The next is a resumption of practice with the little pistol.
The third, and last, is pencil and paper, and lists of grub and duffel,
and estimates of routes and expenses, and correspondence with men who
spell queerly, bear down heavily with blunt pencils, and agree to be at
Black Beaver Portage on a certain date. Now, though the February snow
and sleet still shut him in, the spring has draw very near. He can
feel the warmth of her breath rustling through his reviving memories.
There are said to be sixty-eight roads to heaven, of which but one is
the true way, although here and there a by-path offers experimental
variety to the restless and bold. The true way for the man in the woods
to attain the elusive best of his wilderness experience is to go as
light as possible, and the by-paths of departure from that principle
lead only to the slightly increased carrying possibilities of
open-water canoe trips, and permanent camps.
But these prove to be not very independent side paths, never diverging
so far from the main road that one may dare hope to conceal from a
vigilant eye that he is _not_ going light.
To go light is to play the game fairly. The man in the woods matches
himself against the forces of nature. In the towns he is warmed and fed
and clothed so spontaneously and easily that after a time he perforce
begins to doubt himself, to wonder whether his powers are not atrophied
from disuse. And so, with his naked soul, he fronts the wilderness.
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