Chalmer D. Sinkey of Fox Movietone writes about covering a mountaineering expedition to the summit of Washington State’s Mount Olympus back in 1936.

“Find me a place,” said the world’s best, but most particular newsreel, “a place that is spectacularly beautiful; something different! Get me something new in the line of thrills for picture loveers and be sure that this place lends itself to the use of Infra Red film.”

Now to find something new under the sun, especially something not yet filmed by a newsreel camera is quite an order. Consider Mr. and Mrs. Public, to say nothing of most of the little Publics; who are practically satiated with thrills. Through films, they have been eye witnesses to everything from violent death to the arrival of quintuplets.

Granting that I could think up a place to qualify for this story, there was still the big problem of being sure that conditions were just right for making it on Infra film. There was one big consoling thought about the matter: Nowhere on earth did the Creator leave a better supply of natural wonders than in the Pacific Northwest. (Original idea-not stolen from the Chamber of Commerce.)

Starting at the front door, my thoughts traveled in ever-widening circles until suddenly they landed about eighty miles away as the crow flies-eighty miles away and eight thousand feet up. When you realize that Seattle is absolutely at sea level you can understand that these thoughts were quite, quite up. Here they paused loftily and a bit reluctantly. Without a shadow of a doubt, this was the place for my picture, but while the going was easy via the imagination; there were certain problems connected with getting there laden down with a few hundred pounds of camera equipment.

Before we go into that I must tell you a little about this selected spot. I, myself, am of the opinion that it is one of the loveliest and most intriguing places in America; although it is still a white spot on the map of our continent.

The Last West, that inaccessible heart of the Olympic Peninsula, where crude foot trails find their way among glaciated peaks and there are deeply forested stretches never explored by the eyes of mankind. Mt. Olympus is the crowning point of this Magic Land, upon whose summit less than two hundred persons have trod with triumphant, not to say shaking, and weary, feet; Mt. Olympus.

This mountain with its thirty-six square miles of glacier surface, topped by a sheer rock chimney which affords neither toe nor hand holds and which is scaled by the dizzying method of throwing a rope over a jutting ledge of shale and ascending hand over hand. To lose a grip at this stage of the climb means sure death. On one side a sheer drop of two thousand feet; on the other a glaring icy wall with gaping crevasses.

Mt. Olympus is a challenge to the most experienced mountain climber. It is at its worst in August. Snow bridges are rotten, the surface drifts, which provide sort of an anchoring medium, are melted, leaving glaring ice. Water roars constantly beneath the crevasses, eating at the glacier structures. Crashing avalanches tear down the ice fields but, for Infra film, there is nothing to eclipse Mt. Olympus in August.

The glaciers are at their spectacularly best. Great cumulus clouds sweep back and forth, cling to the charred peak as though undecided where to go and suddenly disappear into blue sky. There is a minimum of haze, and the view, reaching in any direction is beautiful beyond description.

You can see that the mountains checked perfectly with the requirements of my editor; it was different, it was thrilling, and it offered clear open vistas, punctuated by every type of clouds. Now for the final and last little item of consideration: Who would be willing to go along and provide some animation for the scenes?

At first, some twenty mountaineers were eager to go. Later, most of them thought better of it; on the actual take-off there were just six in the party, not counting the horse wrangler who went up to the timber line with supplies.

In case your geography is hazy, The Last West lies next to the Pacific Ocean, in the northermost corner of our land. It is bounded on the east by Puget Sound, on the north by the island-dotted Straits of Juan de Fuca.

This region, marked “Olympic Peninsula,” is a land of rugged, primeval forests, of roaring glacial streams and of peaks eternally covered with snow. Almost inaccessible to man, its wild grandeur is undisturbed by the march of civilization. Its cathedral-like forests of hemlock, fir, and cedar are covered by the moss of centuries, kept more than amply moistened by an annual rainfall of two hundred and fifty inches.

