noon
_ I have passed through two days of torture in that wagon . When we were not following the rocky beds of creeks , or sinking to the hubs in mudholes , we were winding around precipitous mountainsides where a misstep of the mules would have sent us hundreds of feet down . Nowhere was there an actual road , -- as Howard expressed it , `` This country is intended for nag-travel , not for wagons . '' The mules climbed over logs and bowlders , and up and down great shelves of rock , the jolting , crashing , banging were indescribable , my poor bones were racked until I actually wept from the pain and would have turned back long before noon of the first day if I could ; the thirteen hours -- during which we made twenty-six miles -- seemed thirteen eons , and I fell into the feather-bed at the stopover place that first night hat , dress , shoes and all . Yesterday , having bought two pillows to sit on , I found the jolting more endurable , and was able to see some of the beauty through which we were passing . There is no level land , nothing but creeks and mountains , the latter steep , though not very high , and covered mostly with virgin forest , though here and there a cornfield runs half-way up , and a lonely log house nestles at the base . There were looms and spinning-wheels in the porches of these homes , and always numbers of children ran out to see us pass .