DOWN AVALANCHE CREEK, AND OUT 331 



over those mountain trails is a task that the strongest 

 party manager may well shrink from. 



In getting out of Avalanche Valley, we had no choice 

 but to walk logs for several hours and several miles. 

 Without the hob nails in our shoes, it would have been 

 quite impossible. It would have been much easier and 

 safer without our rifles, but for a hunter to abandon his 

 rifle means the last extremity. While the dew was on 

 the logs, we gave our undivided attention to the struggle 

 to get on and yet keep from falling. As the morning 

 drew on, and the dew dried up, we became more confi- 

 dent, and went faster. It was very funny, but we planted 

 our feet- just as a mountain goat does when walking a 

 ledge, — very firmly and stiffly at each step, to get a sure 

 foothold on the smooth wood. 



Although I had lost eleven pounds since entering 

 the mountains, my weight was still one hundred and 

 seventy-four, and I dreaded the disgrace of broken bones 

 on the last day. Many a time as we crossed logs that were 

 fully ten feet from the ground, it seemed impossible that 

 we should be permitted to get out without a break. But 

 we did. We got so much in practice that we pegged 

 along not only rapidly but recklessly, and took chances 

 that were better not taken twice. Toward the end of the 

 log-running, Mr. Phillips had a bad fall, and came very 

 near Calamity. He did not fall far, but his foot was 

 caught and held so firmly that he was glad to hang on and 

 without moving wait for me to come up and help him to 

 release his foot and rise. At first we both thought that 

 his ankle was " gone." 



