The two chums looked at one another consultingly. The hill that was known as Mountain Ridge could be seen to the west. It towered majestically among the lesser hills which bounded the valley in which Centerville reposed.
“We might make an all day outing of it,” considered Max. “Take our packs and lunch and eat in the shack. Too bad we can’t just cut across country and save a couple miles but the climbing’s too steep. There’ll be some great natural slides coming back. I’m game to go. How about you, Phil?”
“Majority rules,” smiled Phil. “Count me in. When do we start?”
“How’s ten o’clock tomorrow morning?” Bill proposed.
“Suits us,” Phil and Max responded.
The woods after the great snow were a gorgeous sight. Fir trees plastered white; bare trees coated limb for limb; shrubbery weighted down and all but the highest buried from view; hillsides lost in a glossy expanse; tips of telephone poles all that could be seen in drifted sections; occasionally a glimpse of old Mother Earth in windswept areas; everything in the crisp out-of-doors bearing mute or glowing testimony of the storm’s handiwork.
Reaching the top of Mountain Ridge after a leisurely trip of three hours, the chums gazed about in spellbound admiration of the spectacle.
“Never saw anything like this!” Max exclaimed, finally. “It gives me the feeling of being somewhere that no one else has been before ... as though we’re members of an exploring party. Look—our ski tracks are the only sign of any humans about. No one has broken a trail up through here since Thursday!”
“Naturally not,” said Bill. “This is a little used road we’re standing on anyway. It probably won’t be cleared for several weeks yet.”