There were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish--everything but fresh
meat. We had had no fresh meat since the first day out. And now my soul
revolted at the sight of bacon. I loathed all ham with a deadly
loathing. I had eaten canned salmon until I never wanted to see it
again. And our provisions were getting low.
Just to the north, where we intended to camp, was Starvation Ridge. It
seemed to be an ominous name.
Norman Lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred
miles--they have no idea of distance there--who would kill a forty-pound
calf if we would send him word. But it seemed rather too much veal. We
passed it up.
On and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. No little
rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the
mountains. We were tanned a blackish purple. We were saddle-sore. One of
the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested
rubbing it on the saddle. Packs slipped and were tightened. The mountain
panorama unrolled slowly to our right. And all day long the boatmen
struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now
hardly good enough for horses.
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