God was twirling a basketball. Soon they were walking in the long thin shadow of the thumb.
“We're almost there,” said Stanley. He could see the base of the mountain.
Now that they really were almost there, it scared him. Big Thumb was his only hope.
If there was no water, no refuge, then they'd have nothing, not even hope.
There was no exact place where the flat land stopped and the mountain began.
The ground got steeper and steeper, and then there was no doubt that they were heading up the mountain.
Stanley could no longer see Big Thumb. The slope of the mountain was in the way.
It became too steep to go straight up. Instead they zigzagged back and forth,
increasing their altitude by small increments every time they changed directions.
Patches of weeds dotted the mountainside. They walked from one patch to another, using the weeds as footholds.
As they got higher, the weeds got thicker. Many had thorns, and they had to be careful walking through them.
Stanley would have liked to stop and rest, but he was afraid they'd never get started again.
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