Shortly the
sky thickened again, and it began to rain.
Travel had been precarious before; but now its difficulties were
infinitely increased. The clay sub-soil to the rubble turned
slippery and adhesive. On the sides of the mountains it was
almost impossible to keep a footing. We speedily became wet, our
hands puffed and purple, our boots sodden with the water that had
trickled from our clothing into them.
"Over the next ridge," Uncle Jim promised us, "is an old shack
that I fixed up seven years ago. We can all make out to get in
it."
Over the next ridge, therefore, we slipped and slid, thanking the
god of luck for each ten feet gained. It was growing cold. The
cliffs and palisades near at hand showed dimly behind the falling
rain; beyond them waved and eddied the storm mists through which
the mountains revealed and concealed proportions exaggerated into
unearthly grandeur. Deep in the clefts of the box canons the
streams were filling. The roar of their rapids echoed from
innumerable precipices. A soft swish of water usurped the world
of sound.
Nothing more uncomfortable or more magnificent could be imagined.
We rode shivering. Each said to himself, "I can stand
this--right now--at the present moment.
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