“I’ll stay at the bottom, and catch you when you fall off,” said Lou, with a rather crooked smile. “Gee, to think I’d go dizzy like a girl!”
“Forget it, Lou,” Peanut cheered him. “’Twasn’t your fault, any more’n getting seasick.”
The afternoon shadows were all across Tuckerman’s Ravine when the boys once more reached the camp. It was not yet five o’clock, and out behind them the green summits of Carter and Wildcat and Moriah across the Glen, and all the peaks to the south and east, were bathed in full sunlight; but down in the great hole of the ravine the shadow of Boott Spur had risen half-way up the east wall toward the Lion’s Head, and it seemed like twilight.
“I got an idea,” said Peanut. “Let’s take a loaf. Let’s just sit around the camp-fire till supper, and do nothing.”
“Let’s cut our mileage on our staffs,” said Art.
Somebody lit the fire, for already the twilight chill was creeping down from the snow-bank, and Art put the pot of dehydrated spinach on to simmer. Then everybody got out his knife and cut mileage.
“Only nine miles for yesterday!” said Art. “And think of the work we did.”
“One mile against that hurricane is about equal to fifteen on the level, I guess,” said Peanut. “Shall we call it eight plus fifteen?”
“You can, if you want to be a nature fakir,” Rob answered. “What’s the total to-day? Who’s got the guide book?”
“Let’s see,” said Frank, turning the pages. “Two miles from the summit to the Lakes of the Clouds, half a mile back to Boott Spur Trail, from the junction with the Crawford Path over the spur to here, two and a half miles--that’s five. Then from here to the snow arch and back, one and a half--six and a half. Then a quarter of a mile to Raymond Path, half a mile to Huntington Trail, two miles to the Fan; double it and you get five miles and a half. That makes twelve miles, not counting our climb of the head wall, or what we’ll do later to-day.”
“Guess we’ll not do much more,” said Peanut.
“Sure, we’ll walk up the ravine and see the snow arch by moonlight. Add a mile and a half more,” said Art. “Grand total, thirteen and a half. Golly, you can get fairly tired doing thirteen miles on Mount Washington, can’t you?”
“And tolerably hungry,” said Frank. “That spinach smells good to me.”