He knew
a direct way of gaining the Inlet head on foot.
So he spent a last night before the fireplace, staring silently into
the dancing blaze, seeing strange visions in the glowing coals, lying
down to heavy, dreamless sleep at last in his bunk.
At daybreak he struck out westward along the great cliff that frowned
on the Big Bend, his blankets and a small emergency supply of food in
a bulky pack upon his shoulders. When the sheer face of the cliff ran
out to a steep, scrubbily timbered hillside, he dropped down to the
valley floor and bore toward the river through a wide flat. Here he
moved through a forest of cedar and spruce so high and dense that no
ray of sun ever penetrated through those interlocked branches to warm
the earth in which those enormous trunks were rooted. Moss hung in
streamers from the lower boughs. It was dusky there in full day. The
wild things of the region made this their sanctuary. Squirrels scolded
as he passed. The willow grouse tamely allowed him to approach within
twenty feet before they fluttered to the nearest thicket.
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