long Hollister had lived amid blaring noises, the mechanical thunder
and lightning of the war, the rumble of industry, the shuffle and
clatter of crowds, he had forgotten what it was like to be alone,--and
in the most crowded places he had suffered the most grievous
loneliness. For the time being he was unconscious of his mutilation,
since there was no one by to remind him by look or act. He was only
aware of a curious interest in what he saw, a subdued wonder at the
majestic beauty and the profound hush, as if he had been suddenly
transferred from a place where life was maddeningly, distractingly
clamorous to a spot where life was mute.

The head of Toba is neither a harbor nor a bay. One turns out of the
island-studded Gulf of Georgia into an arm of the sea a mile in
breadth. The cliffs and mountains grow higher, more precipitous mile
by mile, until the Inlet becomes a chasm with the salt water for its
floor. On past frowning points, around slow curves, boring farther and
farther into the mainland through a passage like a huge tunnel, the
roof of which has been blown away. Then suddenly there is an end to
the sea. Abruptly, a bend is turned, and great mountains bar the way,
peaks that lift from tidewater to treeless heights, formidable ranges
bearing upon their rocky shoulders the lingering remains of a glacial
age. The Inlet ends there, the seaway barred by these frowning
declivities.

Hollister remembered the head of Toba after a fashion. He had the lay
of the land in his mind. He had never seen it in midwinter, but the
snow, the misty vapors drifting along the mountain sides, did not
confuse him.

From the float he now perceived two openings in the mountain chain.