And in the main valley we could make out the River.
It was rather dizzy work. Three or four times we ventured over the
rounded crest of the hill, only to return after forty or fifty feet
because the slope had become too abrupt. This grew to be monotonous and
aggravating. It looked as though we might have to parallel the River's
course, like scouts watching an army, on the top of the hill. Finally a
little ravine gave us hope. We scrambled down it; ended in a very steep
slant, and finished at a sheer tangle of cedar-roots. The latter we
attempted. Billy went on ahead. I let the packs down to him by means of
a tump-line. He balanced them on roof; until I had climbed below him.
And so on. It was exactly like letting a bucket down a well. If one of
the packs had slipped off the cedar-roots, it would have dropped like a
plummet to the valley, and landed on Heaven knows what. The same might
be said of ourselves. We did this because we were angry all through.
Then we came to the end of the cedar-roots. Right and left offered
nothing; below was a sheer, bare drop. Absolutely nothing remained but
to climb back, heavy packs and all, to the top of the mountain. False
hopes had wasted a good half day and innumerable foot-pounds. Billy and
I saw red. We bowed our heads and snaked those packs to the top of the
mountain at a gait that ordinarily would have tired us out in fifty
feet. Dick did not attempt to keep up. When we reached the top we sat
down to wait for him.
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