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Updated: May 8, 2025
Below the rounded shoulders of the peaks ran an incessant whispering as thin swirls of powdered snow spun down the wind and sifted through the moving branches below. The tawny lynx and the mist-gray mountain lion hunted along snow-banked ranger trails.
There was not a stick of herbage below; only a trough of heaped and broken rock masses. On either hand they were shut in by straight lead-coloured walls of rock; and at the bottom of the ravine, the forbidding, mist-gray wall of the main gorge cut off the view. In front and on the left they were amply protected; their right flank was the weak spot.
Sails in the mist-gray morning, wide wings alert for flight, Outward you fare with the sea-wind, seeking your ancient right To range with your foster-brethren, the sleepless waves of the sea, And come at the end of your wandering home again to me.
It was like the hissing of innumerable snakes against a tonal background of muffled continuous thunder. A hundred yards before us was Eagle Rapids a forbidding patch of writhing, whitening water, pricked with the upward thrust of toothlike rocks. The first sight of it turned the inside of me mist-gray. Temporarily, wrecks and the arithmetic of them had little charm for me.
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