TRAVEL IN THE MOUNTAINS 39 



And this reminds me of the story our Charlie and 

 Mack told me, jointly, of their forced march in the dead 

 of winter, from Bull River, thirty miles over two ranges 

 of mountains, and down Goat Creek through deep snow, 

 all in one day. 



" That," said Charlie, " was the only time I ever threw 

 down my pack; but I surely threw it down that night, 

 and only two miles from the Dutchman's cabin. For 

 the last two hours of that tramp I walked just like a 

 wooden machine. I was all the time afraid I would fall 

 down] for I knew that as sure as I did, I couldn't get 

 up! Cold? It was forty below zero, and we hadn't had 

 any too much to eat, either. At last I did throw away 

 my pack, and when we finally got to Charlie's cabin, I 

 was the worst played-out I ever was in my whole life. 

 I couldn't have gone another mile, not to have saved my 

 own life." 



For about three miles from Wild-Cat Charlie's cabin, 

 along the west bank of the Elk, we jogged on northward 

 at a rapid pace. At last we reached the mouth of a creek 

 that came brawling down from the goat country. It was 

 Goat Creek; and turning into its narrow valley, the 

 climb to the summits began. 



In that country it is no uncommon thing for a moun- 

 tain stream to drop at the rate of three hundred feet to 

 the mile. Often the descent is even more than that. As 

 a rule, you do not realize how much you are climbing 

 until you reach the source of the trouble and start down. 

 You climb up slowly, with constant meanderings, and 

 cannot gauge the elevation gained ; but in coming down, 



