There was nothing that could be called a trail. They made their way by
clinging to projecting rocks, or stepping perilously from crack to
crevice, from shelf to hollow. The pull of the helpless Ida was
tremendous, and they snubbed her wherever projecting rocks made this
possible. She danced dizzily from crest to crest of waves. She slid
helplessly into whirlpools, she twisted over and under and fought like
a wild thing against the straining ropes. But at the end of a half
hour, she was moored in safe water, on a spit of sand on which a cotton
wood grew.
"Agnew," said Enoch, "I think we were fools not to have broken a rough
trail before we attempted this. It's obviously impossible to carry
Milton over that wall as it is."
"I thought the three of us might make it, taking turns carrying Milt on
our backs. It wastes a lot of time making trail and time is a worse
enemy to us now than the Colorado."
"That's true," agreed Enoch, "but I'm not willing to risk Milton's
vertigo on our backs."
He took a pick-ax out of the rear compartment of the boat, as he spoke
and began to break trail. The others followed suit. The rock proved
unexpectedly easy to work and in another hour, Enoch announced himself
willing to risk Milton and the stretcher on the rude path they had
hacked out.
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