The mountain trail following the upper Eleanor feeder canal was steep, rocky. Then he choked with dry mountain pine needles that made every boot-fall a test of balance.
Tomas Reed climbed with his pack frame cinched tight against his ribs. The seventy pounds of surveying gear, chain, and thick parchment pressed heavily into his collarbones. But he kept his pace steady, matching his breathing to the four-beat rhythm of a valley cart driver. Inhale for two paces, exhale for two paces, keeping the weight centered directly over his hips. His left wrist brace creaked softly with each stride as he gripped the ash walking staff with his right hand, using the wood to take thirty percent of the grade off his knees.
Above them, the feeder canal curved around the contours of the mountain like a dry, stone-lined trench. It was an impressive piece of country stonework. Five feet wide, four feet deep, its upright walls faced with squared blocks of gray banded rock held together with weather-resistant volcanic cement mortar. For nearly a mile, they had walked along its lip, finding nothing but dry dead leaves, wind-blown gravel. The occasional bleached skeleton of a toad trapped in the empty stone water chute.
