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<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of<br>
The Long Labrador Trail, by Dillon Wallace</h1>
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Title: The Long Labrador Trail
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</pre>
<center>
<h3>E-text prepared by Martin Schub</h3>
</center>
<br>
<br>
<hr>
<a name="perils"></a>
<a href="perils.jpg">
<img alt="Frontispiece--The Perils of the Rapids" src="perilsth.jpg">
</a>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a NAME="title_page"></a>
<p align="center"><font size=7><i>The<br>
Long Labrador<br>
Trail</i></font></p>
<p align="center">by<br>
Dillon Wallace<br>
Author of “The Lure of the<br>
Labrador Wild,” <i>etc</i>.</p>
<p align="center">Illustrated</p>
<p align="center">MCMXVII</p>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<p align="center">TO THE<br>
MEMORY OF MY WIFE</p>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>“<i>A drear and desolate shore! <br>
Where no tree unfolds its leaves,<br>
And never the spring wind weaves<br>
Green grass for the hunter’s tread;<br>
A land forsaken and dead,<br>
Where the ghostly icebergs go<br>
And come with the ebb and flow...”</i></blockquote>
<p>  Whittier’s “The Rock-tomb
of Bradore.”</p>
<p>PREFACE</p>
<p>In the summer of 1903 when Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.,
went to Labrador to<br>
explore a section of the unknown interior it was my
privilege to<br>
accompany him as his companion and friend.  The
world has heard of the<br>
disastrous ending of our little expedition, and how
Hubbard, fighting<br>
bravely and heroically to the last, finally succumbed
to starvation.</p>
<p>Before his death I gave him my promise that should
I survive I would<br>
write and publish the story of the journey. 
In “The Lure of The<br>
Labrador Wild” that pledge was kept to the best
of my ability.</p>
<p>While Hubbard and I were struggling inland over those
desolate wastes,<br>
where life was always uncertain, we entered into a
compact that in<br>
case one of us fall the other would carry to completion
the<br>
exploratory work that he had planned and begun. 
Providence willed<br>
that it should become my duty to fulfil this compact,
and the<br>
following pages are a record of how it was done.</p>
<p>Not I, but Hubbard, planned the journey of which this
book tells, and<br>
from him I received the inspiration and with him the
training and<br>
experience that enabled me to succeed.  It was
his spirit that led me<br>
on over the wearisome trails, and through the rushing
rapids, and to<br>
him and to his memory belong the credit and the honor
of success.</p>
<p>D. W.<br>
February, 1907.</p>
<p>CONTENTS</p>
<p>CHAPTER<br>
<ol type="I">
<li><a href="#chapter_1"> THE VOICE OF THE WILDERNESS</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_2"> ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_3"> THE LAST OF CIVILIZATION</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_4"> ON THE OLD INDIAN TRAIL</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_5"> WE GO ASTRAY</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_6"> LAKE NIPISHISH IS REACHED</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_7"> SCOUTING FOR THE TRAIL</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_8"> SEAL LAKE AT LAST</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_9"> WE LOSE THE TRAIL</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_10"> “WE SEE MICHIKAMAU”</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_11"> THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_12"> OVER THE NORTHERN DIVIDE</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_13"> DISASTER IN THE RAPIDS</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_14"> TIDE WATER AND THE POST</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_15"> OFF WITH THE ESKIMOS</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_16"> CAUGHT BY THE ARCTIC ICE</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_17"> TO WHALE RIVER AND FORT CHIMO</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_18"> THE INDIANS OF THE NORTH</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_19"> THE ESKIMOS OF LABRADOR</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_20"> THE SLEDGE JOURNEY BEGUN</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_21"> CROSSING THE BARRENS</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_22"> ON THE ATLANTIC ICE</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_23"> BACK TO NORTHWEST RIVER</a><br></li>
<li><a href="#chapter_24"> THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL</a><br></li>
</ol>
<a href="#appendix"> APPENDIX<br></a>
<h1>ILLUSTRATIONS</h1>
<p>
<a href="#perils"> The Perils of the Rapids (in color, from a painting
by Oliver Kemp)</a><br>
<a href="#ice"> Ice Encountered Off the Labrador Coast </a><br>
<a href="#group"> “The Time For Action Had Come” </a><br>
<a href="#camp"> “Camp Was Moved to the First Small Lake” </a><br>
<a href="#cache"> “We Found a Long-disused Log Cache of the Indians”</a><br>
<a href="#nipish"> Below Lake Nipishish</a><br>
<a href="#marsh"> Through Ponds and Marshes Northward Toward Otter Lake</a><br>
<a href="#babewe"> “We Shall Call the River Babewendigash”</a><br>
<a href="#caribo"> “Pete, Standing by the Prostrate Caribou, Was
Grinning From Ear to Ear”</a><br>
<a href="#lakes"> “A Network of Lakes and the Country as Level
as a Table”</a><br>
<a href="#michik"> Michikamau</a><br>
<a href="#letter"> “Writing Letters to the Home Folks”</a><br>
<a href="#canoe"> “Our Lonely Perilous Journey Toward the Dismal
Wastes ...Was Begun”</a><br>
<a href="#icamp"> Abandoned Indian Camp On the Shore of Lake Michikamats</a><br>
<a href="#wigwam"> “One of the Wigwams Was a Large One and Oblong
in Shape”</a><br>
<a href="#post"> “At Last ...We Saw the Post”</a><br>
<a href="#shack"> “A Miserable Little Log Shack”</a><br>
<a href="#eskimo"> A Group of Eskimo Women</a><br>
<a href="#eskimo"> A Labrador Type</a><br>
<a href="#eskimo"> Eskimo Children</a><br>
<a href="#eskimo"> A Snow Igloo</a><br>
<a href="#silence"> The Silence of the North (in color, from a painting
by Frederic C.
Stokes)</a><br>
<a href="#nachvak"> “Nachvak Post of the Hudson’s Bay Company”. </a><br>
<a href="#hills"> “The Hills Grew Higher and Higher”</a><br>
<a href="#pass"> “We Turned Into a Pass Leading to the Northward”</a><br>
<a href="#mission"> The Moravian Mission at Ramah</a><br>
<a href="#snow"> “Plodding Southward Over the Endless Snow”</a><br>
<a href="#nain"> “Nain, the Moravian Headquarters in Labrador”</a><br>
<a href="#indians"> “The Indians Were Here”</a><br>
<a href="#geology"> Geological Specimens</a><br>
<a href="#maps"> Maps.</a></p>
<h1>THE LONG LABRADOR TRAIL</h1>
<a NAME="chapter_1"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER I</h1>
<p><b>THE VOICE OF THE WILDERNESS</b></p>
<p align="justify">“It’s always the way,
Wallace!  When a fellow starts on the long trail,
he’s never willing to quit.  It’ll
be the same with you if you go with me to Labrador. 
When you come home, you’ll hear the voice of
the wilderness calling you to return, and it will lure
you back again.”</p>
<p align="justify">It seems but yesterday that Hubbard
uttered those prophetic words as he and I lay before
our blazing camp fire in the snow-covered Shawangunk
Mountains on that November night in the year 1901,
and planned that fateful trip into the unexplored
Labrador wilderness which was to cost my dear friend
his life, and both of us indescribable sufferings
and hardships.  And how true a prophecy it was! 
You who have smelled the camp fire smoke; who have
drunk in the pure forest air, laden with the smell
of the fir tree; who have dipped your paddle into
untamed waters, or climbed mountains, with the knowledge
that none but the red man has been there before you;
or have, perchance, had to fight the wilds and nature
for your very existence; you of the wilderness brotherhood
can understand how the fever of exploration gets into
one’s blood and draws one back again to the
forests and the barrens in spite of resolutions to
“go no more.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was more than this, however, that
lured me back to Labrador.  There was the vision
of dear old Hubbard as I so often saw him during our
struggle through that rugged northland wilderness,
wasted in form and ragged in dress, but always hopeful
and eager, his undying spirit and indomitable will
focused in his words to me, and I can still see him
as he looked when he said them: </p>
<p align="justify">“The work must be done, Wallace,
and if one of us falls before it is completed the
other must finish it.”</p>
<p align="justify">I went back to Labrador to do the
work he had undertaken, but which he was not permitted
to accomplish.  His exhortation appealed to me
as a command from my leader—­a call to duty.</p>
<p align="justify">Hubbard had planned to penetrate the
Labrador peninsula from Groswater Bay, following the
old northern trail of the Mountaineer Indians from
Northwest River Post of the Hudson’s Bay Company,
situated on Groswater Bay, one hundred and forty miles
inland from the eastern coast, to Lake Michikamau,
thence through the lake and northward over the divide,
where he hoped to locate the headwaters of the George
River.</p>
<p align="justify">It was his intention to pass down
this river until he reached the hunting camps of the
Nenenot or Nascaupee Indians, there witness the annual
migration of the caribou to the eastern seacoast, which
tradition said took place about the middle or latter
part of September, and to be present at the “killing,”
when the Indians, it was reported, secured their winter’s
supply of provisions by spearing the caribou while
the herds were swimming the river.  The caribou
hunt over, he was to have returned across country
to the St. Lawrence or retrace his steps to Northwest
River Post, whichever might seem advisable. 
