Читать книгу With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps онлайн

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Ah! good reader, have you ever carried a swag, a real swag—not a Swiss knapsack—but a real, torturing, colonial swag? When you take it up and sling it on your back in the orthodox fashion you remark: ‘Yes; I think it does weigh fifty pounds.’ In ten minutes your estimate of its weight has doubled. In an hour you begin to wonder why Nature has been so foolish as to make men who will carry swags; bad language seems to slip out ‘quite in a casual way,’ and you begin to bend forward and do the ‘lift.’ But the ‘lift’ does not seem to fulfil quite all that is said in its praise, for soon the torturing burden settles down again and drags on to your shoulders more heavily than ever. After a bit of nice balancing over loose moraine the swag triumphs. Down you go, and the wretched thing worries you, whilst you bark your fingers and swear horribly, bruising your knees and shins, and cursing the day on which you saw the light of a hard and feelingless world. You recover and repeat the performance as before, and by the time your day’s work is done you find out to your own demonstrated satisfaction that the burden weighs at least five hundred-weight. You sling it off and give it a malicious kick, with the result that you break a thermometer or some such delicate instrument. Then you try to walk, but stagger about like a drunken man; there is no small to your back, your back tendons are puffy and tired like those of an old horse, your head swims, and your eye is dim. Patience and rest, however, gradually bring you round, and soon you regain strength and spirits in feeling that at least you have conquered a day’s difficulties and have brought your board and lodging so far with you.