At the end of a quarter of a mile he desired to rest.  But the Indians kept on.  He stayed with them, and kept his place in the line.  At the half-mile he was convinced that he was incapable of another step, yet he gritted his teeth, kept his place, and at the end of the mile was amazed that he was still alive.  Then, in some strange way, came the thing called second wind, and the next mile was almost easier than the first.  The third mile nearly killed him, but, though half delirious with pain and fatigue, he never whimpered.  And then, when he felt he must surely faint, came the rest.  Instead of sitting in the straps, as was the custom of the white packers, the Indians slipped out of the shoulder- and head-straps and lay at ease, talking and smoking.  A full half-hour passed before they made another start.  To Kit’s surprise he found himself a fresh man, and “long hauls and long rests” became his newest motto.

The pitch of Chilkoot was all he had heard of it, and many were the occasions when he climbed with hands as well as feet.  But when he reached the crest of the divide in the thick of a driving snow-squall, it was in the company of his Indians, and his secret pride was that he had come through with them and never squealed and never lagged.  To be almost as good as an Indian was a new ambition to cherish.

When he had paid off the Indians and seen them depart, a stormy darkness was falling, and he was left alone, a thousand feet above timber-line, on the backbone of a mountain.  Wet to the waist, famished and exhausted, he would have given a year’s income for a fire and a cup of coffee.  Instead, he ate half a dozen cold flapjacks and crawled into the folds of the partly unrolled tent.  As he dozed off he had time for only one fleeting thought, and he grinned with vicious pleasure at the picture of John Bellew in the days to follow, masculinely back-tripping his four hundred pounds up Chilcoot.  As for himself, even though burdened with two thousand pounds, he was bound down the hill.

In the morning, stiff from his labours and numb with the frost, he rolled out of the canvas, ate a couple of pounds of uncooked bacon, buckled the straps on a hundred pounds, and went down the rocky way.  Several hundred yards beneath, the trail led across a small glacier and down to Crater Lake.  Other men packed across the glacier.  All that day he dropped his packs at the glacier’s upper edge, and, by virtue of the shortness of the pack, he put his straps on one hundred and fifty pounds each load.  His astonishment at being able to do it never abated.  For two dollars he bought from an Indian three leathery sea-biscuits, and out of these, and a huge quantity of raw bacon, made several meals.  Unwashed, unwarmed, his clothing wet with sweat, he slept another night in the canvas.

In the early morning he spread a tarpaulin on the ice, loaded it with three-quarters of a ton, and started to pull.  Where the pitch of the glacier accelerated, his load likewise accelerated, overran him, scooped him in on top, and ran away with him.