Should the season, however, be too far advanced to
permit of a safe return, he was to have proceeded
down the river to its mouth, at Ungava Bay, and return
to civilization in winter with dogs.</p>
<p align="justify">The country through which we were
to have traveled was to be mapped so far as possible,
and observations made of the geological formation and
of the flora, and as many specimens collected as possible.</p>
<p align="justify">This, then, Hubbard’s plan,
was the plan which I adopted and which I set out to
accomplish, when, in March, 1905, I finally decided
to return to Labrador.</p>
<p align="justify">It was advisable to reach Hamilton
Inlet with the opening of navigation and make an early
start into the country, for every possible day of
the brief summer would be needed for our purpose.</p>
<p align="justify">It was, as I fully realized, no small
undertaking.  Many hundreds of miles of unknown
country must be traversed, and over mountains and
through marshes for long distances our canoes and outfit
would have to be transported upon the backs of the
men comprising my party, as pack animals cannot be
used in Labrador.</p>
<p align="justify">Through immense stretches of country
there would be no sustenance for them, and, in addition
to this, the character of the country itself forbids
their use.</p>
<p align="justify">The personnel of the expedition required
much thought.  I might with one canoe and one
or two professional Indian packers travel more rapidly
than with men unused to exploration work, but in that
case scientific research would have to be slighted. 
I therefore decided to sacrifice speed to thoroughness
and to take with me men who, even though they might
not be physically able to carry the large packs of
the professional voyageur, would in other respects
lend valuable assistance to the work in hand.</p>
<p align="justify">My projected return to Labrador was
no sooner announced than numerous applications came
to me from young men anxious to join the expedition. 
After careful investigation, I finally selected as
my companions George M. Richards, of Columbia University,
as geologist and to aid me in the topographical work,
Clifford H. Easton, who had been a student in the
School of Forestry at Biltmore, North Carolina (both
residents of New York), and Leigh Stanton, of Halifax,
Nova Scotia, a veteran of the Boer War, whom I had
met at the lumber camps in Groswater Bay, Labrador,
in the winter of 1903-1904, when he was installing
the electric light plant in the large lumber mill
there.</p>
<p align="justify">It was desirable to have at least
one Indian in the party as woodsman, hunter and general
camp servant.  For this position my friend, Frank
H. Keefer, of Port Arthur, Ontario, recommended to
me, and at my request engaged, Peter Stevens, a full-blood
Ojibway Indian, of Grand Marais, Minnesota. 
“Pete” arrived in New York under the wing
of the railway conductor during the last week in May.</p>
<a name="ice"></a>
<a href="ice.jpg">
<img alt="Ice Encountered off the Labrador Coast" src="iceth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">In the meantime I had devoted myself
to the selection and purchase of our instruments and
general outfit.  Everything must be purchased
in advance—­from canoes to repair kit—­as
my former experience in Labrador had taught me. 
It may be of interest to mention the most important
items of outfit and the food supply with which we were
provided:  Two canvas-covered canoes, one nineteen
and one eighteen feet in length; one seven by nine
“A” tent, made of waterproof “balloon”
silk; one tarpaulin, seven by nine feet; folding tent
stove and pipe; two tracking lines; three small axes;
cooking outfit, con-sisting of two frying pans, one
mixing pan and three aluminum kettles; an aluminum
plate, cup and spoon for each man; one .33 caliber
high-power Winchester rifle and two 44-40 Winchester
carbines (only one of these carbines was taken with
us from New York, and this was intended as a reserve
gun in case the party should separate and return by
different routes.  The other was one used by Stanton
when previously in Labrador, and taken by him in addition
to the regular outfit).  One double barrel 12-gauge
shotgun; two ten-inch barrel single shot .22 caliber
pistols for partridges and small game; ammunition;
tumplines; three fishing rods and tackle, including
trolling outfits; one three and one-half inch gill
net; repair kit, including necessary material for
patching canoes, clothing, <i>etc</i>.; matches, and
a medicine kit.</p>
<p align="justify">The following instruments were also
carried:  Three minimum registering thermometers;
one aneroid barometer which was tested and set for
me by the United States Weather Bureau; one clinometer;
one pocket transit; three compasses; one pedometer;
one taffrail log; one pair binoculars; three No. 3A
folding pocket Kodaks, sixty rolls of films, each roll
sealed in a tin can and waterproofed, and six “Vanguard”
watches mounted in dust-proof cases.</p>
<p align="justify">Each man was provided with a sheath
knife and a waterproof match box, and his personal
kit, containing a pair of blankets and clothing, was
carried in a waterproof canvas bag.</p>
<p align="justify">I may say here in reference to these
waterproof bags and the “balloon” silk
tent that they were of the same manufacture as those
used on the Hubbard expedition and for their purpose
as nearly perfect as it is possible to make them. 
The tent weighed but nine pounds, was windproof,
and, like the bags, absolutely waterproof, and the,
material strong and firm.</p>
<p align="justify">Our provision supply consisted of
298 pounds of pork; 300 pounds of flour; 45 pounds
of corn meal; 40 pounds of lentils; 28 pounds of rice;
25 pounds of erbswurst; 10 pounds of prunes; a few
packages of dried vegetables; some beef bouillon tablets;
6 pounds of baking powder; 16 pounds of tea; 6 pounds
of coffee; 15 pounds of sugar; 14 pounds of salt;
a small amount of saccharin and crystallose, and 150
pounds of pemmican.</p>
<p align="justify">Everything likely to be injured by
water was packed in waterproof canvas bags.</p>
<p align="justify">My friend Dr. Frederick A. Cook, of
the Arctic Club, selected my medical kit, and instructed
me in the use of its simple remedies.  It was
also upon the recommendation of Dr. Cook and others
of my Arctic Club friends that I purchased the pemmican,
which was designed as an emergency ration, and it
is worth noting that one pound of pemmican, as our
experience demonstrated, was equal to two or even three
pounds of any other food that we carried.  Its
ingredients are ground dried beef, tallow, sugar,
raisins and currants.</p>
<p align="justify">We had planned to go north from St.
Johns on the Labrador mail boat <i>Virginia Lake</i>,
which, as I had been informed by the Reid-Newfoundland
Company, was expected to sail from St. Johns on her
first trip on or about June tenth.  This made
it necessary for us to leave New York on the Red Cross
Line steamer <i>Rosalind</i> sailing from Brooklyn
on May thirtieth; and when, at eleven-thirty that Tuesday
morning, the <i>Rosalind</i> cast loose from her wharf,
we and our outfit were aboard, and our journey of
eleven long months was begun.</p>
<p align="justify">As I waved farewell to our friends
ashore I recalled that other day two years before,
when Hubbard and I had stood on the <i>Silvia’s</i>
deck, and I said to myself: </p>
<p align="justify">“Well, this, too, is Hubbard’s
trip.  His spirit is with me.  It was he,
not I, who planned this Labrador work, and if I succeed
it will be because of him and his influence.”</p>
<p align="justify">I was glad to be away.  With
every throb of the engine my heart grew lighter. 
I was not thinking of the perils I was to face with
my new companions in that land where Hubbard and I
had suffered so much.  The young men with me
were filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of adventure
in the silent and mysterious country for which they
were bound.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_2"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER II</h1>
<p><b>ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN</b></p>
<p>“When shall we reach Rigolet, Captain?”</p>
<p align="justify">“Before daylight, I hopes, sir,
if the fog holds off, but there’s a mist settling,
and if it gets too thick, we may have to come to.”</p>
<p align="justify">Crowded with an unusual cargo of humanity,
fishermen going to their summer work on “The
Labrador” with their accompanying tackle and
household goods, meeting with many vexatious delays
in discharging the men and goods at the numerous ports
of call, and impeded by fog and wind, the mail boat
<i>Virginia Lake</i> had been much longer than is her
wont on her trip “down north.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was now June twenty-first. 
Six days before (June fifteenth), when we boarded
the ship at St. Johns we had been informed that the
steamer <i>Harlow</i>, with a cargo for the lumber
mills at Kenemish, in Groswater Bay, was to leave
Halifax that very afternoon.  She could save us
a long and disagreeable trip in an open boat, ninety
miles up Groswater Bay, and I bad hoped that we might
reach Rigolet in time to secure a passage for myself
and party from that point.  But the <i>Harlow</i>
had no ports of call to make, and it was predicted
that her passage from Halifax to Rigolet would be
made in four days.</p>
<p align="justify">I had no hope now of reaching Rigolet
before her, or of finding her there, and, resigned
to my fate, I left the captain on the bridge and went
below to my stateroom to rest until daylight. 
