At my feet ran a rapid mountain torrent, its bed choked with ice-covered rocks; I had been lulled to sleep by the stream's splashing murmur, and the loud moaning of the wind along the naked cliffs.

At dawn I rose and shook myself free of the buffalo robe, coated with hoar-frost.

The ashes of the fire were lifeless; in the dim morning the air was bitter cold.

I did not linger a moment, but snatched up my rifle, pulled on my fur cap and gloves, and strode off up a side ravine; as I walked I ate some mouthfuls of venison, left over from supper.
Two hours of toil up the steep mountain brought me to the top of a spur.
The sun had risen, but was hidden behind a bank of sullen clouds.

On the divide I halted, and gazed out over a vast landscape, inconceivably wild and dismal.