Trails there are that one remembers from their beginnings to their ends,
because of the variety and charm of the pictures offered along the way.
Monotony marks the trails that fade from memory; they represent hours of
marching through timber of a second growth, or skirting hills where dead
sticks stand forlorn and only the fireweed blooms. Of rememberable roads
the last stage of our journey to the Great Water is the one I have now
in mind. It is the longest carry, two miles or less, sharply down hill,
though less precipitate than the river, which, after many days of
idling, now flings itself impatiently toward the shore. We linger where
it makes its first great leap. Many have come thus far from the south,
and, looking on the shallow pool beyond, have decided that there is no
profit in going farther; or they have explored a bit and, encountering
_bogwah_, have reached the same conclusion. Who would conjecture that
past the shallows lie leagues of deep and winding waters, reserved by
nature as a reward for the adventurer who counts a glimpse of the
unknown worth all the labor of the day? We who have come from the
headwaters know that nature has as wisely screened the river's source.
Where the lake ends is a forbidding tangle of water shrubs and timber;
the outlet is an archipelago of sharp rocks, and the stream, if found,
is seen to be small and turbulent.
The last carry keeps the Delectable River in view; foam, seen through
the firs, marks its plunging flight. And then we draw away from it for a
space, and cross an open thickly strewn with great stones, a sunlit
place, where berries and a few flowers are privileged to exist. A little
time is spent here in picking up the trail, which has spilled itself
among the stones; then, the narrow footway regained, we drop as quickly
as the river, and presently our feet touch sand. We break through a
fringe of evergreens and cry out as the Greeks cried out when they saw
the sea. The lake at last!--
_The river, done with wandering,
The silver, silent shore._