Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 189: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The River Trail shivering unceasingly now, and their whis- pering changed to a moaning as the wind blew steadily, with increasing force, and the air was filled with tiny snow particles whipped up from all sides. The innocent breeze was the forerunner of other gusts, which continued with gradu- ally increasing force until all the snow of the river was churned to a shifting mist. Munroe had settled down to a dull mechani- cal stride now, his eyes were fixed on the trail, and he plunged on like an automaton, hearing only the crunch-crunch-crunch, as his feet rose and fell and he drew steadily closer to Spruce Lake, still so far away. Then came the storm. There were only a few lazy snow flakes at first, hardly distinguishable from the white dusty whorls blown from the trees and the river, but more came, until Munroe, looking up, was startled to observe that he could no longer see the outlines of the rocky point toward which the trail was winding; it was now only a blur through a swirling of heavy snow flakes—snow flakes which did not drift down pleasantly, but which were driven in white streaks by a bitter, whipping gale. The wind rose higher, and the snow stung his face, and then it became a hurri- cane so strident that the snow was now a dense white screen and he could not distin- guish the vague shadow of the river point through it at all. Even the trees along the banks became obscured from view and could only be seen dimly as a looming mass on either hand. The wind shrieked in successive gusts. It roared and howled. It buffeted him furiously. It pounded against him as he struggled forward. There were wild sad sobbings in the upper air, mingled with the whoops of the storm sweeping across the river, as if the storm gods themselves mourned the unleashing of their pitiless monster. A vast threshing sound came from the trees along the river borders. They rocked and swayed before the driving force of the blizzard. | The snow was flung from aloft in thick blinding masses, as if from giant shovels. Munroe could see nothing but snow—a raging whiteness which lashed his face, stormed against his body, crept into every fold of his garments, to the accompaniment of Gargantuan hootings of the mighty wind. It was very cold, bitterly irresistibly 171 cold. Warmth was sapped from his body, leaving him dull and numb. Against the colossal force of the blizzard he felt as if every effort were futile, but as long as there was strength left in his body he would struggle ahead. The snow had swept over the trail, obliterating it entirely, but he followed a blind course down the centre of the river, through that mass of whiteness, trusting to luck that he would not stumble upon any of those treacherous portions of the river where swift current had thinned the ice and where death was hidden in waiting beneath the surface. Desperately, indomitably, stumbling for- ward, with the blizzard beating against his bowed body, Munroe pitted his strength against the ovcrwhelming fury of the storm. He had lost all sense of time. The blizzard raged about him interminably. He knew only that he must go on, must keep moving ahead into that infinity of blinding snow. He came out upon Spruce Lake at last. The river narrowed at the entrance and high banks loomed up through the snow, from which he realized that he was nearing Michael Angelo’s shack, but there was still a quarter of a mile to go. He doubted if he could make it, for he was very weak and miserably cold by then, but he headed in- stinctively in the direction of the Indian’s cabin. As if furious because he was so near safety, the blizzard seemed to take on redoubled fury. The wind swept down upon him with such titanic force that he reeled and stumbled beneath the blast. His knees weakened. The snow was very deep, and once he sank forward into it, exhausted, feeling unable to go any farther, but he knew that this meant death, and he strug- gled to his feet again and fought his way a few yards more. The great trees of the shoreland could be seen as a dark mass ahead and the sight of his goal inspired him to superhuman effort. _ But his progress was very slow. The bliz- zard assailed him, malignantly, overwhelm- ingly. Out of the snow, immediately ahead of him, rose a dark bulk. He was so numbed by the cold and the fatigue of his incessant struggle that at first he did not comprehend what it was, and did not greatly care, but as he drew closer he saw that it was a sled, with dogs curled up in the lee of it, in the shelter of a jumble of packs. COMiICcloOoe CO