The Skipper had the next room to his, and told us that at bedtime he washed himself all over, cleaned his teeth, and brushed his hair: he then stayed in bed till eleven o’clock next morning, when he rose and went through the whole performance again. Now we did not mind him washing, or brushing his teeth; we even respect him for doing it; but brushing his hair was a simple insult to common sense, and a wicked waste of time; for not a bristle on his head—whether hair, moustache, or beard—was more than an eighth of an inch long, and all of it was much stiffer than any hair-brush yet made. It was suggested that perhaps he was only combing his hair-brush with his head; and with this explanation we had to rest content.
We luxuriated on meat to-night, for they have actually caught and killed a sheep.
We fish with considerable success now at every odd moment of the day, as the canoes are moored to the shore, not six yards from the house; and it takes no time to get into them and push out into the deep lake, or hover about the brink of the long rapids where the lake begins to be a river.
[CHAPTER XV.]
BACK TO CAMP.
August 9.—
The morning was again very wet, but we are men of great decision and firmness; what our friends call ‘obstinate’ if they are civil, and ‘pig-headed’ when they want to be disagreeable, as friends usually do.
Therefore we started for the camp after lunch: that is to say, the Skipper and Esau started, as John remained to await the arrival of his baggage, for which Ivar had been despatched. At present his wardrobe is not very extensive, and he will perhaps be more comfortably fixed after the arrival of his valise. He has one coat, one flannel shirt without collar, one pair of trousers, socks, and boots, one pipe, one cap; one fishing rod, line, and fly-book; one watch-chain, and a newspaper of July 23.
About two miles from Gjendesheim on the north side of the lake there is an apparently perpendicular cliff, half a mile long and over 1,000 feet high: this is called the Beseggen, and at the top of it lies Bes Vand, so close to the edge of the cliff that it seems impossible to believe that the lake is 1,000 feet above Gjendin, with nothing but a narrow strip of rock to hold it within its bounds, and yet the books say it is so, and we always believe anything we find in a book. The cliff looks perfectly unscaleable, but we believe it has been descended twice by an Englishman who used to live here, and once by a Norwegian youth.
Bes Vand is so high that fish will not live in it; the professional liars of these parts say it freezes solid every winter, and kills any that have been put into it. It is a little difficult to believe this statement, as it is a large and deep lake; but John says that a man who will believe a guide-book can believe anything; so we all do our best to swallow it (the statement, not the lake; we have hardly enough whisky to make the latter palatable).
Gjendin is liable like all mountain lakes to be suddenly visited by squalls, so that we generally like to paddle pretty near the side, but on this voyage it was not safe to do so; for under the influence of the rain, which was coming down as if it had never done so before, stones and boulders were rattling and crashing down the sides of the lake, and plunging into it, in a most alarming manner; and as far as we could see, the steep black rocks were thickly streaked with white lines, denoting torrents rushing down in places where ordinarily none were to be seen.