The Curve of Time by M. Wylie Blanchet

Author:M. Wylie Blanchet
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2016-01-26T05:00:00+00:00

FOG ON THE MOUNTAIN

I SUPPOSE IT IS THE CONFINED QUARTERS OF A BOAT AND the usually limited amount of standing room on shore that makes the idea of walking or climbing so enticing. Which, being so enticing, makes one completely forget that the same cramped quarters are hardly good training for mountain climbing.

John, for two or three years, was a complete ball and chain. I suppose I must have walked miles with him astride my hip, on more or less level trails. It was the time in between—when he was too heavy for my hip, but not big enough to attempt the longer hikes or climbs, that we were most tied to the beach.

One September we bribed John to stay behind at sea level with some friends, and five of us set off to climb six or seven thousand feet up behind Louisa Inlet. We planned to stay on top over one night, so each of us had to carry a blanket or sleeping bag, plus a share of the provisions. The last we cut to a minimum—tea, as being lighter than coffee; rye-tack lighter than bread; beans, cheese, peanut butter—the least for the most. Even then, halfway up we would all have gladly slept without blankets and starved until we got back. A pack certainly takes the joy and spring out of climbing.

A mile, I believe, is 5,280 feet. If you climb 5,280 feet you are not going to be on top of a mountain of that height.

Our first point was a small trapper’s cabin at 600 feet. It was at the end of a skid-road that sloped up fairly gradually from sea level. I am sure that it was nine times 600 feet before we sank panting beside the cabin, and it seemed breathlessly hot there, in the middle of the tall trees. We drank from a running stream, we bathed our faces and arms in it, and bathed our feet in it while we emptied the earth and gravel out of our running shoes. “Doc,” who led the party because he knew the way to the top and had carried by far the heaviest pack, sat there deploring the idea of our waterlogging ourselves. The man off a yacht, who had come to go half-way with us to take pictures, spoke longingly of lunch. But Doc pointed out that lunchtime and the half-way mark was not until we reached the cliff where the black huckleberry patch was. That we knew perfectly well. We had all been as far as the huckleberry patch—but never with packs on our backs.

We made fresh blazes on some of the trees as we moved on—double blazes at some of the turns. The man off the yacht was going back by himself, and it was not good country to be lost in.

At long last—at 4,000 feet—we climbed the “chimney” and sank exhausted beside the huckleberry patch. We boiled a billy for tea, and ate the sandwiches that the yachtsmen had carried for the first meal.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.