Harold Bindloss - The Ghost of Hemlock Canyon

He faced the climb, and at the beginning his progress was good, but when he imagined he ought to descend thick forest blocked his path. Saplings, fern, and thorny canes choked the gaps between the trunks, and broken branches pierced the tangle. The roots of the pines and firs keep the surface, and the trees the storms brought down lay where they fell. As a rule, their tops were tilted, and among their giant limbs the underbrush grew high. Denis saw he could not get through, and he kept the level summit, where, by comparison, the ground was clear.

By and by he got disturbed. The trees began to roll across the bench and forced him back to the rocks on the other side. His line now slanted away from the valley, the ground was broken, and he could not go fast. To turn back was unthinkable, but if he kept the stony top, he might find a creek and follow its channel to the river. He hoped he would do so soon, for his wet coat was heavy and the Chinook wind was hot. In fact, he imagined that had he not carried a pack in France and, in the good days before the war, scrambled about the rocks in Switzerland, he must have stopped some time since.

At length a ravine cut the slope, and Denis leaned against a rock. The bank was precipitous and an angry creek brawled in the stones at the bottom. His line to the valley was not attractive, and before he started he ought to get some food.

Denis untied the flour-bag and swore. The crackers had dissolved in a pulpy mess; his tea had run from the soaked packet and stuck to the bacon. He must wait for supper at the ranch, and he did not altogether know where the homestead was. To think about it would not shorten the journey, and on a steep pitch one sometimes used the standing glissade. Denis balanced himself and shoved off.

For five or six yards he went down in front of a wave of rattling stones; and then he reached a steep, wet slab that the bank’s contour had hid. Denis’s boot struck a knob, and until he plunged into the creek, that was all he knew. Anyhow, he had got down, and if he could follow the channel, he must presently reach the trail by the river.

The stones were large, the pools were deep, and for the most part one could not crawl along the rocky bank. Denis imagined he could not get wetter, and he stuck to the creek’s bed. He was going down, but he began to think the current went ominously fast. Not long since, it was a chain of rapids; now it was getting like a waterfall. At the top of an awkward pitch he stopped and studied the descent. The rocks on each side were nearly smooth, and Denis admitted he could not get up. In front, the creek plunged across precipitous slabs, until, two or three hundred feet below, the banks rolled back. Denis doubted if he could reach the bottom, but it was obvious he must try.

Were he, for example, in Cumberland, with a steady companion and an Alpine rope, he might not think the gully awkward. He, however, was alone and tired; his boots were not nailed for the mountains, and the soaked British-warm was an embarrassing load. All the same, he must stick to the old coat, and, pushing it through the pack straps, he dropped to a rock in the cascade. Then he crawled obliquely down a crack in a treacherous slab, and studied another that slanted, smooth with moss, to an angry pool. Seeing no hold, he sat down and let himself go.

He brought up in the water, and the next pitch was daunting. All the rock was splashed or swept by foam, and at some spots the stream plunged in a frothing arch for three or four yards. Denis, however, could not get up the slab, and he could not remain in the pool. He pulled tight his awkward pack and risked the descent.

His luck perhaps was good, but here and there he found some support for his groping boot; on the rocks one trusts one’s knees and feet. Although Denis did not claim to be a good mountaineer, he had balance and caution, and he mechanically felt for the proper spot. He got down; the gully’s walls fell back, and after another creek joined the first, belts of gravel lined the bank. By and by he saw a gap in the trees, and soon afterwards sat down under a balsam by the muddy trail.

Denis pulled out his watch. He had not thought the time was four o’clock, and when his glance searched the hillside it looked as if he was but two or three miles from the spot at which he left the trail. Anyhow, the rain was stopping and under the thick balsam the ground was not remarkably wet. After rubbing several damp matches, he lighted his pipe and cogitated.

There was no use in grumbling. If one hated rough adventures, one must keep the beaten track. He might have done so; moreover, he might have kept his English post. His temperament really accounted for his roaming the Canadian woods, wet and hungry, like a British tramp. However, he could not go back; when one took a rash plunge one was forced to take another. For example, his glissading down the slab. Well, he had at length rejoined the trail, and he wondered where it would carry him to fresh adventures. To philosophize about it would not help, although he would sooner philosophize than walk.

With something of an effort, Denis got up. His soaked boots had begun to gall his feet, and, perhaps because he had not had much food, his side hurt. One, however, soon got soft. At the farm his labor about the byres and stables was rather messy than bracing, and the winter days were short. In the Canadian woods, man lived by muscular effort; and Denis’s fatigue implied that his experiment might be rash. For all that, he had chosen Canada, and setting his mouth, he pushed ahead.

By and by he got drowsy. The pine-tops were vague, the trunks were indistinct. Sometimes he plunged into a hole, and sometimes he stumbled on a root that crossed the track. Then for a few minutes he saw where he went, but his watchfulness vanished, and all he was conscious of was mechanical effort. Although he could not bother to pull out his watch, he knew it was evening, and he wondered where he would stop for the night. He doubted if he could make the Marvin ranch.

At length he saw a big chopped tree. The top of the stump was two yards from the ground and three feet across. Another great log, from which the branches were hewn, lay beside the trail. The white chips were fresh; Denis smelt the resin in the wood, and imagined the choppers were not far off.

A few minutes afterwards, smoke floated about the trail and he saw a shanty by a creek. In the open-fronted shack a man was occupied by a stove. A companion, sitting on a box, rubbed an ax, and two or three more loafed about and smoked. Their wet overalls and dark-colored shirts were thin, and their bodies were modeled like the statues of Greek athletes. Denis had thought only boxers and acrobats were marked by the balance and queer muscular suppleness that stamped the fellows.

Denis’s pose was slack. His face was rather white, and his clothes were splashed by mud. A few yards off, two brawny oxen pulled at a bundle of hay. Although the nearest man gave him a welcoming nod, Denis dully studied the hay.

“The stuff’s not grass,” he said. “Do you mow your oats for cattle-feed?”

“Sure,” said one. “When the trees are off the ground, on a red soil, you can start with oats—”

“But you could thrash the oats and give the cattle orchard-grass.”

The chopper smiled. “The first few crops won’t head up good, and we haven’t got a thrasher across the mountains yet. But are you for the lake?”

Denis assented. Since he was tired and hungry, the hay’s interesting him was queer. He had meant to ask for food.

“The ranches are twelve miles off,” another man remarked. “We are going to get more rain.”

“Then, I’m afraid I can’t make it. Can I stop for the night?”

“Certainly,” said one. “Steve’s gone home, and you can have his blankets. Go right in and hang your coat by the stove. We’ll take supper soon as Bill gets on a move.”