Half a league north of the twentieth circuit, the old sled track crested a low, mossy ridge and forked beneath a huge cathedral stand of mature resin pines.
The forest here was ancient. The trunks were four to five feet thick at the butt, their dark, reddish-gray bark split into deep, box-shaped plates that looked like alligator hide, soaring sixty feet into the air before branching into the nonstop green roof above. The sub-canopy light was dim and greenish-gold, smelling heavily of turpentine and damp feather-moss.
At the fork, the trail divided. One broad, level path curved northeast into a shallow depression. Meanwhile, a narrower, steeper track climbed northwest along a rocky granite rib.
Both forks were marked by bark blazes. Traditional trail signs carved chest-high into the living pine trunks to guide travelers where needle duff buried low stone cairns. On the eastern pine, an axe had cut a prominent, four-inch chevron blaze pointing down the broad northeast path. On the western pine, a similar chevron pointed up the rocky northwest rib.
Fellis stopped the cart, looking from one tree to the other. “Which fork, Yseld? The eastern track is broader and looks like it’s seen heavy wagon traffic.”
