The Misty Mountains were everything Bungo had feared and worse. They were huge, towering peaks that seemed to scrape the sky, with passes that wound along narrow ledges and cliffs that fell away into bottomless chasms. The air was thin and cold, and snow lay deep in the shadows.
The company climbed for days, following a path that only Gandalf seemed to know. At night they huddled in whatever shelter they could find—caves, crevices, once even a hole dug into a snowdrift. Bungo had never been so cold, so tired, or so miserable in his life. He thought longingly of his warm hole in Oakenshaw, of his armchair by the fire, of his pantry full of good things to eat. He thought of his dahlias, and wondered if anyone was watering them.
One night, as they were camped in a cave high on the mountain, a terrible storm broke. Wind howled outside, and snow piled up at the entrance. The dwarves huddled together for warmth, and Bungo squeezed in between Bombur (who was very warm, if somewhat squashy) and Bifur. They sang songs to keep their spirits up—deep, slow songs of the dwarves, about gold and treasure and the halls of their ancestors.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day,
To find our long-forgotten gold.
Bungo listened, and for the first time he understood something of what drove the dwarves. It was not just greed, as the stories said. It was love—love for their home, for the halls their fathers had built, for the life they had lost. He felt a pang of sympathy for them, and a determination to help them if he could.
The storm passed, and they continued. They climbed higher and higher, until the world was nothing but white and grey. Then, one afternoon, they reached the top of the pass. Before them lay the east—a vast, rolling landscape of hills and forests and rivers, stretching to the horizon and beyond.
"There," said Thorin, pointing. "Somewhere out there is the Lonely Mountain. Our home."
Bungo looked, but he could not see the mountain. It was too far away. But he felt its presence, somehow, a weight at the edge of his mind. The quest was real. It was actually happening.
They began the descent. It was almost as hard as the climb, for the path was steep and slippery with ice. Bungo fell three times, landing in snowdrifts that saved him from serious injury but did nothing for his dignity. The dwarves laughed, but not unkindly, and helped him to his feet each time.
On the third day of the descent, disaster struck.
They were crossing a narrow ledge when a section of the path gave way beneath them. Bungo heard a cry, and turned to see Bombur sliding down the mountainside, his round body bouncing off rocks and disappearing into the mist below.
"Bombur!" shouted Thorin.
Without thinking, Bungo ran after him. He did not know what he could do, but he could not let the dwarf fall. He scrambled down the slope, sliding and stumbling, until he came to a place where the mountain opened into a wide, snow-filled basin. And there, half-buried in the snow, was Bombur.
He was alive, but unconscious. Bungo dug him out as best he could, and then sat down to wait for the others. They arrived soon after, breathless and worried, and were amazed to find Bombur alive.
"You saved him," said Thorin, looking at Bungo with something like wonder. "You ran after him without a thought for your own safety."
"I didn't think," said Bungo truthfully. "I just... ran."
"That is what heroes do," said Gandalf. "They do not think. They act."
Bungo did not feel like a hero. He felt cold and tired and hungry. But he could not deny the warmth that spread through him at the dwarves' praise. Perhaps, he thought, there was more to him than he had ever known.
They made a camp in the basin and waited for Bombur to wake. It was a day and a night before he opened his eyes, and then he was confused and groggy, with no memory of the fall. But he was alive, thanks to Bungo, and the company continued their descent with renewed spirits.
At last, they reached the foot of the mountains. Before them lay a great forest, dark and dense, stretching as far as the eye could see.
"Mirkwood," said Gandalf grimly. "The forest of shadow. We must pass through it to reach the Mountain."
Bungo looked at the forest and shuddered. After the mountains, he had hoped for open country, green fields, maybe a nice inn or two. Instead, they faced a wood that looked like it had never seen the sun.
"Is there no other way?" he asked.
"No other way," said Gandalf. "But do not fear. I will lead you as far as I can. After that... well, we shall see."