Chapter XV 

 THE WILDERNESS IN JUNE 



"Now is the high tide of the year, 



Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

 Waits with its benedicite," 



— Lowell. 



Part I 



For the greater part of June I have been liv- 

 ing in a snug cabin built of peeled spruce logs 

 and roofed with splits of cedar, one of a dozen 

 similarly constructed, set in a small clearing in 

 the heart of the forest. To the north and south, 

 ten miles or more in either direction, stretches 

 away a little valley, well protected to the east and 

 west by the massive bulk of mountains. 



Some four miles to the northwest of my cabin 

 rises the towering form of Mt. Baker. Its lower 

 slopes are clad in the cheerful green of beech and 

 maple, birch and poplar, but the steep sides 

 and summit display the more somber shades of 

 spruce and fir. On the hither side from crest to 

 base extends a deep scar with surface torn and 

 barren, except for straggling ricks of green 

 bushes. Nature's attempt to hide the wound. 

 Years ago an avalanche swept away trees and 

 earth, and, gaining momentum as it plunged 

 downward, ploughed deep into the mountain 



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