Eons ago, before glacial masses ground and leveled this land, its peaks are estimated to have been twenty thousand feet high. These peaks came into being by the astounding process of pushing up from the sea.

There are really three summits on Mt. Olympus-East Peak, Middle Peak and West Peak. All are slightly more than eight thousand feet high. Because they have been visited by so few, there is still discussion about which is the actual top. West Peak is the hardest of the three to ascend, but it provides the grandest glacier vistas that I have ever seen. Far beyond the ice fields the Pacific Ocean lies, suspended from a ruffle of clouds, occasional ships appearing like toys.

Upward out of the haze, mighty steps, ranging from foothills to white, broken peaks. Here and there, reflecting the sun, an oval mountain lake; immediately below, steep ice fields blown into thousands of tiny hummocks by the never-resting wind, ice fields that separate like fingers of a gigantic hand, into the Blue Glacier and the Hoh, and the White, all taking a different course as they pursue their grinding, relentless way downward.

The fore-mentioned group of six, planned eight days to conquer this well-fortified peak. All were experienced mountaineers and more or less familiar with the Olympics, except the cameraman, who plodded along, blissfully ignorant of what each new day had to offer. One thing about Time-it lends enchantment to things that are past, otherwise, the adjectives set forth above, and those carried down the homeward trail from Mt. Olympus in the cameraman’s heart, would never coincide. After all, a heart that is concerned with blistered heels, barked shins, too much ultra-violet and a general rheumatic-like ache here and there and everywhere, is poor soil for appreciation of beauty and grandeur.

In case some camera enthusiast should be inveigled into a summit climb of Mt. Olympus in August, from the above descriptions, it seems only fair to take the reader back over the trip in reminiscence, then, if he still wants to go-good luck and God’s blessings to him.

An infant day is waking the small group out of deep slumber that comes after an unaccustomed dose of physical exertion. Yesterday, we traveled endless miles over roads that just missed being elk paths. It was dark when we reached the jumping off place, where civilization ends and the Olympic wilderness begins. Here we were to lock up our cars, take a last look at a telephone, say good-bye to the radio and take to the foot trails; but before all of that a hastily prepared camp supper and a night’s rest.

It seems as though we just crawled into the sleeping bags, but it must be dawn, for there is Matt, the general of the group, making a great hullabaloo about flap-jacks. My face and one arm, that was left uncovered is generously spotted with small burning lumps; bites of some kind! No mosquitoes are in evidence, but wait, what are these microscopic little devils that make no noise as they attack and look for all the world like animated grains of pepper?

“No-see-ums,” says Cougar Charlie, who is the horse wrangler and a positive authority on everything pertaining to the Olympics. I rub gingerly and sit up to look over the situation.

Strewn about on clumps of moss are six other sleeping bags. A couple of them are moving frantically, so I assume that the “no-see-ums” were sociable to everyone alike. Giant firs and hemlocks tower above the waking mountaineers. Occasional patches of sky can be seen through the maze of boughs. There is no underbrush, but myriads of tiny flowers inhabiting the mossy earth’s floor. I feel as though we are in some vast cathedral, where the distant rumble of the Hoh River might be likened to a reverberating organ. The idea for the day, is to get under way and hike ten miles. Supplies are loaded onto seven horses, but the climbers elect to walk. The hardening up is essential if we are to battle Mt. Olympus.

In spite of a terrific load of bacon, eggs and hot cakes under our belt, the old hearts are light as we hit the trail. Ten miles of easy ascent sounds fairly mild; but as the hours go by the hearts take on a little weight. Mile after mile through a forest so dense that Old Sol barely filters through trees ten feet in diameter; moss hanging in yards from their ancient limbs; roots sticking up in the path to torture unaccustomed feet; little streams that usually run full, dried to bedrock by the August heat; a suffocating, steaming warmth that none can escape and nothing to drink, but water from the rushing Hoh River, which is grey with glacial sediment.

