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 ? 

 1 86 



