every step the great webbed shoe sinks till the snow is level
with the knee. Then up, straight up, the deviation of a fraction
of an inch being a certain precursor of disaster, the snowshoe
must be lifted till the surface is cleared; then forward, down,
and the other foot is raised perpendicularly for the matter of
half a yard. He who tries this for the first time, if haply he
avoids bringing his shoes in dangerous propinquity and measures
not his length on the treacherous footing, will give up exhausted
at the end of a hundred yards; he who can keep out of the way of
the dogs for a whole day may well crawl into his sleeping bag
with a clear conscience and a pride which passeth all
understanding; and he who travels twenty sleeps on the Long Trail
is a man whom the gods may envy.

The afternoon wore on, and with the awe, born of the White
Silence, the voiceless travelers bent to their work. Nature has
many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity--the
ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of
the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery--but the most
tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of
the White Silence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the
heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and
man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. Sole
speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead
world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a
maggot's life, nothing more.

Strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things
strives for utterance.