Adirondack Peeks Summer 2023

That's a perilous shot. —Shakespeare Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. —Shakespeare Climbing

W hoever ascended a moun tain, worthy of the name, and did not meet with some laughable experiences! Above all, who ever attempted to cheat nature out of her just dues by riding up a mountain on horseback and was not made to feel her re venge! Now this was precisely what, as a party, we purposed to do. It was five miles from the hotel to the sum mit of White Face, up two of which the path or trail,—for it was then a mere trail—was so steep as to com pel the pedestrian to crawl at times literally on his hands and knees. The man who cut the trail out had evidently never heard of the beauty of a curved line, for he turned nei ther to the right hand nor to the left, but having set his nose in a math ematically straight line with the top, conscientiously followed it. Across gulches and over boulders; down

only time in my life that I could ride or walk at the same time. I asked the landlord, as I started off, which pair of legs I was expected to attend to. He pointed out a very likely pair, and I used them. I got on so well with them that I brought them home with me, and have kept them ever since. For the first half mile I ran. Then I rested, and the horse ran. Then I let down and took another turn at it. Then the horse tried it again, and so we kept it up between us, until we came to a ravine from which the mountain sloped upward like a roof. By this time I was in good practice, and ready for almost any thing. Up, up we went; the ladies ahead and nearly out of sight. It was impossible for the horse and me to spell each other here and so we both walked—holding each other up by turns. At last we came to a long, sloping ledge, that rose at a fear ful inclination. Directly over this the trail led. A wall of rock, like the sides of a water-spout, on either hand, made turning aside impossible. I summoned up all my ener gies, got the six feet under me in as good position as I could, and with a yell calculated to start the carcass of death itself, dashed at it. Up, up we scrambled. We were twenty feet from the bottom when the pony, ei ther from exhaustion or pure wilful ness, stopped. Of course I stopped

pointed, he "went for it." I have of ten thought what an invaluable piece of property that nose would become should the owner chance to be lost on a western prairie. No danger of his walking in circles with that wonderful projection in front of him. Now, tramping is something I never admired. I can get along very well tramping down hill, but when the path begins to run upward, I al ways get in and ride. This peculiar ity runs all through our family. When I married I fortunately found a wife of the same disposition, only a little more so. The other lady of the party shared our feelings. So when we were asked whether we preferred to ride or walk, the decision was charmingly unanimous—as all fam ily decisions should be. We all voted one way—to ride. So we mounted: one lady on a side-saddle, the other a la common sense, which is the way

I always ride. I cannot describe the horses. Mine was not large enough to describe. It might have been dif ferent with a shorter man, but it took me some time after I was mounted to discover that I was mounted. I

Now, tramping is something I never admired. I can get along very well tramping down hill, but when the path begins to run upward, I always get in and ride.

finally concluded, on the whole, that I was, at least as much as I should ever be on that horse. It was the

the sides of chasms and up pre cipitous ledges, steep as a French roof—wherever that inflexible nose

"Climbing White Face" is reprinted from its original publication, Adirondack Tales , written by W. H. H. Murray and published by Richard D. Dickenson, 1878.

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