“It’s no fun all alone,” Art replied, rather sheepishly, while the rest laughed.
The sun was not yet up as they got breakfast ready, and the valley behind them and the ravine ahead were full of white mist. Only the rocky pinnacle of the Lion’s Head to their right, and the cliffs of Boott Spur to the left stood up above the vapor. The coffee smelled good in the cold air, and Peanut toasted a great piece of Art’s bread, and varied his breakfast by making himself scrambled eggs on toast as a special treat. They broke camp as the sun was rising, and by the time they had climbed into the floor of the ravine the shadow of the Lion’s Head was beginning to climb down the cliffs of Boott Spur, and in Pinkham Notch behind them they could see the billows of white mist tossing and stirring, Lou said exactly as if a giant was sleeping underneath, and tossing his bedclothes.
“That’s how Winthrop Packard, the bird expert, once described it,” said Mr. Rogers.
When they reached the snow arch, the path swung to the right, and ascended a pile of debris which had come down from the cliffs above. When the path had surmounted the arch, it turned to the left, and passed under the overhanging cliffs at the top of the head wall. It was very steep and rough, and at one point was covered with snow, or, rather, snow packed into ice. Here the going was extremely treacherous, and the party moved slowly, with the utmost caution, using the staffs on every step. But they got past without accident, and soon found themselves at the top of the wall. At the top was a long sloping “lawn,” leading to the summit cone, the “lawn” consisting of grasses and flowers and moss between the gray stones. They were in full morning sunlight for a few moments, and every stone on the summit pyramid stood out sharp against the sky. But all the world below them, except the tops of the surrounding mountains, was buried under the white vapor.
“Above the clouds!” cried Peanut.
“But not for long,” said Art. “Lou’s giant is picking up his bedclothes and coming after us!”
Sure enough, as they looked back, they saw the white mist rising from Pinkham Notch, sucking in through Tuckerman’s Ravine, and seeming to follow them up the path. Already a wisp was curling over Boott Spur and drifting slowly across the lawn.
“Ding it!” cried Peanut, “is it never clear on this old mountain? I’m getting so I hate clouds. This path is none too easy to find as it is.”
“Well, let’s keep ahead of the giant, then,” Mr. Rogers said.
They walked on more rapidly, noting that the wind was actually from the north, a gentle breeze, just strong enough to hold the rising vapors back and let them keep ahead. Presently their path crossed a dim trail which seemed to come from Boott Spur and lead northeastward toward the Chandler Ridge. It was the Six Husbands’ Trail.