Toward evening the forest opens into a wide valley, walled by steep timbered mountains. A cool breeze whips across from the mighty glaciers that will be our destination tomorrow. We settle gratefully for another night and, thanks to the breeze, there are no little animated peppers to jazz up the wee morning hours.

By the way, it gets to be morning sooner in the Olympics than anywhere else. We just close our eyes and draw a few breaths of satisfaction when we are wakened by the never-failing Matt, yelling, “A-hoy!”

The second day is scheduled to be harder; just eight miles of trail but rough going and decidedly up. We plunge into dense forests again and follow the course of the Hoh as it winds through spectacular gorges, and pauses at occasional lakes. Once when we were “taking a blow” we are startled by a weird plaintive cry. Someone has tethered a young raccoon to a giant tree, planning to return shortly and carry it home. However, Cougar Charlie is an ex-game warden. He takes his duties seriously, even past duties-so the baby coon is liberated after a frantic wrestle with his benefactor. The cliffs are precipitous, falling from the trail with just space enough for the horses’ feet. In fact if they are careless, just half a hoof-mark is left in the dust. It’s amazing how these horses negotiate the trails with bunglesome packs, when men, with nothing but alpenstocks to load them down, get jittery.

The second day passes quickly. Late in the afternoon with civilization eighteen miles away, our goal suddenly looms into view. All of these hours we have been plodding upward, with no view save an occasional valley between a ridge of peaks. The trees have been getting smaller and more sparse. Our pace is quickened by the realization that soon we shall top the last barrier and have a view of Mt. Olympus, itself. There’s a fascination about anticipating this first peek, after the thousands of toiling steps. What does it matter if the goal still be weary hours away, so long as we can see it?

But no words can describe the actual thrill of the moment when it comes. Mt. Olympus is like a jewel set in an exquisite mounting of rock-pinnacles. The Blue Glacier reaches toward us, reflecting the sunlight from a million huge broken prisms of clearest ice. Green firs, at the very base of the ice fields, mingle with layers of thin cloud. It is like no other mountain that I know.

Six hearts leap with eagerness to explore the distant crags and to gaze upon the view that these crags have shared with so few human beings. Soon we are at the base of the glacier, where the last bivouac camp is laid. There is still an hour of light, but so many things to do!

All shoes must be spiked with large calks. Crampons must be fitted, for tomorrow they will be strapped over the boots when negotiating steep ice fields. Many a life has been saved by good crampons that anchored skidding feet. Alpenstocks must be sharpened, for they will dig into the ice as we balance on slanted slopes. Life-lines must be checked, for there will be many miles when we shall progress, tied in groups. Dark glasses are rounded up and grease of various types, to ward off the glaring ultra-violet. A bounteous supper is prepared, for tomorrow we shall eat lightly.

At last the final arrangement is finished. Planning to be up long before daybreak, we turn in for the third night on the trail. After eighteen miles of up, sleeping bags feel like beds of finest down. Mere trifles such as a rock poking into a floating rib or a root under a collarbone are quite, quite negligible.

Eventually, the inevitable call to rise brings us out of our sleepy anesthetic. We shiver into top clothes, respecting the good old glacier tang in the air-prospects for the summit tingling down the spine.

Matt is barking orders like a captain leading his soldiers over the top. There is a general tenseness in the air. Some time in the night a new contingent of climbers stumbled up the trail, without so much as disturbing our slumber. They are joining us to make the summit trip so the inspection of equipment has to be made all over again in their behalf.

While the dew is still reflecting stars, we are plodding upward over the moraine that borders the Blue Glacier. This moraine consists of endless piles of rock, left by the melting ice. They are not too firmly placed and many of them roll underfoot. Here is where the alpenstock first comes to the rescue. The rocks vary in size from pebbles to boulders of mammoth dimensions. Great care is taken not to start an avalanche as, once they get to rolling, countless tons change position before they stop. Two hours of this finds us ready to leave the moraine and cut across the Blue Glacier.

