The road angled to the northeast. I was by no means very
sure of it. I knew which general direction to hold, but
trails that often became mere cattle-paths crossed and
criss-crossed repeatedly. It was too dark by this time
to see very far. I did not know the smaller landmarks.
But I knew, if I drove my horse pretty briskly, I must
within little more than half an hour strike a black wall
of the densest primeval forest fringing a creek--and,
skirting this creek, I must find an old, weather-beaten
lumber bridge. When I had crossed that bridge, I should
know the landmarks again.

Underbrush everywhere, mostly symphoricarpus, I thought.
Large trunks loomed up, charred with forest fires; here
and there a round, white or light-grey stone, ghostly in
the waning light, knee-high, I should judge. Once I passed
the skeleton of a stable--the remnant of the buildings
put up by a pioneer settler who had to give in after
having wasted effort and substance and worn his knuckles
to the bones. The wilderness uses human material up...

A breeze from the north sprang up, and it turned strangely
chilly I started to talk to Peter, the loneliness seemed
so oppressive. I told him that he should have a walk, a
real walk, as soon as we had crossed the creek. I told
him we were on the homeward half--that I had a bag of
oats in the box, and that my wife would have a pail of
water ready... And Peter trotted along.