“We’d better get going ourselves,” Sandy said. “Or he’ll be halfway up the other side.”
“What we need for this maneuver,” Mike said as he braced himself for a take-off, “is a little armor for the seat of our pants. I have the feeling we’re going to need it.”
Sandy grinned at him, took a deep breath and jumped. His feet ground into a bed of pebbles and suddenly he was sliding downhill. Clawing wildly to keep upright, he felt the rocks brake to a halt. Before he fell he managed to catch himself and push off for another short spurt.
Their progress was remarkably fast. They made the 700-foot descent in a matter of minutes, arriving at the bottom shaken, bruised, but triumphant.
“Good for you,” Hank said as they came hurtling down to join him. “You made that like experts. It’s a little like skiing, isn’t it?”
Mike managed a lopsided grin as he shook out a pocketful of pebbles. “Think we’ll make the Olympics?” he asked.
“Not this year, Mike,” Hank answered.
“Good,” grunted Mike. “I can wait. Where to now?”
“We’ll follow the canyon down to the other side of the peak and go up there.”
The south face of the peak was covered with scrubby pine that somehow managed to grow despite a fifty-degree slope. Burdened by their rifles and full packs, they began to haul themselves up, using tree trunks, rock outcroppings and anything else that came to hand. Slowly they inched along, scraping on their stomachs through soaking wet, sharp pine needles that cut their faces and dripped water down the backs of their necks.