Some time in the night I was aroused by some one
saying: </p>
<p align="justify">“We’re at Rigolet, sir,
and there’s a ship at anchor close by.”</p>
<p align="justify">Whether I had been asleep or not,
I was fully awake now, and found that the captain
had come to tell me of our arrival.  The fog had
held off and we had done much better than the captain’s
prediction.  Hurrying into my clothes, I went
on deck, from which, through the slight haze that
hung over the water, I could discern the lights of
a ship, and beyond, dimly visible, the old familiar
line of Post buildings showing against the dark spruce-covered
hills behind, where the great silent forest begins.</p>
<p align="justify">All was quiet save for the thud, thud,
thud of the oarlocks of a small boat approaching our
ship and the dismal howl of a solitary “husky”
dog somewhere ashore.  The captain had preceded
me on deck, and in answer to my inquiries as to her
identity said he did not know whether the stranger
at anchor was the <i>Harlow</i> or not, but he thought
it was.</p>
<p align="justify">We had to wait but a moment, however,
for the information.  The small boat was already
alongside, and John Groves, a Goose Bay trader and
one of my friends of two years before, clambered aboard
and had me by the hand.</p>
<p>“I’m glad to see you, sir; and how is
you?”</p>
<p align="justify">Assuring him that I was quite well,
I asked the name of the other ship.</p>
<p align="justify">“The <i>Harlow</i>, sir, an’
she’s goin’ to Kenemish with daylight.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, I must get aboard of
her then, and try to get a passage up.  Is your
flat free, John, to take me aboard of her?”</p>
<p align="justify">“Yes, sir.  Step right
in, sir.  But I thinks you’d better go ashore,
for the <i>Harlow’s</i> purser’s ashore. 
If you can’t get passage on the <i>Harlow</i>
my schooner’s here doing nothin’ while
I goes to St. Johns for goods, and I’ll have
my men run you up to Nor’west River.”</p>
<p align="justify">I thanked him and lost no time in
going ashore in his boat, where I found Mr. James
Fraser, the factor, and received a hearty welcome. 
In Mr. Fraser’s office I found also the purser
of the <i>Harlow</i>, and I quickly arranged with
him for a passage to Kenemish, which is ninety miles
up the inlet, and just across Groswater Bay (twelve
miles) from Northwest River Post.  The <i>Harlow</i>
was to sail at daylight and I at once returned to
the mail boat, called the boys and, with the help of
the <i>Virginia’s</i> crew and one of their small
boats, we were transferred, bag and baggage, to the
<i>Harlow</i>.</p>
<p align="justify">Owing to customs complications the
<i>Harlow</i> was later than expected in leaving Rigolet,
and it was evening before she dropped anchor at Kenemish. 
I went ashore in the ship’s boat and visited
again the lumber camp “cook house” where
Dr. Hardy and I lay ill throng those weary winter
weeks, and where poor Hardy died.  Hardy was the
young lumber company doctor who treated my frozen
feet in the winter of 1903-1904.  Here I met
Fred Blake, a Northwest River trapper.  Fred
had his flat, and I engaged him to take a part of our
luggage to Northwest River.  Then I returned
to the ship to send the boys ahead with the canoes
and some of our baggage, while I waited behind to
follow with Fred and the rest of the kit in his flat
a half hour later.</p>
<p align="justify">Fred and I were hardly a mile from
the ship when a heavy thunderstorm broke upon us,
and we were soon drenching wet—­the baptism
of our expedition.  This rain was followed by
a dense fog and early darkness.  On and on we
rowed, and I was berating myself for permitting the
men to go on so far ahead of us with the canoes, for
they did not know the way and the fog had completely
shut out the lights of the Post buildings, which otherwise
would have been visible across the bay for a considerable
distance.</p>
<p align="justify">Suddenly through the fog and darkness,
from shoreward, came a “Hello!  Hello!”
We answered, and heading our boat toward the sound
of continued “Hellos,” found the men,
with the canoes unloaded and hauled ashore, preparing
to make a night camp.  I joined them and, launching
and reloading the canoes again, with Richards and Easton
in one canoe and Pete and I in the other, we followed
Fred and Stanton, who preceded us in the rowboat,
keeping our canoes religiously within earshot of Fred’s
thumping oarlocks.  Finally the fog lifted, and
not far away we caught a glimmer of lights at the
French Post.  All was dark at the Hudson Bay
Post across the river when at last our canoes touched
the sandy beach and we sprang ashore.</p>
<p align="justify">What a flood of remembrances came
to me as I stepped again upon the old familiar ground! 
How vividly I remembered that June day when Hubbard
and I had first set foot on this very ground and Mackenzie
had greeted us so cordially!  And also that other
day in November when, ragged and starved, I came here
to tell of Hubbard, lying dead in the dark forest
beyond!  The same dogs that I had known then came
running to meet us now, the faithful fellows with
which I began that sad funeral journey homeward over
the ice.  I called some of them by name “Kumalik,”
“Bo’sun,” “Captain,”
“Tinker”—­and they pushed their
great heads against my legs and, I believe, recognized
me.</p>
<p align="justify">It was nearly two o’clock in
the morning.  We went immediately to the Post
house and roused out Mr. Stuart Cotter, the agent (Mackenzie
is no longer there), and received from him a royal
welcome.  He called his Post servant and instructed
him to bring in our things, and while we changed our
dripping clothes for dry ones, his housekeeper prepared
a light supper.  It was five o’clock in
the morning when I retired.</p>
<p align="justify">In the previous autumn I had written
Duncan McLean, one of the four men who came to my
rescue on the Susan River, that should I ever come
to Labrador again and be in need of a man I would like
to engage him.  Cotter told me that Duncan had
just come from his trapping path and was at the Post
kitchen, so when we had finished breakfast, at eight
o’clock that morning, I saw Duncan and, as he
was quite willing to go with us, I arranged with him
to accompany us a short distance into the country
to help us pack over the first portage and to bring
back letters.</p>
<p align="justify">He expressed a wish to visit his father
at Kenemish before starting into the country, but
promised to be back the next evening ready for the
start on Monday morning, the twenty-sixth, and I consented. 
I knew hard work was before us, and as I wished all
hands to be well rested and fresh at the outset, I
felt that a couple of days’ idleness would do
us no harm.</p>
<p align="justify">Some five hundred yards east of Mr.
Cotter’s house is an old, abandoned mission
chapel, and behind it an Indian burying ground. 
The cleared space of level ground between the house
and chapel was, for a century or more, the camping
ground of the Mountaineer Indians who come to the
Post each spring to barter or sell their furs. 
In the olden time there were nearly a hundred families
of them, whose hunting ground was that section of
country between Hamilton Inlet and the Upper George
River.</p>
<p align="justify">These people now, for the most part,
hunt south of the inlet and trade at the St. Lawrence
Posts.  The chapel was erected about 1872, but
ten years ago the Jesuit missionary was withdrawn,
and since then the building has fallen into decay
and ruin, and the crosses that marked the graves in
the old burying grounds have been broken down by the
heavy winter snows.  It was this withdrawal of
the missionary that turned the Indians to the southward,
where priests are more easily found.  The Mountaineer
Indian, unlike the Nascaupee, is very religious, and
must, at least once a year, meet his father confessor. 
The camping ground since the abandonment of the mission,
has lain lonely and deserted, save for three or four
families who, occasionally in the summer season, come
back again to pitch their tents where their forefathers
camped and held their annual feasts in the old days.</p>
<p align="justify">Competition between the trading companies
at this point has raised the price of furs to such
an extent that the few families of Indians that trade
at this Post are well-to-do and very independent. 
There were two tents of them here when we arrived—­five
men and several women and children.  I found
two of my old friends there—­John and William
Ahsini.  They expressed pleasure in meeting me
again, and a lively interest in our trip.  With
Mr. Cotter acting as interpreter, John made for me
a map of the old Indian trail from Grand Lake to Seal
Lake, and William a map to Lake Michikamau and over
the height of land to the George River, indicating
the portages and principal intervening lakes as they
remembered them.</p>
<p align="justify">Seal Lake is a large lake expansion
of the Nascaupee River, which river, it should be
explained, is the outlet of Lake Michikamau and discharges
its waters into Grand Lake and through Grand Lake into
Groswater Bay.  Lake Michikamau, next to Lake
Mistasinni, is the larg-est lake in the Labrador
peninsula, and approximately from eighty to ninety
miles in length.  Neither John nor William had
been to Lake Michikamau by this route since they were
young lads, but they told us that the Indians, when
traveling very light without their families, used
to make the journey in twenty-three days.</p>
<p align="justify">During my previous stay in Labrador
one Indian told me it could be done in ten days, while
another said that Indians traveling very fast would
require about thirty days.  It is difficult to
base calculations upon information of this kind. 
