We get down the ridge somehow without further mishaps, and after a while find ourselves in a funnel-shaped gully the passage of which, in ordinary circumstances, would probably present no difficulty.
But just now it is a veritable battle-field of the winds, which seem to blow from every point of the compass at once.

The snow dashes against our faces like spray from the ocean, and whirls round us in blasts so fierce that, at times, we can neither see nor hear.

The mules, terrified and exhausted, put down their heads and stand stock-still.

We dismount and try to drag them after us, but even then they refuse to move.
"If they won't come they must die; and unless we hurry on we shall die, too.

Forward!" cried Gondocori, himself setting the example.
Never did I battle so hard for very life as in that gully.