It would have been unsafe for any but an experienced driver to hold the reins on those mountain roads, as Gypsy was convinced, afresh, before the ride was over.
For the first few miles the way led along the beautiful valley of the Otter Creek, and then grew suddenly steep as they began to ascend the mountain.

Such beautiful pictures unfolded before them, as they wound slowly up, that even Gypsy did not feel like talking, and it was a very silent party.
They passed through pine forests, dense and still, where the wind was hoarse, and startled squirrels flew over the fallen trunks and boughs of ruined trees.

They rode close to the edge of sheer precipices four hundred feet down, with trout-brooks, like silver threads, winding through the gorges.

Great walls of rock rose above and around them, and seemed to shut them in with a frown.

Sharp turns in the road brought them suddenly to the edge of abysses from which, in dark nights, they might have easily ridden off.