Ears that had grown tired of the noises of cities grew rested. But our
ears were more rested than our bodies.
I have always believed that it is easier to go downhill than to go up.
This is not true. I say it with the deepest earnestness. After the first
five hundred feet of descent, progress down became agonizing. The
something that had gone wrong with my knees became terribly wrong; they
showed a tendency to bend backward; they shook and quivered.
The last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful
experiences of my life. A broken thing, I crept into camp and tendered
mute apologies to Budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "Buddy."
(Although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.)
The remainder of that day, Mrs. Fred and I lay under a mosquito-canopy,
played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. The Forest Supervisor
climbed Lyman Glacier. The Head and the Little Boy made the circuit of
the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its
outlet. And the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which
was about to commence.
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