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Sanderson would say, "Yes," or "No, not by two miles," according to circumstances; and his information was always correct; he knew the river "like a book." On the afternoon of September 27 we left "Dogtown" with Sanderson in Weeso's place and began our upward journey. George proved as good as his reputation.
We were now in Weeso's country, and yet he ran us into a singular pocket that I have called Weeso's Trap a straight glacial groove a mile long that came to a sudden end and we had to go back that mile. The old man was much mortified over his blunder, but he did not feel half so badly about it as I did, for every hour was precious now.
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