The Ghost Walker [antikvár]

sitting behind the pilot as the two-seater aircraft leveled beside a snow-clad peak, I couldn't help thinking about the money I would waste if we failed to find a mountain lion within the rugged wilderness we were scrutinizing. I was fresh from a six-month sea journey and was now intent on studying this fascinating North American cat in British Columbia's mountain country. But first I had to locate at least one lion in the vast hiding place that sprawled below. What were my chances? The region I had rather arbitrarily chosen to search lies within that part of the Selkirk Range that is bounded by the northern limits of the Columbia River. This is a country of tall peaks, icefields, bare granite, and dense forests, latticed by virtually uncountable creeks that weep their icy tears down the flanks of every mountain. Occasionally, during the start of the flight, when the pilot had to climb high to clear a majestic peak, I was afforded a view of the Columbia, which, flowing northward from its Canadian source, turns abruptly at Mica Creek, then continues its journey to the Pacific Ocean, emptying itself, after having run for 1,215 miles, in the estuary that divides Oregon and Washington. As I continued to worry, the aircraft threaded between passes, flew into a valley, and then rose to skim over white mountain tops that stretched from horizon to horizon, or were cloaked with mist in the far distance. The nearest ones, no more than two hundred feet away, presented a barren and desolate mien, yet were made beautiful by a pristine layer of snow or by patches of ancient blue ice that sparkled like gigantic jewels. Forcing myself to turn my gaze from those impressive and rather intimidating peaks, I concentrated on the ground, searching it carefully with field glasses when we were flying