The natives pitched the tent as near to the crater as was safe, with
one pole in a crack, and the other in the great fissure, which was
filled to within three feet of the top with snow and ice. As the
opening of the tent was on the crater side, we could not get in or
out without going down into this crevasse. The tent walls were held
down with stones to make it as snug as possible, but snug is a word
of the lower earth, and has no meaning on that frozen mountain top.
The natural floor was of rough slabs of lava, laid partly edgewise,
so that a newly macadamised road would have been as soft a bed. The
natives spread the horse blankets over it, and I arranged the
camping blankets, made my own part of the tent as comfortable as
possible by putting my inverted saddle down for a pillow, put on my
last reserve of warm clothing, took the food out of the saddle bags,
and then felt how impossible it was to exert myself in the rarified
air, or even to upbraid Mr. Green for having forgotten the tea, of
which I had reminded him as often as was consistent with politeness!
This discovery was not made till after we had boiled the kettle, and
my dismay was softened by remembering that as water boils up there
at 187 degrees, our tea would have been worthless.
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