And so it came about that one calm evening towards the end of June,
William Spike and I went into camp under the southerly shelter of that
vast granite wall called the Hudson Mountains, there to await the
promised "further instructions."

It had been a tiresome trip by steamer to Anticosti, from there by
schooner to Widgeon Bay, then down the coast and up the Cape Clear
River to Port Porpoise. There we bought three pack-mules and started
due north on the Great Fur Trail. The second day out we passed Fort
Boisé, the last outpost of civilization, and on the sixth day we were
travelling eastward under the granite mountain parapets.

On the evening of the sixth day out from Fort Boisé we went into camp
for the last time before entering the unknown land.

I could see it already through my field-glasses, and while William was
building the fire I climbed up among the rocks above and sat down,
glasses levelled, to study the prospect.

There was nothing either extraordinary or forbidding in the landscape
which stretched out beyond; to the right the solid palisade of granite
cut off the view; to the left the palisade continued, an endless
barrier of sheer cliffs crowned with pine and hemlock. But the
interesting section of the landscape lay almost directly in front of
me--a rent in the mountain-wall through which appeared to run a level,
arid plain, miles wide, and as smooth and even as a highroad.