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Show Feathers would have loved The Scales. The same things I had been packing for two and a half months were strewn along the trail, free for the taking. Plus live chickens in crates, trunks of clothing, brass beds, mirrors, glassware, guitars, tin tubs, umbrellas, and canoes. Almost anything a person could want-if he would pack it. But since it was all above timberline-and firewood, I don11 suppose Feathers ever made it to The Scales. He would have loved it, though. The most difficult stretch of the entire trail was the last half mile from The Scales to the Summit-a forty-five-degree climb on ice. Earlier the Chilkoot packers had hacked tiny steps in the ice, like a stairway, and the stampeders followed. They called it the "Golden Stairs." Tip and I joined the long dark line. We inched our way upward, grasping each step with our hands, hoping we would not slip. Every few yards shelves were cut into the snow where we could step out and rest, but we did not want to leave the line for fear we would not get back in. About halfway up Tip stopped. She would not move forward and she could not move back. "Keep going," I whispered. I pushed her legs with my head. "Keep going!" "I can't move," she cried. "I'm going to fall backward." |