BEYOND THE SNOW-PATH 



HERE the hard-trodden snow-path of the 

 woodchoppers comes to an end, in a clear 

 ing littered with chips and surrounded by 

 piles of brush and cordwood. Beyond, the 

 snow lies deep and unbroken. Striking into 

 the wintry woods from here would be like 

 taking a cold plunge-bath. I stand, unde 

 cided, in a little forest arena or circus, 

 where the woodchoppers have stamped the 

 snow while eating their frozen lunch. I 

 have no snowshoes indeed, I may as well 

 confess that no amount of practice has en 

 abled me to make any practical use of them. 

 Their broad, snow-gathering blades have 

 always proved, to me, an encumbrance and 

 stumbling-block. And yet it is enough to 

 make a man weaken, at the outset, across 

 the hips and in the small of the back, to 

 think of wallowing without snowshoes 

 through two feet and a half of soft snow 

 on the level. What shall I do? Turn 

 around and go back to the beaten highway ? 

 186 



