Bilbo and Frodo continued their journey early the next morning, leaving Northway and picking up the remnants of an old road leading northward into the hilly countryside. After a few hours, the path dwindled into little more than a footpath between miles and miles of green pastureland and clumps of tall evergreen trees.
The walk was pleasant enough. They passed unnoticed through cattle and sheep pastures. The land became more mountainous and stony as they reached the upper limits of the Shire. Only the occasional little wooden lean-to and isolated shepherd’s hut distinguished the landscape.
In mid-afternoon they halted beside a small sign posted on the trail. In very faded letters it read:
Now Leaving Shire Borders
Continue On at Your Own Risk
There was nothing else to see save for rocky rolling foothills and wild pasture lands with scattered stands of trees. The trail had become a single-person path continuing northward past the border sign. It was evident that the path had been used quite a bit in the past and was still being used by somebody, although the hobbits couldn’t imagine who would maintain a path leading out of the Shire.
They continued on. Frodo was terribly excited. It was the first time he had actually been outside the borders of his little country. He had never been this far north, and the rock formations and plants were becoming increasingly strange to him. He could see the faint blue outlines of the southern ramparts of the Emyn Uial in the near distance. They would reach them by the next morning.
As the light began to fade, the hobbits could make out one of the infrequent shepherd’s huts in the grassy green distance. It was a little bit off the path, but Bilbo decided they should spend the night in the hut rather than out in the open.
From the outside, the hut appeared little more than a shelter from the weather. But inside they could see that it was well-constructed to withstand the harsher elements of the northern country and provide a limited amount of comfort as well. In accordance with hospitality traditions, dry stacked firewood had been left next to the little stone fireplace, along with a humble crockery wash basin and pitcher. Dry tinder and a small bundle of kindling, along with a flint stone were set on the hearth to the right side of the fireplace. The hearth also had a well-worn iron pot and ladle hanging from a swing-out iron brace nailed to the wall. The single room hut had one cot and a straw mattress against one wall, plus two moth-eaten blankets. It was humble, but it was evidently somebody’s home at least part of the year. The strange thing about the hut was its scale. Too large for a hobbit.
Before the light faded, Frodo filled the pitcher with water from a nearby stream. Bilbo and he spent the night in relative comfort, cooking a nice hot meal in the pot over the fire. They relaxed for a couple of hours outside in the darkness of a moonless night; stars blazing in the blackness of the sky before the nighttime summer haze obscured them.
“What do you make of those ghost stories, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked as he took a deep draw on his pipe.
“Mostly balderdash with a sprinkling of truth,” Bilbo replied. “You and I both know trolls don’t behave like that, nor are they created out of stone. So that part was made up. And I doubt there’s a curse on the place. But there may be a kernel of truth to the part about a sickness driving off the people living around the lake. I remember the great winter of 1311. I was about your age – twenty-one, at the time. The Brandywine froze and wolves came out of the north and into the Shire. A great pestilence also came down with them. Many people died that winter from the black illness. If something like that happened to these people on the lake, then stories about a ‘curse’ might have been passed down to explain the disaster.”
“But do you think there were Men living by the lake at one time?” Frodo asked.
“Oh yes,” Bilbo replied. “And we just might be able to find that lost city.” He turned to Frodo. “If not, then we will at least have good, uninterrupted fishing.”
But Bilbo’s dreams that night were not of pleasant fishing. He dreamed of evil things: wargs and spiders and orcs. Familiar nightmares left over from his adventure years ago. But now a new set of nightmares crept into his dreams. A dream of an unseen danger. A dark, menacing evil growing out of his own hand and consuming both himself and Frodo. Then a dream of Frodo in a dark, harsh place full of sharp rocks and driving rain. Another dream of Frodo being attacked by Gollum as Bilbo looked on, helpless to save his nephew.
Bilbo awoke in the dead of night, sweating and clutching something to his chest. It was his ring. ‘Must be those stupid ghost stories,’ he thought to himself as he looked over to see Frodo peacefully asleep on his bedroll next to the cot. ‘Now I’m getting them all mixed up with my own worries.’ He pushed the dark thoughts away, returned the ring to his pocket, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
-------
Before they left the next morning, Bilbo replenished the firewood they had used during their stay. Frodo was busy with pen and ink while Bilbo gathered the wood. As they left the humble shepherd’s hut, Frodo left his thank you gift to the owner. It was an ink sketch of the hut set amidst the rolling landscape. He tacked it to a wall, securing it with a wooden splinter.
The day was spent moving from the relative flatness of the pastures into the hard rock hills of the southern Emyn Uial. The path they had been following disappeared into the stony foothills, so Bilbo and Frodo began to note down landmarks on the map Frodo had begun back at Bag End.
Every once in a while Bilbo would stop and turn around, searching for something unseen and unheard. After the third time he did this, Frodo asked what was wrong.
“I don’t know,” Bilbo replied. “I keep getting this feeling that we aren’t the only people out here. Like we are being watched or followed.”
Frodo took a careful look around. “I don’t see anything unusual. Just rocks and hills and scrub bushes.”
“Well, let’s be on our toes anyway,” Bilbo said. “Remember what the dwarves said about orcs and things.”
They labored on into the ancient worn-down mountains, walking along ravines, over crests and into shallow valleys filled with heather and low, windswept woods. Bilbo remained silent for most of the day, intent on keeping to a path as true to due north as they could make. They crossed over the highest ridge of the landscape just as the red swollen disk of the sun dipped below the horizon. Before them in the gathering gloom of distance spread a large, dark lake at the edge of the hills.
Bilbo and Frodo knew they should keep pressing on down the rocks as long as the daylight lasted. But the first view of the waters demanded they stop and appreciate its beauty for at least a few minutes. Birds chattered in the last rays of the golden sun. The lake shimmered and wavered in the summer heat and distance. It was a deep lake captured on South and West by the old worn-down mountains of the Emyn Uial. In the darkening haze of the East, Frodo could just make out the beginnings of a river. The Brandywine. It was beautiful in its wildness and stillness.
Frodo and Bilbo finally moved on, climbing down an animal track which wandered its way through the boulders. Throughout their day’s journey they had run across faint trails in the rocks. This one lead them into a wide upland meadow. Wild blue berries and fragrant primitive roses dominated the lush green mountainside field, with the occasional ancient apple tree providing shade for the meadow’s inhabitants.
The hobbits took shelter for the night alongside a tiny spring which emerged from its underground source by dripping through a crack between two boulders. Dinner consisted of hard cheese and bread, supplemented with the bounteous wild berries supplied by nature. A full pipe under the tree as an after-dinner treat finished off a hard, but satisfying day of travel for the two. Bilbo said they were probably the first hobbits to ever see Lake Evendim. This made Frodo exceptionally proud of his Uncle’s accomplishments. The night was spent in deep, restful slumber nestled in warm bedrolls atop the soft grass.
An owl hooted in the night. Another owl replied. And watchful eyes renewed their vigilance.