But I was sure that, with our com-paratively heavy
outfit, and the fact that we would have to find the
trail for ourselves, we should require at least twice
the time of the Indians, who know every foot of the
way as we know our familiar city streets at home.</p>
<p align="justify">They expressed their belief that the
old trail could be easily found, and assured us that
each portage, as we asked about it in detail, was
a “miam potagan” (good portage), but at
the same time expressed their doubts as to our ability
to cross the country safely.</p>
<p align="justify">In fact, it has always been the Indians’
boast, and I have heard it many times, that no white
man could go from Groswater Bay to Ungava alive without
Indians to help him through.  “Pete”
was a Lake Superior Indian and had never run a rapid
in his life.  He was to spend the night with
Tom Blake and his family in their snug little log cabin,
and be ready for an early start up Grand Lake on the
morrow.  It was Tom that headed the little party
sent by me up the Susan Valley to bring to the Post
Hubbard’s body in March, 1904; and it was through
his perseverance, loyalty and hard work at the time
that I finally succeeded in recovering the body. 
Tom’s daughter, Lillie, was Mackenzie’s
little housekeeper, who showed me so many kindnesses
then.  The whole family, in fact, were very good
to me during those trying days, and I count them among
my true and loyal friends.</p>
<p align="justify">We had supper with Cotter, who sang
some Hudson’s Bay songs, Richards sang a jolly
college song or two, Stanton a “classic,”
and then all who could sing joined in “Auld
Lang Syne.”</p>
<p align="justify">My thoughts were of that other day,
when Hubbard, so full of hope, had begun this same
journey-of the sunshine and fleecy clouds and beckoning
fir tops, and I wondered what was in store for us now.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_3"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER III</h1>
<p><b>THE LAST OF CIVILIZATION</b></p>
<p align="justify">The time for action had come. 
Our canoes were loaded near the wharf, we said good-by
to Cotter and a group of native trapper friends, and
as we took our places in the canoes and dipped our
paddles into the waters that were to carry us northward
the Post flag was run up on the flagpole as a salute
and farewell, and we were away.  We soon rounded
the point, and Cotter and the trappers and the Post
were lost to view.  Duncan was to follow later
in the evening in his rowboat with some of our outfit
which we left in his charge.</p>
<a name="group"></a>
<a href="group.jpg">
<img alt="The Time for Action Had Come" src="groupth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">Silently we paddled through the “little
lake.”  The clouds hung somber and dull
with threatening rain, and a gentle breeze wafted to
us now and again a bit of fragrance from the spruce-covered
hills above us.  Almost before I realized it we
were at the rapid.  Away to the westward stretched
Grand Lake, deep and dark and still, with the rugged
outline of Cape Corbeau in the distance.</p>
<p align="justify">Tom Blake and his family, one and
all, came out to give us the whole-souled, hospitable
welcome of “The Labrador.”  Even Atikamish,
the little Indian dog that Mackenzie used to have,
but which he had given to Tom when he left Northwest
River, was on hand to tell me in his dog language
that he remembered me and was delighted to see me back. 
Here we would stay for the night—­the last
night for months that we were to sleep in a habitation
of civilized man.</p>
<p align="justify">The house was a very comfortable little
log dwelling containing a small kitchen, a larger
living-room which also served as a sleeping-room,
and an attic which was the boys’ bedroom. 
The house was comfortably furnished, everything clean
to perfection, and the atmos-phere of love and home
that dwelt here was long remembered by us while we
huddled in many a dreary camp during the weeks that
followed.</p>
<p align="justify">Duncan did not come that night, and
it was not until ten o’clock the next morning
(June twenty-seventh) that he appeared.  Then
we made ready for the start.  Tom and his young
son Henry announced their intention of accompanying
us a short distance up Grand Lake in their small sailboat. 
Mrs. Blake gave us enough bread and buns, which she
had baked especially for us, to last two or three days,
and she gave us also a few fresh eggs, saying, “’Twill
be a long time before you has eggs again.”</p>
<p align="justify">At half-past ten o’clock our
canoes were afloat, farewell was said, and we were
beyond the last fringe of civilization.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning was depressing and the
sky was overcast with low-hanging, heavy clouds, but
almost with our start, as if to give us courage for
our work and fire our blood, the leaden curtain was
drawn aside and the deep blue dome of heaven rose
above us.  The sun shone warm and bright, and
the smell of the fresh damp forest, the incense of
the wilderness gods, was carried to us by a puff of
wind from the south which enabled Duncan to hoist
his sails.  The rest of us bent to our paddles,
and all were eager to plunge into the unknown and solve
the mystery of what lay beyond the horizon.</p>
<p align="justify">Our nineteen-foot canoe was manned
by Pete in the bow, Stanton in the center and Easton
in the stern, while I had the bow and Richards the
stern of the eighteen-foot canoe.  We paddled
along the north shore of the lake, close to land. 
Stanton, with an eye for fresh meat, espied a porcupine
near the water’s edge and stopped to kill it,
thus gaining the honor of having bagged the first
game of the trip.  At twelve o’clock we
halted for luncheon, in almost the same spot where
Hubbard and I had lunched when going up Grand Lake
two years before.  While Pete cooked bacon and
eggs and made tea, Stanton and Richards dressed the
porcupine for supper.</p>
<p align="justify">After luncheon we cut diagonally across
the lake to the southern shore, passed Cape Corbeau
River and landed near the base of Cape Corbeau bluff,
that the elevation might be taken and geological specimens
secured.  After making our observations we turned
again toward the northern shore, where more specimens
were collected.  Here Tom and Henry Blake said
goodby to us and turned homeward.</p>
<p align="justify">During the afternoon Stanton and I
each killed a porcupine, making three in all for the
day—­a good beginning in the matter of game.</p>
<p align="justify">At sunset we landed at Watty’s
Brook, a small stream flowing into Grand Lake from
the north, and some twenty miles above the rapid. 
Our progress during the day had been slow, as the
wind had died away and we had, several times, to wait
for Duncan to overtake us in his slower rowboat.</p>
<p align="justify">While the rest of us “made camp”
Duncan cut wood for a rousing fire, as the evening
was cool, and Pete put a porcupine to boil for supper. 
We were a hungry crowd when we sat down to eat. 
I had told the boys how good porcupine was, how it
resembled lamb and what a treat we were to have. 
But all porcupines are not alike, and this one was
not within my reckoning.  Tough!  He was
certainly “the oldest inhabitant,” and
after vain efforts to chew the leathery meat, we turned
in disgust to bread and coffee, and Easton, at least,
lost faith forever in my judgment of toothsome game,
and formed a particular prejudice against porcupines
which he never overcame.  Pete assured us, however,
that, “This porcupine, he must boil long. 
I boil him again to-night and boil him again to-morrow
morning.  Then he very good for breakfast. 
Porcupine fine.  Old one must be cooked long.”</p>
<p align="justify">So Pete, after supper, put the porcupine
on to cook some more, promising that we should find
it nice and tender for breakfast.</p>
<p align="justify">As I sat that night by the low-burning
embers of our first camp fire I forgot my new companions. 
Through the gathering night mists I could just discern
the dim outlines of the opposite shore of Grand Lake. 
It was over there, just west of that high spectral
bluff, that Hubbard and I, on a wet July night, had
pitched our first camp of the other trip.  In
fancy I was back again in that camp and Hubbard was
talking to me and telling me of the “bully story”
of the mystic land of won-ders that lay “behind
the ranges” he would have to take back to the
world.</p>
<p align="justify">“We’re going to traverse
a section no white man has ever seen,” he exclaimed,
“and we’ll add something to the world’s
knowledge of geography at least, and that’s
worth while.  No matter how little a man may
add to the fund of human knowledge it’s worth
the doing, for it’s by little bits that we’ve
learned to know so much of our old world.  There’s
some hard work before us, though, up there in those
hills, and some hardships to meet.”</p>
<p>Ah, if we had only known!</p>
<p align="justify">Some one said it was time to “turn
in,” and I was brought suddenly to a sense of
the present, but a feeling of sadness possessed me
when I took my place in the crowded tent, and I lay
awake long, thinking of those other days.</p>
<p align="justify">Clear and crisp was the morning of
June twenty-eighth.  The atmosphere was bracing
and delightful, the azure of the sky above us shaded
to the most delicate tints of blue at the horizon,
and, here and there, bits of clouds, like bunches
of cotton, flecked the sky.  The sun broke grandly
over the rugged hills, and the lake, like molten silver,
lay before us.</p>
<p align="justify">A fringe of ice had formed during
the night along the shore.  We broke it and bathed
our hands and faces in the cool water, then sat down
in a circle near our camp fire to renew our attack
upon the porcupine, which had been sending out a most
delicious odor from the kettle where Pete had it cooking. 
