The Forest

Some time in February, when the snow and sleet have shut out from the wearied mind eventhe memory of spring, the man of the woods generally receives his first inspiration. He maycatch it from some companion's chance remark, a glance at the map, a vague recollection ofa dim past conversation, or it may flash on him from the mere pronouncement of a name. The first faint thrill of discovery leaves him cool, but gradually, with the increasingenthusiasm of cogitation, the idea gains body, until finally it has grown to plan fit fordiscussion. Of these many quickening potencies of inspiration, the mere name of a place seems tostrike deepest at the heart of romance. Colour, mystery, the vastnesses of unexplored spaceare there, symbolized compactly for the aliment of imagination. It lures the fancy as a flylures the trout. Mattágami, Peace River, Kánanaw, the House of the Touchwood Hills, Rupert's House, the Land of Little Sticks, Flying Post, Conjuror's House--how the syllablesroll from the tongue, what pictures rise in instant response to their suggestion! The journeyof a thousand miles seems not too great a price to pay for the sight of a place called the Hillsof Silence, for acquaintance with the people who dwell there, perhaps for a glimpse of thesaga-spirit that so named its environment. On the other hand, one would feel but littledesire to visit Muggin's Corners, even though at their crossing one were assured of thedeepest flavour of the Far North. The first response to the red god's summons is almost invariably the production of a flybook and the complete rearrangement of all its contents. The next is a resumption ofpractice with the little pistol. The third, and last, is pencil and paper, and lists of grub andduffel, and estimates of routes and expenses, and correspondence with men who spellqueerly, bear down heavily with blunt pencils, and agree to be at Black Beaver Portage on acertain date. Now, though the February snow and sleet still shut him in, the spring hasdraw very near. He can feel the warmth of her breath rustling through his revivingmemories. There are said to be sixty-eight roads to heaven, of which but one is the true way, althoughhere and there a by-path offers experimental variety to the restless and bold. The true wayfor the man in the woods to attain the elusive best of his wilderness experience is to go aslight as possible, and the by-paths of departure from that principle lead only to the slightlyincreased carrying possibilities of open-water canoe trips, and permanent camps.