138 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
now that would make even a fair substitute. At 
noon we suffered most. We were accustomed to 
take with us only a couple of jam sandwiches, but 
though the amount of lunch was small, we missed it 
greatly, and scarcely ate the bread and bacon we 
tried instead. 
At last we left Palomas and moved north again 
to Morgan Creek. This was a small stream in a 
narrow, rocky canyon, that drained about the rough- 
est and wildest patch of country we had seen. But 
we went at it hopefully for we could see from the 
ridge the goal of our present ambition, the boundary 
line which marks the northern limit of the Gila and 
the beginning of the Datil National Forest. 
In less than a week we were through. Tired in 
muscles and in nerves, weak from overwork, insuffi- 
cient food and the heat, we still felt cheerful—for 
the east side was done. During the last few days 
we worked on bacon and beans, but did not much 
care. We had completed, we knew, a difficult task, 
asking no odds of circumstances, and we jubilated 
feebly but wholeheartedly at its conclusion. 
And when we hit the long trail to the top, when, 
as we ascended, the grateful coolness of the air from 
the heights struck our faces, when a little later we 
smelled again the damp, delicious odour of the firs 
and entered the soft twilight of the heavy forest, we 
breathed a huge breath of relief. The change had 
the refreshing quality of a bath after a wrestling 
bout, of rain following a long dry spell. 