But alas for our expectations!  Our teeth would
make no impression upon it, and Easton remarked that
“the rubber trust ought to hunt porcupines,
for they are a lot tougher than rubber and just as
pliable.”</p>
<p align="justify">“I don’t know why,”
said Pete sadly.  “I boil him long time.”</p>
<p align="justify">That day we continued our course along
the northern shore of the lake until we reached the
deep bay which Hubbard and I had failed to enter and
explore on the other trip, and which failure had resulted
so tragically.  This bay is some five miles from
the westerly end of Grand Lake, and is really the
mouth of the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers which flow
into the upper end of it.  There was little or
no wind and we had to go slowly to permit Duncan,
in his rowboat, to keep pace with us.  Darkness
was not far off when we reached Duncan’s tilt
(a small log hut), three miles up the Nascaupee River,
where we stopped for the night.</p>
<p align="justify">This is the tilt in which Allen Goudy
and Duncan lived at the time they came to my rescue
in 1903, and where I spent three days getting strength
for my trip down Grand Lake to the Post.  It is
Duncan’s sup-ply base in the winter months
when he hunts along the Nascaupee River, one hundred
and twenty miles inland to Seal Lake.  On this
hunting “path” Duncan has two hundred
and fifty marten and forty fox traps, and, in the
spring, a few bear traps besides.</p>
<p align="justify">The country has been burned here. 
Just below Duncan’s tilt is a spruce-covered
island, but the mainland has a stunted new growth of
spruce, with a few white birch, covering the wreck
of the primeval forest that was flame swept thirty
odd years ago.  Over some considerable areas
no new growth to speak of has appeared, and the charred
remains of the dead trees stand stark and gray, or
lie about in confusion upon the ground, giving the
country a particularly dreary and desolate appearance.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning of June twenty-ninth was
overcast and threatened rain, but toward evening the
sky cleared.</p>
<p align="justify">Progress was slow, for the current
in the river here was very strong, and paddling or
rowing against it was not easy.  We had to stop
several times and wait for Duncan to overtake us with
his boat.  Once he halted to look at a trap where
he told us he had caught six black bears.  It
was nearly sunset when we reached the mouth of the
Red River, nineteen miles above Grand Lake, where
it flows into the Nascaupee from the west.  This
is a wide, shallow stream whose red-brown waters
were quite in contrast to the clear waters of the Nas-caupee.</p>
<p align="justify">Opposite the mouth of the Red River,
and on the eastern shore of the Nascaupee, is the
point where the old Indian trail was said to begin,
and on a knoll some fifty feet above the river we saw
the wigwam poles of an old Indian camp, and a solitary
grave with a rough fence around it.  Here we
landed and awaited Duncan, who had stopped at another
of his trapping tilts three or four hundred yards
below.  When he joined us a little later, in
answer to my inquiry as to whether this was the beginning
of the old trail, he answered, “’Tis where
they says the Indians came out, and some of the Indians
has told me so.  I supposes it’s the place,
sir.”</p>
<p>“But have you never hunted here yourself?”
I asked.</p>
<p align="justify">“No, sir, I’ve never been
in here at all.  I travels right past up the
Nascaupee.  All I knows about it, sir, is what
they tells me.  I always follows the Nascaupee,
sir.”</p>
<p align="justify">Above us rose a high, steep hill covered
for two-thirds of the way from its base with a thick
growth of underbrush, but quite barren on top save
for a few bunches of spruce brush.</p>
<p align="justify">The old trail, unused for eight or
ten years, headed toward the hill and was quite easily
traced for some fifty yards from the old camp. 
Then it disappeared completely in a dense undergrowth
of willows, alders and spruce.</p>
<p align="justify">While Pete made preparation for our
supper and Duncan unloaded his boat and hauled it
up preparatory to leaving it until his return from
the interior, the rest of us tried to follow the trail
through the brush.  But beyond where the thick
undergrowth began there was nothing at all that, to
us, resembled a trail.  Finally, I instructed
Pete to go with Richards and see what he could do
while the rest of us made camp.  Pete started
ahead, forging his way through the thick growth. 
In ten minutes I heard him shout from the hillside,
“He here—­I find him,” and saw
Pete hurrying up the steep incline.</p>
<p align="justify">When Richards and Pete returned an
hour later we had camp pitched and supper cooking. 
They reported the trail, as far as they had gone,
very rough and hard to find.  For some distance
it would have to be cut out with an ax, and nowhere
was it bigger than a rabbit run.  Duncan rather
favored going as far, as Seal Lake by the trail that
he knew and which followed the Nascaupee.  This
trail he believed to be much easier than the long
unused Indian trail, which was undoubtedly in many
places entirely obscured and in any case extremely
difficult to follow.  I dismissed his suggestion,
however, with little consideration.  My, object
was to trace the old Indian trail and explore as much
of the country as possible, and not to hide myself
in an enclosed river valley.  Therefore, I decided
that next day we should scout ahead to the first water
to which the trail led and cut out the trail where
necessary.  The work I knew would be hard, but
we were expecting to do hard work.  We were not
on a summer picnic.</p>
<p align="justify">A rabbit which Stanton had shot and
a spruce grouse that fell before Pete’s pistol,
together with what remained of our porcupine, hot
coffee, and Mrs. Blake’s good bread, made a supper
that we ate with zest while we talked over the prospects
of the trail.  Supper fin-ished, Pete carefully
washed his dishes, then carefully washed his dishcloth,
which latter he hung upon a bough near the fire to
dry.  His cleanliness about his cooking was a
revelation to me.  I had never before seen a
camp man or guide so neat in this respect.</p>
<p align="justify">The real work of the trip was now
to begin, the hard portaging, the trail finding and
trail making, and we were to break the seal of a land
that had, through the ages, held its secret from all
the world, excepting the red man.  This is what
we were thinking of when we gathered around our camp
fire that evening, and filled and lighted our pipes
and puffed silently while we watched the newborn stars
of evening come into being one by one until the arch
of heaven was aglow with the splendor of a Labrador
night.  And when we at length went to our bed
of spruce boughs it was to dream of strange scenes
and new worlds that we were to conquer.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_4"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER IV</h1>
<p><b>ON THE OLD INDIAN TRAIL</b></p>
<p align="justify">Next morning we scouted ahead and
found that the trail led to a small lake some five
and a half miles beyond our camp.  For a mile
or so the brush was pretty thick and the trail was
difficult to follow, but beyond that it was comparatively
well defined though exceedingly steep, the hill rising
to an elevation of one thousand and fifty feet above
the Nascaupee River in the first two miles.  We
had fifteen hundred pounds of outfit to carry upon
our backs, and I realized that at first we should
have to trail slowly and make several loads of it,
for, with the exception of Pete, none of the men was
in training.  The work was totally different
from anything to which they had been accustomed, and
as I did not wish to break their spirits or their
ardor, I instructed them to carry only such packs as
they could walk under with perfect ease until they
should become hardened to the work.</p>
<p align="justify">The weather had been cool and bracing,
but as if to add to our difficulties the sun now boiled
down, and the black flies—­“the devil’s
angels” some one called them, came in thousands
to feast upon the newcomers and make life miserable
for us all.  Duncan was as badly treated by them
as any of us, although he belonged to the country,
and I overheard him swearing at a lively gait soon
after the little beasts began their attacks.</p>
<p>“Why, Duncan,” said I, “I didn’t
know you swore.”</p>
<p>“I does, sir, sometimes—­when things
makes me,” he replied.</p>
<p>“But it doesn’t help matters any to swear,
does it?”</p>
<p align="justify">“No, sir, but” (swatting
his face) “damn the flies—­it’s
easin’ to the feelin’s to swear sometimes.”</p>
<p align="justify">On several occasions after this I
heard Duncan “easin’ his feelin’s”
in long and astounding bursts of profane eloquence,
but he did try to moderate his language when I was
within earshot.  Once I asked him: </p>
<p align="justify">“Where in the world did you
learn to swear like that, Duncan?”</p>
<p>“At the lumber camps, sir,” he replied.</p>
<p align="justify">In the year I had spent in Labrador
I had never before heard a planter or native of Groswater
Bay swear.  But this explained it.  The
lumbermen from “civilization” were educating
them.</p>
<p align="justify">At one o’clock on July first,
half our outfit was portaged to the summit of the
hill and we ate our dinner there in the broiling sun,
for we were above the trees, which ended some distance
below us.  It was fearfully hot—­a
dead, suffocating heat—­with not a breath
of wind to relieve the stifling atmosphere, and some
one asked what the temperature was.</p>
<p align="justify">“Eighty-seven in the shade,
but no shade,” Richards remarked as he threw
down his pack and consulted the thermometer where I
had placed it under a low bush.  “I’ll
swear it’s a hundred and fifty in the sun.”</p>
<p align="justify">During dinner Pete pointed to the
river far below us, saying, “Look!  Indian
canoe.”  I could not make it out without
my binoculars, but with their aid discerned a canoe
on the river, containing a solitary paddler. 
