The boys tightened their pack straps and nodded.
“Then let’s go. We’ll have to move fast. He’s not going to stay up there all morning.”
Hank set a fast, sure-footed pace over a ledge that curled around the peak like a vine. Sandy and Mike followed as best they could, concentrating on keeping their balance as they worked their way over rain-slippery rock, inches away from about 700 feet of space that yawned emptily to their left.
As they came puffing around the first turn, Hank was waiting for them, a tree branch in either hand.
“We’re in luck,” he said, pointing down. “A rockslide.”
Sandy peered over the edge. Hundreds of small pieces of rock had spilled down the side of the mountain, forming a steep pathway to the floor of the canyon below.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Mike asked. “Won’t the whole thing give way?”
“It’ll slide, if that’s what you mean,” Hank replied. “But it won’t all come tumbling down at once. It’s sort of like running down a long sand dune. The particles of sand keep slipping downhill, but the hill itself holds together. Use these branches for balance and you’ll get down without any trouble. Here, watch me.”
With a carefree abandon that made the boys gasp, Hank flung himself down on the river of rock. The force of his leap made the slide slip forward about six feet. Rocks about the size of a man’s fist clattered and grated downhill in a sagging wave with Hank riding on the crest. When it stopped, he plunged his branch down and leaned on it to catch his balance. Lifting one leg free, he used his makeshift alpenstock like a pole vault to propel himself forward a second time.
“Look at him go!” Mike said admiringly.