Two miles beyond Crater Lake lay Happy Camp--so named because here
was found the uppermost fringe of the timber line, where men might
warm themselves by fire again. Scarcely could it be called timber,
for it was a dwarf rock-spruce that never raised its loftiest
branches higher than a foot above the moss, and that twisted and
grovelled like a pig-vegetable under the moss. Here, on the trail
leading into Happy Camp, in the first sunshine of half a dozen
days, Old Tarwater rested his pack against a huge boulder and
caught his breath. Around this boulder the trail passed, laden men
toiling slowly forward and men with empty pack-straps limping
rapidly back for fresh loads. Twice Old Tarwater essayed to rise
and go on, and each time, warned by his shakiness, sank back to
recover more strength. From around the boulder he heard voices in
greeting, recognized Charles Crayton's voice, and realized that at
last they had met up with Young Liverpool. Quickly, Charles
plunged into business, and Tarwater heard with great distinctness
every word of Charles' unflattering description of him and the
proposition to give him passage to Dawson.

"A dam fool proposition," was Liverpool's judgment, when Charles
had concluded. "An old granddad of seventy! If he's on his last
legs, why in hell did you hook up with him? If there's going to be
a famine, and it looks like it, we need every ounce of grub for
ourselves. We only out-fitted for four, not five."

"It's all right," Tarwater heard Charles assuring the other.
"Don't get excited. The old codger agreed to leave the final
decision to you when we caught up with you. All you've got to do
is put your foot down and say no."