|
We didn't pick the warmest place for lunch. We stayed out where the view was sweeping, and the wind too. To help save weight, we carried concentrated foodstuffs— pumpernickel, cheese, bologna, nuts, dried fruit, chocolate—but took the curse off our dehydration with a can of fruit juice, brought along purely and forgivably for luxury—"instead of a canteen," I said, getting soft, knowing full well the Manual would not tolerate such weakness. Theoretically, we should have melted snow instead, and would indeed have done so had we really been out to make progress in all our technique of going light. Instead I chose the modified spartanism of an old friend of mine who insisted on a cold shower every morning— but explained, "I always add enough warm water to make it comfortable." We weren't going to make this trip an ordeal by hunger or by thirst. |
|||
|
