Bennie looked. All he said was “Wow!” and passed them to Dumplin’.
“Do we climb that?” Dumplin’ demanded.
“We do, if we get to the top of Jefferson,” the doctor answered. “You see, that top peak, or pinnacle, is absolutely straight up and down. It’s just a slab of lava set up on edge and covered with snow and ice. The only place it can possibly be climbed is on the northern end, so we’ve got to get around to the northern end. My plan is to go up from Hunt’s Cove by the southwest spur to the 7,000-foot level, where the permanent snow begins, then traverse the big west snow-field and get up on that first northwest shoulder, which apparently leads us right up to the north end of the pinnacle. It looks possible. Well, Norman, we’re ready.”
Norman led the way southward into the woods at the rim of the Cove. As soon as they were in the deep shadows of the evergreens, they were on snow, and deep snow. Some drifts were still as much as ten feet deep, and so hard that the horses barely sank over their hoofs.
“The trail is somewhere underneath us,” Norman called back.
He traveled for almost a mile above the rim, and then led the way over. By zigzagging through the woods, on the steeply pitched snow, they were able to ride about half the way down. Then he called for them all to dismount.
“Want to get a good motion picture, Mr. Stone?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The big camera was unpacked, and Norman and Mr. Stone disappeared with it, down the steep pitch ahead. Ten minutes later Norman came back.
“Now,” said he, “each man lead his horse. Keep as far away from him as you can, and jump fast, or he’ll step on you. Go in single file, and Joe and Bill you go last and drive the pack horses ahead of you. Come on—follow me.”