“Right-o!” said Peanut. “Weather man must have known we were up here.” The party ate a good breakfast, chiefly of fresh eggs, which Lou ran down to the Crawford House and bought while the fire was being made. Then the packs were carefully packed, the blanket rolls firmly strapped, compasses examined and stowed in the pockets, and the party was ready for the ascent. They moved rather slowly into the path, and turned upward, for the loads were heavy. They were carrying enough provisions for four days, the evaporated vegetables and powdered milk and eggs having been largely saved for this final trip over the bare Presidentials, where they would be far from any sources of fresh supply, and their weight increased by flour, a little butter, some coffee, bacon, potted ham and sweet chocolate purchased the day before in Franconia. “I feel like a packhorse,” said Peanut. “Don’t you mean a donkey?” Art laughed. “Speaking of horses,” said Mr. Rogers, as they plodded up the trail through the woods, “this Crawford Bridle Path was made originally for horses, little burros I suppose they were, and folks even when I was a boy used to go up on their backs. I suppose the cog railroad put that form of transportation gradually out of business. Now nobody goes up this way except on Shanks’ mare.” “When was this path made?” asked Frank. “It was the first path cut on the Presidential range,” Mr. Rogers replied. “Abel Crawford opened it in 1819, as far as the summit of Clinton--three miles from the Crawford House. It’s another five and a half or six to the top of Washington, however, and it wasn’t till about 1840, I believe, that one of Abel’s sons converted it into a bridle path and carried it on to Washington. You see, by that time, people had begun to visit the mountains for their vacations in large numbers.” “So the part we are on is nearly a hundred years old!” Lou exclaimed. They plodded steadily upward, by a fairly steep grade, though not a difficult one. The rising sun was now striking down into the spruce and hemlock woods about them, but they noted that it was rather a hazy sun. “I bet there’s a cloud on Washington,” Art muttered. “What’ll we do if there is? Can we climb in it?” Frank asked. “That all depends,” the Scout Master replied, “upon how bad a cloud it is. If we get into a storm up there, a real storm, we’ll beat it back, you bet! I haven’t told you, I guess, that as late as 1900 two men lost their lives on this path in a snow-storm on the 30th of June--that’s hardly more than a week earlier than to-day. Down here it’s midsummer, but up there on the five thousand or six thousand foot level it’s still early spring.” “Golly!” said Peanut, in such a heartfelt manner that the rest laughed--though they laughed rather soberly.