None of us, excepting Pete, could see the canoe without
the glasses, at which he was very proud and remarked: 
“No findin’ glass need me.  See far,
me.  See long way off.”</p>
<p align="justify">On other occasions, afterward, I had
reason to marvel at Pete’s clearness of vision.</p>
<p align="justify">It was John Ahsini in the canoe, as
we discovered later when he joined us and helped Stanton
up the hill with his last pack to our night camp on
the summit.  I invited John to eat supper with
us and he accepted the invitation.  He told us
he was hunting “moshku” (bear) and was
camped at the mouth of the Red River.  He assured
us that we would find no more hills like this one
we were on, and, pointing to the northward, said,
“Miam potagan” (good portage) and that
we would find plenty “atuk” (caribou),
“moshku” and “mashumekush”
(trout).  After supper I gave John some “stemmo,”
and he disappeared down the trail to join his wife
in their wigwam below.</p>
<p align="justify">We were all of us completely exhausted
that night.  Stanton was too tired to eat, and
lay down upon the bare rocks to sleep.  Pete
stretched our tent wigwam fashion on some old Indian
tepee poles, and, without troubling ourselves to break
brush for a bed, we all soon joined Stanton in a dreamless
slumber upon his rocky couch.</p>
<p align="justify">The night, like the day, was very
warm, and when I aroused Pete at sunrise the next
morning (July second) to get breakfast the mosquitoes
were about our heads in clouds.</p>
<p align="justify">A magnificent panorama lay before
us.  Opposite, across the valley of the Nascaupee,
a great hill held its snow-tipped head high in the
heavens.  Some four miles farther up to the northwest,
the river itself, where it was choked with blocks
of ice, made its appearance and threaded its way down
to the southeast until it was finally lost in the
spruce-covered valley.  Beyond, bits of Grand
Lake, like silver settings in the black surrounding
forest, sparkled in the light of the rising sun. 
Away to the westward could be traced the rushing waters
of the Red River making their course down through the
sandy ridges that enclose its valley.  To the
northward lay a great undulating wilderness, the wilderness
that we were to traverse.  It was Sunday morning,
and the holy stillness of the day engulfed our world.</p>
<p align="justify">When Pete had the fire going and the
kettle singing I roused the boys and told them we
would make this, our first Sunday in the bush, an
easy one, and simply move our camp forward to a more
hospitable and sheltered spot by a little brook a
mile up the trail, and then be ready for the “tug
of war” on Monday.</p>
<p align="justify">In accordance with this plan, after
eating our breakfast we each carried a light pack
to our new camping ground, and there pitched our tent
by a tiny brook that trickled down through the rocks. 
While Stanton cooked dinner, Pete brought forward
a second pack.  After we had eaten, Richards
suggested to Pete that they take the fish net ahead
and set it in the little lake which was still some
two and a half miles farther on the trail.  They
had just returned when a terrific thunderstorm broke
upon us, and every moment we expected the tent to
be carried away by the gale that accompanied the downpour
of rain.  It was then that Richards remembered
that he had left his blankets to dry upon the tepee
poles at the last camp.  The rain ceased about
five o’clock, and Duncan volunteered to return
with Richards and help him recover his blankets, which
they found far from dry.</p>
<p align="justify">Mosquitoes, it seemed to me, were
never so numerous or vicious as after this thunderstorm. 
We had head nets that were a protection from them
generally, but when we removed the nets to eat, the
attacks of the insects were simply insufferable, so
we had our supper in the tent.  After our meal
was finished and Pete had washed the dishes, I read
aloud a chapter from the Bible—­a Sunday
custom that was maintained throughout the trip—­and
Stanton sang some hymns.  Then we prevailed upon
him to entertain us with other songs.  He had
an excellent tenor voice and a repertoire ranging
from “The Holy City” to “My Brother
Bob,” and these and some of the old Scotch ballads,
which he sang well, were favorites that he was often
afterward called upon to render as we gathered around
our evening camp fire, smoking our pipes and drinking
in the tonic fragrance of the great solemn forest
around us after a day of hard portaging.  These
impromptu concerts, story telling, and reading aloud
from two or three “vest pocket” classics
that I carried, furnished our entertainment when we
were not too tired to be amused.</p>
<a name="camp"></a>
<a href="camp.jpg">
<img alt="Camp Was Moved to the First Small Lake" src="campth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">The rain cleared the atmosphere, and
Monday was cool and delightful, and, with the exception
of two or three showers, a perfect day.  Camp
was moved and our entire outfit portaged to the first
small lake.  Our net, which Pete and Richards
had set the day before, yielded us nothing, but with
my rod I caught enough trout for a sumptuous supper.</p>
<p align="justify">The following morning (July fourth)
Pete and I, who arose at half-past four, had just
finished preparing breakfast of fried pork, flapjacks
and coffee, and I had gone to the tent to call the
others, when Pete came rushing after me in great excitement,
exclaiming, “Caribou!  Rifle quick!”
He grabbed one of the 44’s and rushed away and
soon we heard bang-bang-bang seven times from up the
lake shore.  It was not long before Pete returned
with a very humble bearing and crestfallen countenance,
and without a word leaned the rifle against a tree
and resumed his culinary operations.</p>
<p>“Well, Pete,” said I, “how many
caribou did you kill?”</p>
<p>“No caribou.  Miss him,” he replied.</p>
<p>“But I heard seven shots.  How did you
miss so many times?” I asked.</p>
<p align="justify">“Miss him,” answered Pete. 
“I see caribou over there, close to water,
run fast, try get lee side so he don’t smell
me.  Water in way.  Go very careful, make
no noise, but he smell me.  He hold his head up
like this.  He sniff, then he start.  He
go through trees very quick.  See him, me, just
little when he runs through trees.  Shoot seven
times.  Hit him once, not much.  He runs
off.  No good follow.  Not hurt much, maybe
goes very far.”</p>
<p>“You had caribou fever, Pete,” suggested
Richards.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Easton, “caribou fever,
sure thing.”</p>
<p align="justify">“I don’t believe you’d
have hit him if he hadn’t winded you,”
Stanton remarked.  “The trouble with you,
Pete, is you can’t shoot.”</p>
<p align="justify">“No caribou fever, me,”
rejoined Pete, with righteous indignation at such
a suggestion.  “Kill plenty moose, kill
red deer; never have moose fever, never have deer
fever.”  Then turning to me he asked, “You
want caribou, Mr. Wallace?”</p>
<p align="justify">“Yes,” I answered, “I
wish we could get some fresh meat, but we can wait
a few days.  We have enough to eat, and I don’t
want to take time to hunt now.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Plenty signs.  I get caribou
any day you want him.  Tell me when you want
him, I kill him,” Pete answered me, ignoring
the criticisms of the others as to his marksmanship
and hunting prowess.  All that day and all the
next the men let no opportunity pass to guy Pete about
his lost caribou, and on the whole he took the banter
very good-naturedly, but once confided to me that
“if those boys get up early, maybe they see
caribou too and try how much they can do.”</p>
<p align="justify">After breakfast Pete and I paddled
to the other end of the little lake to pick up the
trail while the others broke camp.  In a little
while he located it, a well-defined path, and we walked
across it half a mile to another and considerably
larger lake in which was a small, round, moundlike,
spruce-covered island so characteristic of the Labrador
lakes.</p>
<p align="justify">On our way back to the first lake
Pete called my attention to a fresh caribou track
in the hard earth.  It was scarcely distinguishable,
and I had to look very closely to make it out. 
Then he showed me other signs that I could make nothing
of at all—­a freshly turned pebble or broken
twig.  These, he said, were fresh deer signs. 
A caribou had passed toward the larger lake that
very morning.</p>
<p align="justify">“If you want him, I get him,”
said Pete.  I could see he felt rather deeply
his failure of the morning and that he was anxious
to redeem himself.  I wanted to give him the
opportunity to do so, especially as the young men,
unused to deprivations, were beginning to crave fresh
meat as a relief from the salt pork.  At the same
time, however, I felt that the fish we were pretty
certain to get from this time on would do very well
for the present, and I did not care to take time to
hunt until we were a little deeper into the country. 