The glacier is badly crevassed. Even at this cold early hour, pieces of ice drop off with resounding roars. There is a rushing, hidden force of water tearing beneath the ice. Matt ties us into groups which go forward ten feet apart, in case a rotten bridge should give way. The fissures extend every few feet and are small; that is, about a foot or two across, but no one knows how deep. We place the alpenstocks ahead and leap over them until they get so wide that leaping is impossible. Then we reconnoiter, skirting the outer edge of the ice fields, avoiding the wettest spots. Here and there, water spouts like an artesian well from solid ice. We find minute black worms covering the snow. They are actually snow-worms, heavily pigmented to withstand the strong light rays and feeding upon algae. The snow takes on a lovely pink hue in certain spots. This is caused by countless algae that inhabit it.

The safe way around is a long one. Several hours go by before we leave Blue Glacier and climb a steep ice wall that will place us onto the White. Here the crevasses are terrific. Three main fissures extend clear across the ice fields. There is but one way to get over them. We skirt the edges and climb over the rocky, shale-covered peaks, zigzagging from side to side. All of which is painfully slow. Step by step, roped together, we pick our way, stopping at intervals to make scenes.

Sometimes the group has to be raised or lowered over a bad place Sometimes it seems foolish to go on at all. No breath is wasted in conversation, but it seems to be the general opinion that we are out to see the top or else.

Gusts of wind rise out of nowhere, bringing cloud banks that strike misgiving into our hearts. We all know how Mt. Olympus is given to having icy summer blizzards. No living thing would care to struggle through one of them. But, the fates are kind. Clouds come and go, creating breath-taking scenes for the camera.

Close to the top conditions get worse. The ice is glaring. A false step here means an invitation to permanent refrigeration. Even roped together, no line could hold on these steep slopes with no footing. Crevasses yawn, row upon row, as far down as we can see. Muscles are not so steady, trembling with fatigue. One lad is down-he’s slipped, striking terror into the whole line as he nearly jerks them all from their feet!

There’s no two ways about this footing business. Either you step in the toe holds chopped by the head man or you have no foundation to stand on at all. Here is the last snow field, almost perpendicular. We cut back and forth cautiously until it is scaled. Finally we are on a cornice. It is narrow, but level for a few feet on top. How blessed to be somewhere that is level. We are fifty feet from the top and the view is everything that we hoped it would be-and more. Infra Red has reached the highest spot and is plenty busy recording what extends in all directions.

Now comes the cold-blooded test of the whole trip. My job is to stay fifty feet down and film the ascent of the others. After all, the top is a knife-edged ridge of shale with no space for more than two people at a time. It is an almost impossible ascent. I’m thanking my stars that I am a cameraman, not a mountaineer. After all, my job is stay with the camera and record stuff on Infra Red, not to be exploiting my nerve. Besides, I want all the nerve that I have left to get down with.

Matt goes first, without looking at the gruesome possibilities on either side-on one side a sheer drop of two thousand feet-on the other a maze of crevasses punctuating steep slopes of icy glare. Two men lie in those same crevasses, because they made one little misstep.

As the climbers crawl upward, using every possible point of contact-they run out of holds. There is a fifteen foot wall that must be scaled and not even a toe-hold. By the way they keep their faces to the wall I know that every minute of waiting for the next step is agony. This goes on for an hour perhaps, while the leader throws a rope over a jutting ledge above, pulls himself up hand over hand, and serves as anchor man while the others take turns. One by one they go, hanging between life and certain death, by one small rope.

The point is they want to reach the coveted goal. Even without the camera they would have made the trip. I tell myself that for consolation as I watch them hanging there.

The group is well picked; they all reach the top; a fitting climax for the story. As for the cameraman. He packed up his film, rubbed a few “charlie horses” and called it a day. There again he was blissful in his ignorance. It took six hours more to get down!