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In its intransitive form, to hump meant to walk, or to march, but it implied burdens far beyond the intransitive.
They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.
The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over.
Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in finite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capital in preparation for that day when the account must be drawn down. It was a comforting theory. It dispensed with all those bothersome little acts of daily courage; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive coward; it justified the past while amortizing the future.
