However, everybody got across to the snow.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over!” exclaimed Mr. Stone. “That conglomerate is hung exactly at the angle of repose. One degree more tilt, and she’d slide off into the cañon. Where do we go from here?”
The doctor pointed to the great west snow-field that lay between them and a high shoulder, which extended toward the northwest.
“We have to traverse that snow-field,” he said.
Everybody looked at it. Between them and it were four or five little snow slopes, each about a hundred yards wide, and separated by ridges of broken lava fragments. The great west snow-field itself looked to be a quarter of a mile wide, or even more. It was practically unbroken, except for one island of lava near the middle, looked smooth as glass, was tilted at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, and stretched right up to the precipice of the summit pinnacle, and right down to the top of the precipice which dropped to the cañon. If you slipped when you were out on it, and started down, it was certain death. Bennie didn’t need to be told a second time why fifty per cent of the climbers must have their alpenstocks driven in at every step!
The doctor now took his scout ax out of the sheath at his belt, and stepped out on the first snow-field. Being on the western side of the mountain the sun had not yet touched it, of course, and even when he drove his boot down hard, he could not make enough of an impression for a good footing. So, holding his stock in his right hand and driving it deep into the snow at each stride, he leaned down and with the ax in his left hand cut out a chunk of snow—one blow inward against the slope, and a second downward. This took out the chunk in such a way that a very small but level step was made. He reached as far ahead as he could, and the steps were three feet apart.
Bennie watched him carefully, glad not to look either up or down the terrifying slope. While his uncle was cutting, with his stock driven in, Bennie took a step behind him and drove his stock deep. Then he waited, clinging to it, while the doctor pulled his stock out and moved one step ahead. As the doctor cut and moved, cut and moved, Bennie discovered that there was a regular rhythm to it, and the only way to keep this rhythm unbroken was to pull your stock up at the right instant—that is, when you saw the man ahead drive his in. If you delayed doing it, you broke the rhythm. But to pull your stock up at the right instant wasn’t so easy as it sounds. Once driven two feet deep into the packed snow, the sharp point wedged there almost like a nail in wood. You had to pull it out with one hand, and pull it out quickly, without stopping your stride and above all without upsetting your balance on the tiny, icy steps. It took muscle. It took a lot of muscle, and it strained your back and shoulder.
When they all were across the first snow slope, and were resting a moment on the lava spine, Uncle Billy said, “Well, Bennie, how do you like it so far? Getting any exercise yet?”
“I always thought you climbed mountains with your legs,” Bennie answered. “But I feel as if I was climbing with my back and shoulder. Gosh, it’s hard work pulling that old alpenstock out!”
“They say a good mountain climber is a combination of a weak head and a strong back,” his uncle laughed.