Therefore I told him, “No, we will wait a day
or two.”</p>
<p align="justify">Pete, as I soon discovered, had an
insatiable passion for hunting, and could never let
anything in the way of game pass him without qualms
of regret.  Sometimes, where a caribou trail
ran off plain and clear in the moss, it was hard to
keep from running after it.  Nothing ever escaped
his ear or eye.  He had the trained senses and
instincts of the Indian hunter.  When I first
saw him in New York he looked so youthful and evidently
had so little confidence in himself, answering my
question as to whether he could do this or that with
an aggravating “I don’t know,” that
I felt a keen sense of disappointment in him. 
But with every stage of our journey he had developed,
and now was in his element.  He was quite a different
individual from the green Indian youth whom I had
first seen walking timidly beside the railway conductor
at the Grand Central Station in New York.</p>
<p align="justify">The portage between the lakes was
an easy one and, as I have said, well defined, and
we reached the farther shore of the second lake early
in the afternoon.  Here we found an old Indian
camping ground covering several acres.  It had
evidently been at one time a general rendezvous of
the Indians hunting in this section, as was indicated
by the large number of wigwams that had been pitched
here.  That was a long while ago, however, for
the old poles were so decayed that they fell into
pieces when we attempted to pick them up.</p>
<p align="justify">There was no sign of a trail leading
from the old camp ground, and I sent Pete and Richards
to circle the bush and endeavor to locate one that
I knew was somewhere about, while I fished and Stanton
and Duncan prepared an early supper.  A little
later the two men returned, unsuccessful in their
quest.  They had seen two or three trails, any
of which might be our trail.  Of course but one
of them <i>could</i> be the right one.</p>
<p align="justify">This report was both perplexing and
annoying, for I did not wish to follow for several
days a wrong route and then discover the error when
much valuable time had been lost.</p>
<p align="justify">I therefore decided that we must be
sure of our position before proceeding, and early
the following morning dispatched Richards and Pete
on a scouting expedition to a high hill some distance
to the northeast that they might, from that view-point,
note the general contour of the land and the location
of any visible chain of lakes leading to the northwest
through which the Indian trail might pass, and then
endeavor to pick up the trail from one of these lakes,
noting old camping grounds and other signs. 
As a precaution, in case they were detained over night
each carried some tea and some erbswurst, a rifle,
a cup at his belt and a compass.  When Pete took
the rifle he held it up meaningly and said, “Fresh
meat to-night.  Caribou,” and I could see
that he was planning to make a hunt of it.</p>
<p align="justify">When they were gone, I took Easton
with me and climbed another hill nearer camp, that
I might get a panoramic view of the valley in which
we were camped.  From this vantage ground I could
see, stretching off to the northward, a chain of three
or four small lakes which, I concluded, though there
was other water visible, undoubtedly marked our course. 
Far to the northwest was a group of rugged, barren,
snow-capped mountains which were, perhaps, the “white
hills,” behind which the Indians had told us
lay Seal Lake.  At our feet, sparkling in the
sunlight, spread the lake upon whose shores our tent,
a little white dot amongst the green trees, was pitched. 
A bit of smoke curled up from our camp fire, where
I knew Stanton and Duncan were baking “squaw
bread.”</p>
<p align="justify">We returned to camp to await the arrival
and report of Richards and Pete, and occupied the
afternoon in catching trout which, though more plentiful
than in the first lake, were very small.</p>
<p align="justify">Toward evening, when a stiff breeze
blew in from the lake and cleared the black flies
and mosquitoes away.  Easton took a canoe out,
stripped, and sprang into the water, while I undressed
on shore and was in the midst of a most refreshing
bath when, suddenly, the wind died away and our tormentors
came upon us in clouds.  It was a scramble to
get into our clothes again, but before I succeeded
in hiding my nakedness from them, I was pretty severely
wounded.</p>
<p align="justify">It was scarcely six o’clock
when Richards and Pete walked into camp and proudly
threw down some venison.  Pete had kept his promise. 
On the lookout at every step for game, he had espied
an old stag, and, together, he and Richards had stalked
it, and it had received bullets from both their rifles. 
I shall not say to which hunter belonged the honor
of killing the game.  They were both very proud
of it.</p>
<p align="justify">But best of all, they had found, to
a certainty, the trail leading to one of the chain
of little lakes which Easton and I had seen, and these
lakes, they reported, took a course directly toward
a larger lake, which they had glimpsed.  I decided
that this must be the lake of which the Indians at
Northwest River had told us—­Lake Nipishish
(Little Water).  This was very gratifying intelligence,
as Nipishish was said to be nearly half way to Seal
Lake, from where we had begun our portage on the Nascaupee.</p>
<p align="justify">What a supper we had that night of
fresh venison, and new “squaw bread,”
hot from the pan!</p>
<p align="justify">In the morning we portaged our outfit
two miles, and removed our camp to the second one
of the series of lakes which Easton and I had seen
from the hill, and the fourth lake after leaving the
Nascaupee River.  The morning was fearfully hot,
and we floundered through marshes with heavy packs,
bathed in perspiration, and fairly breathing flies
and mosquitoes.  Not a breath of air stirred,
and the humidity and heat were awful.  Stanton
and Duncan remained to pitch the tent and bring up
some of our stuff that had been left at the second
lake, while Richards, Easton, Pete and I trudged three
miles over the hills for the caribou meat which had
been cached at the place where the animal was killed,
Richards and Pete having brought with them only enough
for two or three meals.</p>
<p align="justify">The country here was rough and broken,
with many great bowlders scattered over the hilltops. 
When we reached the cache we were ravenously hungry,
and built a fire and had a very satisfying luncheon
of broiled venison steak and tea.  We bad barely
finished our meal when heavy black clouds overcast
the sky, and the wind and rain broke upon us in the
fury of a hurricane.  With the coming of the storm
the temperature dropped fully forty degrees in half
as many minutes, and in our dripping wet garments
we were soon chilled and miserable.  We hastened
to cut the venison up and put it into packs, and with
each a load of it, started homeward.  On the
way I stopped with Pete to climb a peak that I might
have a view of the surrounding country and see the
large lake to the northward which he and Richards had
reported the evening before.  The atmosphere
was sufficiently clear by this time for me to see
it, and I was satisfied that it was undoubtedly Lake
Nipishish, as no other large lake had been mentioned
by the Indians.</p>
<p align="justify">We hastened down the mountain and
made our way through rain-soaked bushes and trees
that showered us with their load of water at every
step, and when at last we reached camp and I threw
down my pack, I was too weary to change my wet garments
for dry ones, and was glad to lie down, drenched as
I was, to sleep until supper was ready.</p>
<p align="justify">None of our venison must be wasted. 
All that we could not use within the next day or
two must be “jerked,” that is, dried, to
keep it from spoiling.  To accomplish this we
erected poles, like the poles of a wigwam, and suspended
the meat from them, cut in thin strips, and in the
center, between the poles, made a small, smoky fire
to keep the greenbottle flies away, that they might
not “blow” the venison, as well as to
aid nature in the drying process.</p>
<p align="justify">All day on July seventh the rain poured
down, a cold, northwest wind blew, and no progress
was made in drying our meat.  There was nothing
to do but wait in the tent for the storm to clear.</p>
<p align="justify">When Pete went out to cook dinner
I told him to make a little corn meal porridge and
let it go at that, but what a surprise he had for us
when, a little later, dripping wet and hands full of
kettles, he pushed his way into the tent!  A
steaming venison potpie, broiled venison steaks, hot
fried bread dough, stewed prunes for dessert and a
kettle of hot tea!  All experienced campers in
the north woods are familiar with the fried bread
dough.  It is dough mixed as you would mix it
for squaw bread, but not quite so stiff, pulled out
to the size of your frying pan, very thin, and fried
in swimming pork grease.  In taste it resembles
doughnuts.  Hubbard used to call it “French
toast.”  Our young men had never eaten it
before, and Richards, taking one of the cakes, asked
Pete: </p>
<p>“What do you call this?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” answered Pete.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Richards, with a mouthful
of it, “I call it darn good.”</p>
<p>“That’s what we call him then,”
retorted Pete, “darn good.”</p>
<p align="justify">And so the cakes were christened “darn
goods,” and always afterward we referred to
them by that name.</p>
<p align="justify">The forest fire which I have mentioned
as having swept this country to the shores of Grand
Lake some thirty-odd years ago, had been particularly
destructive in this portion of the valley where we
were now encamped.  The stark dead spruce trees,
naked skeletons of the old forest, stood all about,
and that evening, when I stepped outside for a look
at the sky and weather, I was impressed with the dreariness
of the scene.  The wind blew in gusts, driving
the rain in sheets over the face of the hills and
through the spectral trees, finally dashing it in
bucketfuls against our tent.</p>
<p align="justify">The next forenoon, however, the sky
cleared, and in the afternoon Richards and I went
ahead in one of the canoes to hunt the trail. 
We followed the north shore of the lake to its end,
then portaged twenty yards across a narrow neck into
another lake, and keeping near the north shore of
this lake also, continued until we came upon a creek
of considerable size running out of it and taking
a southeasterly course.  Where the creek left
the lake there was an old Indian fishing camp. 
