The next morning he climbed a tall spruce and surveyed the country about him.  Westward there was a broad low country shut in fifteen or twenty miles away by the foothills.  Beyond these foothills rose the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies.  He shaved himself, cut his hair, and went on.  That night he camped only when he could drive his canoe no farther.  The waterway had narrowed to a creek, and he was among the first green shoulders of the hills when he stopped.  With another dawn he concealed his canoe in a sheltered place and went on with his pack.

For a week he picked his way slowly westward.  It was a splendid country into which he had come, and yet he found no sign of human life.  The foothills changed to mountains, and he believed he was in the Campbell Range.  Also he knew that he had followed the logical trail from the sulphur country.  Yet it was the eighth day before he came upon a sign which told him that another living being had at some time passed that way.  What he found were the charred remnants of an old camp-fire.  It had been a white man’s fire.  He knew that by the size of it.  It had been an all-night fire of green logs cut with an axe.

On the tenth day he came to the westward slope of the first range and looked down upon one of the most wonderful valleys his eyes had ever beheld.  It was more than a valley.  It was a broad plain.  Fifty miles across it rose the towering majesty of the mightiest of all the Yukon mountains.

And now, though he saw a paradise about him, his heart began to sink within him.  It seemed to him inconceivable that in a country so vast he could find the spot for which he was seeking.  His one hope lay in finding white men or Indians, some one who might guide him.

He traveled slowly over the fifty-mile plain rich with a verdure of green, covered with flowers, a game paradise.  Few hunters had come so far out of the Yukon mountains, he told himself.  And none had come from out of the sulphur country.  It was a new and undiscovered world.  On his map it was a blank space.  And there were no signs of people.  Ahead of him the Yukon mountains rose in an impenetrable wall, peak after peak, crested with snow, towering like mighty watchdogs above the clouds.  He knew what lay beyond them—­the great rivers of the Western slope, Dawson City, the gold country and its civilization.  But those things were on the other side of the mountains.  On his side there was only the vast and undisputed silence of a paradise as yet unclaimed by man.

As he went on into this valley there grew upon him a strange and comforting peace.  Yet with it there was a steadily increasing belief that he would not find that for which he had come in search.  He did not attempt to analyze this belief.  It became a part of him, just as his mental tranquillity had grown upon him.  His one hope of success was that nearer the mountains he might find white men or Indians.