 It is customary to associate stories of the supernatural with hot tropical countries. And while it is true that many strange tales reaches from places such as India and Africa, it is nonetheless true that the lands of ice and snow have their own incredible legends. Consider, for example, the case of that curious figure of the far north, the monk of Sawtooth Mountain. The chief attraction that drew Joseph Holland and his wife to Alaska that summer was the fact that it was practically unpopulated. They were tired of the fervid social quirk, and the prospect of a land where almost no one lived seemed highly alluring to them. On a certain evening toward the end of their visit, they sat at a bar in a village near the foot of the Sawtooth Range. The bartender, his chin resting on his cupped hands, listened with interest to their conversation. But you heard what the man at the hotel said. There's a storm in the valley every day. The worst-nosed storms in the whole country. I still think we ought to try it. Sure you ought to try it. You mean we won't get lost? Oh, you'll probably get lost, and the dogs will get lost too. But you'll pull out of it okay, and you'll be glad you tried it. It's an experience you'll never forget. That was all the bartender would say. It was cold the morning they started out. But the sun was bright in the heavens, and there was no hint of a storm. At least not until they reached the approaches to the valley. And then suddenly the storm was on them in all its fury. The wind shrieked around their heads, and so huddling close together and grasping each other's hands, they placed their slim faith in the team of dogs. And then as the storm reached its peak, they could feel themselves being pulled in first in one direction and then another. And they knew that now the dogs too had lost the trail. Grace Holland leaped to her feet and shouted in her husband's ear, I'm going to get out. I'm going to look for the trail myself. And so saying, she started to step over the edge of the sled, but suddenly she stopped, and she pointed out at the swirling snow. Joe! Joe, look! There's a man out there! Joe Holland's eyes followed the line of her finger. It was utterly inconceivable, but there was a man out there. A man and a dog. The outline of their forms was only just visible. He's a monk of some kind. He's waving to us, Joe! He wants to show us the way. The dog team was satisfied to follow any lead that was offered, and in a moment the sled was moving on again. Received by this strange, phantom-like figure, he seemed to walk calmly almost indifferently through the snow. In another hour the end of the journey was in view. Joe and Grace Holland leaped from the sled and ran forward to thank their benefactor, but both the monk and his dog had vanished. It was two days later that the uncouple found themselves back at the bar where they had first discussed their journey. The bartender greeted them. Well, you made it through Stone Valley, I see! But we wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for, well... I know. For the monk. Then there really was a monk. We didn't just dream. Everybody always says the same thing. Everybody? You mean the same thing? Sure. He's been guiding people along that trail for a couple of hundred years. But it wasn't for him that there have been plenty of deaths in the valley. As it is, it's never been worth it. That's all that anyone knows about the Monk of Sauchus Mountain. A legend, we may say, or a myth. But in saying it, we do not alter the fact that numerous men and women claim that they owe their lives to this remarkable figure. A figure incredible but true.