He looked at his watch. It was half-past three. “Now, less than two miles! Keep moving briskly. There’s nothing to fear now. This storm is over, I’m sure. A fire waits on top!”
They started out at a good pace over the plateau of Bigelow Lawn, Lou looking eagerly at the numerous wild flowers in the rock crannies. The snow was already melting, but it only made the trail the more slippery, and this, coupled with the high wind, made walking difficult. The girl and her companion had no poles, so Rob and Art lent them theirs, and Rob walked beside the girl to help her over bad places.
A third of a mile above the refuge they came upon the Boott Spur Trail, leading off to the right, down the long ridge of the spur, southward.
“Tuckerman’s Ravine is in there, to the east of Boott Spur,” said the Scout Master. “It seems to be filled with clouds now.”
The clouds, however, were off the spur, and though now, as the summit path swung rather sharply toward the north and began to go up steeply, they were entering into the vapor about the cone of Washington, it was much less dense than during the morning, and they could see the path ahead without much difficulty. This path was something like a trench in the rocks, apparently made by picking up loose stones and piling them on either side till the bottom was smooth enough to walk on—or, rather, not too rough to walk on.
“This path’s a cinch now,” said Peanut, going into the lead.
Every one, however, as the trail grew steeper and steeper, began to pant, and pause often for breath.
“What’s the matter with my wind?” asked Art. “Is it the fog in my lungs?”
“It’s the altitude,” Mr. Rogers laughed. “It oughtn’t to bother you boys much, though. You are young. I’m the one who should be short breathed. The older you get, the less ready your heart is to respond to high altitudes.”
“I don’t mind it,” sang back Peanut. “Art feels it because he’s so fat!”