They were up before daylight, and having arranged the night before for an early breakfast, they were ready to start on their long and uncertain tramp just as the sun was showing in the east.
It was a beautiful morning; such, as Jack declared, is made only in northern Maine. The thermometer on the porch showed an even zero and the air was still and clear.
“It doesn’t seem possible that we’ll be sweating before noon,” Jack declared, as he drank in huge gulps of the stinging air. “Are you sure you can find the way?” he asked, as they strapped their packs on their backs.
“Well, we want to hit North West Carry first, and I know the way that far anyhow, as I went over the trail from here once with father. It was that winter you had pneumonia,” Bob replied, as he started off at a rapid walk.
They had no need for snow-shoes now, as the crust was hard enough to hold a horse, so they carried them strapped on top of the packs.
“We ought to make the Carry by noon easy,” he declared, as he swung along. “It’s not more than fifteen miles from here. We’ll get dinner there and then we won’t have to start on our supply till night.”
As the sun rose higher and higher, the temperature seemed to more than keep pace with it, and by nine o’clock they were glad to stop and take off their heavy mackinaws, which they added to their packs. The sun was now getting in his work on the snow, and soon they were obliged to don their snow-shoes. And now their progress became much slower as the melting snow showed a decided tendency to cling to the shoes until they became so heavy that they seemed like lead.
“Gee whiz, but this bears a great resemblance to work,” Jack panted, as he stopped and leaned against a big spruce. “How far do you think we are from the Carry?” he asked.
“Not more than a mile or two,” Bob replied cheerfully. “Getting tired?”
“Well, I don’t know as you’d call it tired,” Jack laughed. “But I never knew snow could get so sticky.”