This one mountain grade is a
mile and a half long. But the really dangerous place is near the
middle turn, where a warm spring trickles out of the rocks and in
winter forms thick ice over the road; and if this ice cannot be broken
up, neither man nor beast can walk over, as it is always thicker on
the inner side.
I was so stiffened from the overheating and try-to-fool dancing at
Mrs. Gordon's, it was with the greatest difficulty I could walk at all
on the slippery hills, and was constantly falling down, much to the
amusement of Faye and the driver. But ride down some of them I would
not. At Canon Ferry, where we remained over night, the ice in the
Missouri was cracked, and there were ominous reports like pistol shots
down in the canon below. At first Faye thought it would be impossible
to come over, but the driver said he could get everything across, if
he could come at once. Faye walked over with me, and then went back to
assist the driver with the mules that were still on the bank refusing
to step upon the ice. But Faye led one leader, and the driver lashed
and yelled at all of them, and in this way they crossed, each mule
snorting at every step.
There were the most dreadful groans and creakings and loud reports
during the entire night, and in the morning the river was clear,
except for a few pieces of ice that were still floating down from
above.
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