They resumed walking until about four-thirty, when Russ consulted the walk-o-meter strapped to his leg. “Well, we made fifteen miles today. That’s not bad,” he said. “Let’s call it a day.”
Quiz groaned as he dropped his pack to the ground. “I am so pooped, I could crawl into my bedroll right this minute.”
“Without supper?” Jerry asked incredulously.
“Frankly, yes.”
Russ frowned. “None of that, Quiz. You’ve got to eat, even if you have to force every mouthful down. If you don’t, you’ll be weak as a cat tomorrow.”
Sandy looked around at the tall trees towering over them like giants with their arms outstretched. A chill ran along his spine. “Have you ever noticed how nature seems to work against you when you’re out in the wilderness like this? It’s constantly playing tricks on you. Like Quiz being too tired to eat, or people falling asleep in the snow and freezing to death. All your instincts seem to be wrong. It’s scary, sort of.”
Russell Steele nodded soberly. “The Indians used to say that the wilderness spirits resented the intrusion of the white man because he came to destroy the forests and the wild beasts. They attributed all kinds of devilment to the spirits. Whenever a white man was lost in the woods, mauled by a bear, injured by a falling tree or struck by lightning, the tribal medicine men would nod their heads wisely.”
“Heathen superstition,” Quiz sniffed.
Jerry looked around nervously. “Not so loud, huh. Just in case.”
Sandy and his uncle laughed. “Okay,” Russ said. “That’s all the folklore for one day. Let’s eat.”