"And never went back." Banks laughed, a shrill, mirthless laugh, and added
in a higher key: "Lost a whole year and--the outfit."

Tisdale nodded slowly. "All we gained was experience. We had plenty of
that to invest the next venture over the mountains from Prince William
Sound. But--do you know?--I always liked that little canoe trip around
from Yakutat. I can't tell you how fine it is in that upper fiord; big
peaks and ice walls growing all around. Yes."--he nodded again, while the
genial wrinkles deepened--"I've seen mountains grow. We had a shock once
that raised the coast-line forty-five feet. And another time, while we
were going back to the village for a load, a small glacier in a hanging
valley high up, perhaps two thousand feet, toppled right out of its cradle
into the sea. It stirred things some and noise"--he shook his head with an
expressive sound that ended in a hissing whistle. "But it missed the
canoe, and the wave it made lifted us and set us safe on top of a little
rocky island." He paused again, laughing softly. "I don't know how we kept
right side up, but we did. Weatherbee was great in an emergency."

A shadow crossed his face. He looked off to the end of the room.

"I guess you both understood a canoe," said Banks. His voice was still
high-pitched, like that of a man under continued stress, and his eyes
burned in his withered, weather-beaten face like the vents of buried
fires. "But likely it was then, while you was freighting the outfit around
to the glacier, you came across those ptarmigan."

Tisdale's glance returned, and the humor played again softly at the
corners of his eyes. "I had forgotten about those birds. It was this way.
I made the last trip in the canoe alone, for the mail and a small load,