With our compass lost in the blizzard, young Wainwright and I gamely vowed to soldier on as best we could. Shouldering our packs, we inched our way down the treacherous cliffs while I attempted to get our bearings by watching the sun. This, however, proved fruitless, as the sun seemed to dart capriciously across the morning sky. Yet it was not the sun that shifted, but ourselves, and it was then I realized we had become marooned on the dreaded… Index Mountains.
Chapter 23, in Which Our Heroes Find Themselves in Grave Peril
February 8, 2012 by