of the cave and over the cliff, with Toby and me each frantically clinging to an ankle. However we made the climb up safely, but going down was worse. I wonder why human nature never remembers, when it climbs to dizzy heights, that the go-down will be dizzier still. I daresay I should yet be mid-way down that glass-bottomed cave, with feet barnacled to its ceiling, had I not realized how uncomfortable life would be spent in that position. Therefore I slid,--and jumped, hoping the force of my descent would not bounce me out of the narrow entrance into a clump of cactus sixty feet below. What happened to the others at that moment I did not care.