Man left the mountains to Gods of the forest. Only the
bravest hunters dared their heights.
It did not concern him. This was his world, and he climbed
steadily, finding passage where others might turn back.
The lower reaches of the foothills were rolling and the climb
was gradual. Here grew giant trees, broadleafed under the summer
sun, bare in the cold of winter. Nevertheless, here game was
rare, as man dwelled nigh.
As he passed the foothills the terrain became increasingly
rougher. From time to time a vertical wall of stone blocked his
way, and he detoured on twisting paths among boulders as tall as
himself. Sometimes, when no path existed for his progress, he
carefully and slowly climbed the rugged precipice.
"Ah, " he smiled, "would I could fly." He gazed upward, noted
dangerous routes, continued his climb. Panting from his efforts
he progressed ever upward, soon reaching levels where only the
evergreens grew. And as he went upward still, even these grew
more rarely, and more diminutive in form. A few, twisted and
gnarled, hung tenaciously to the near barren earth, their forms
bowed in submission to the power of the wind.
As he leaped from boulder to boulder one twisted beneath his
foot. The motion of the stone threw him to the side of the
trail, to the outer edge of the pathway. Loose dirt and gravels
rattled downward, bounced from jutting ledges, disappearing into
the fog that hid the rock-strewn surface at the cliff's base.
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