hands puffed and purple, our boots sodden with the water that had
trickled from our clothing into them.

"Over the next ridge," Uncle Jim promised us, "is an old shack
that I fixed up seven years ago. We can all make out to get in
it."

Over the next ridge, therefore, we slipped and slid, thanking the
god of luck for each ten feet gained. It was growing cold. The
cliffs and palisades near at hand showed dimly behind the falling
rain; beyond them waved and eddied the storm mists through which
the mountains revealed and concealed proportions exaggerated into
unearthly grandeur. Deep in the clefts of the box canons the
streams were filling. The roar of their rapids echoed from
innumerable precipices. A soft swish of water usurped the world
of sound.

Nothing more uncomfortable or more magnificent could be imagined.
We rode shivering. Each said to himself, "I can stand
this--right now--at the present moment. Very well; I will do so,
and I will refuse to look forward even five minutes to what I may
have to stand," which is the true philosophy of tough times and
the only effective way to endure discomfort.

By luck we reached the bottom of that canon without a fall. It
was wide, well grown with oak trees, and belly deep in rich horse
feed--an ideal place to camp were it not for the fact that a thin
sheet of water a quarter of an inch deep was flowing over the
entire surface of the ground. We spurred on desperately,
thinking of a warm fire and a chance to steam.