In the thickening gloom of twilight he struck the Big Rock portage between the Beaver and the Loon.
It was not a trail.

Only at rare intervals did wandering voyageurs coming down from the north make use of it in their passage from one waterway to the other.

Three or four times a year at the most would a wolf have caught the scent of man in it.

It was there tonight, so fresh that Miki stopped when he came to it as if another Oochak had risen before him.

For a space he was turned into the rigidity of rock by a single overwhelming emotion.