It was out of the question that our trail should follow
the valley of this creek, for it led directly away
from our goal.  We, therefore, returned and explored
a portion of the north shore of the lake, which was
very bare, bowlder strewn, and devoid of vegetation
for the most part—­even moss.</p>
<p align="justify">Once we came upon a snow bank in a
hollow, and cooled ourselves by eating some of the
snow.  Our observations made it quite certain
that the trail left the northern side of the second
lake through a bowlder-strewn pass over the hills,
though there were no visible signs of it, and we climbed
one of the hills in the hope of seeing lakes beyond. 
There were none in sight.  It was too late to
continue our search that day and we reluctantly returned
to camp.  Our failure was rather discouraging
because it meant a further loss of time, and I had
hoped that our route, until we reached Nipishish at
least, would lie straight and well defined before
us.</p>
<p align="justify">Sunday was comfortably cool, with
a good stiff breeze to drive away the flies. 
I dispatched Richards, with Pete and Easton to accompany
him, to follow up our work of the evening before, and
look into the pass through the hills, while I remained
behind with Stanton and Duncan and kept the fire going
under our venison.</p>
<p align="justify">I Had expected that Duncan, with his
lifelong experience as a native trapper and hunter
in the Labrador interior, would be of great assistance
to us in locating the trail; but to my disappointment
I discovered soon after our start that he was far
from good even in following a trail when it was found,
though he never got lost and could always find his
way back, in a straight line, to any given point.</p>
<p align="justify">The boys returned toward evening and
reported that beyond the hills, through the pass,
lay a good-sized lake, and that some signs of a trail
were found leading to it.  This was what I had
hoped for.</p>
<p align="justify">Our meat was now sufficiently dried
to pack, and, anxious to be on the move again, I directed
that on the morrow we should break camp and cross
the hills to the lakes beyond.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_5"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER V</h1>
<p><b>WE GO ASTRAY</b></p>
<p align="justify">At half-past four on Monday morning
I called the men, and while Pete was preparing breakfast
the rest of us broke camp and made ready for a prompt
start.  All were anxious to see behind the range
of bowlder-covered hills and to reach Lake Nipishish,
which we felt could not now be far away.  As
soon as our meal was finished the larger canoe was
loaded and started on ahead, while Richards, Duncan
and I remained behind to load and follow in the other.</p>
<p align="justify">With the rising sun the day had become
excessively warm, and there was not a breath of wind
to cool the stifling atmosphere.  The trail was
ill-defined and rough, winding through bare glacial
bowlders that were thick-strewn on the ridges; and
the difficulty of following it, together with the
heat, made the work seem doubly hard, as we trudged
with heavy packs to the shores of a little lake which
nestled in a notch between the bills a mile and a
half away.  Once a fox ran before us and took
refuge in its den under a large rock, but save the
always present cloud of black flies, no other sign
of life was visible on the treeless hills.  Finally
at midday, after three wearisome journeys back and
forth, bathed in perspiration and dripping fly dope
and pork grease, which we had rubbed on our faces
pretty freely as a protection from the winged pests,
we deposited our last load upon the shores of the
lake, and thankfully stopped to rest and cook our dinner.</p>
<p align="justify">We were still eating when we heard
the first rumblings of distant thunder and felt the
first breath of wind from a bank of black clouds in
the western sky, and had scarcely started forward again
when the heavens opened upon us with a deluge.</p>
<p align="justify">The brunt of the storm soon passed,
but a steady rain continued as we paddled through
the lake and portaged across a short neck of land into
a larger lake, down which we paddled to a small round
island near its lower end.  Here, drenched to
the bone and thoroughly tired, we made camp, and in
the shelter of the tent ate a savory stew composed
of duck, grouse, venison and fat pork that Pete served
in the most appetizing camp style.</p>
<p align="justify">I was astounded by the amount of squaw
bread and “darn goods” that the young
men of my party made away with, and began to fear not
only for the flour supply, but also for the health
of the men.  One day when I saw one of my party
eat three thick loaves of squaw bread in addition
to a fair quantity of meat, I felt that it was time
to limit the flour part of the ration.  I expressed
my fears to Pete, and advised that he bake less bread,
and make the men eat more of the other food.</p>
<p align="justify">“Bread very good for Indian. 
Not good when white an eat so much.  Good way
fix him.  Use not so much baking powder, me. 
Make him heavy,” suggested Pete.</p>
<p align="justify">“No, Pete, use enough baking
powder to make the bread good, and I’ll speak
to the men.  Then if they don’t eat less
bread of their own accord, we’ll have to limit
them to a ration.”</p>
<p align="justify">I decided to try this plan, and that
evening in our camp on the island I told them that
a ration of bread would soon have to be resorted to. 
They looked very solemn about it, for the bare possibility
of a limited ration, something that they had never
had to submit to, appeared like a hardship to them.</p>
<p align="justify">On Tuesday morning when we awoke the
rain was still falling steadily.  During the forenoon
the storm abated somewhat and we broke camp and transferred
our goods to the mainland, where the trail left the
lake near a good-sized brook.  Our portage led
us over small bills and through marshes a mile and
a half to another lake.  While Pete remained
at our new camp to prepare supper and Easton stayed
with him, the rest of us brought forward the last
load.  Richards and I with a canoe and packs
attempted to run down the brook, which emptied into
the lake near our camp; but we soon found the stream
too rocky, and were forced to cut our way through
a dense growth of willows and carry the canoe and
packs to camp on our backs.</p>
<p align="justify">The rain had ceased early in the afternoon,
and the evening was delightfully cool, so that the
warmth of a big camp fire was most grateful and comforting. 
Our day’s march had carried us into a well-wooded
country, and the spectral dry sticks of the old burnt
forest were behind us.  The clouds hung low and
threatening, and in the twilight beyond the glow of
our leaping fire made the still waters of the lake,
with its encircling wilderness of fir trees, seem very
dark and somber.  The genial warmth of the fire
was so in contrast to the chilly darkness of the tent
that we sat long around it and talked of our travels
and prospects and the lake and the wilderness before
us that no white man had ever before seen, while the
brook near by tumbling over its rocky bed roared a
constant complaint at our intrusion into this land
of solitude.</p>
<p align="justify">The following morning was cool and
fine, but showers developed during the day. 
Our venison, improderly dried, was molding, and much
of it we found, upon unpacking, to be maggoty. 
After breakfast I instructed the others to cut out
the wormy parts as far as possible and hang the good
meat over the fire for further drying, while with Easton
I explored a portion of the lake shore in search of
the trail leading out.  We returned for a late
dinner, and then while Easton, Richards and I caught
trout, I dispatched Pete and Stanton to continue the
search beyond the point where Easton and I had left
off.  It was near evening when they came back
with the information that they had found the trail,
very difficult to follow, leading to a river, some
two miles and a half beyond our camp.  This was
undoubtedly the Crooked River, which empties into
Grand Lake close to the Nascaupee, and which the Indians
had told us had its rise in Lake Nipishish.</p>
<p align="justify">The evening was very warm, and mosquitoes
were so thick in the tent that we almost breathed
them.  Stanton, after much turning and fidgeting,
finally took his blanket out of doors, where he said
it was cooler and he could sleep with his head covered
to protect him; but in an hour he was back, and with
his blanket wet with dew took his usual place beside
me.</p>
<p align="justify">Below the point where the trail enters
the Crooked River it is said by the Indians to be
exceedingly rough and entirely impassable.  We
portaged into it the next morning, paddled a short
distance up the stream, which is here some two hundred
yards in width and rather shallow, then poled through
a short rapid and tracked through two others, wading
almost to our waists in some places.  We now came
to a widening of the river where it spread out into
a small lake.  Near the upper end of this expansion
was an island upon which we found a long-disused
log cache of the Indians.  A little distance above
the island what appeared to be two rivers flowed into
the expansion.  Richards, Duncan and I explored
up the right-hand branch until we struck a rapid. 
Upon our return to the point where the two streams
came together we found that the other canoe, against
my positive instructions not to proceed at uncertain
points until I had decided upon the proper route to
take, had gone up the branch on the left, tracked
through a rapid and disappeared.</p>
<a name="cache"></a>
<a href="cache.jpg">
<img alt="We Found a Long-disused Log Cache of the Indians" src="cacheth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">There were no signs of Indians on
either of these branches so far as we could discover,
and I was well satisfied that somewhere on the north
bank of the expansion, probably not far from the island
and old cache which we had passed, was the trail. 
But evening was coming on and rain was threatening,
so there was nothing to do but follow the other canoe,
which had gone blindly ahead, until we should overtake
it, as it contained all the cooking utensils and our
tent.  This fail-ure of the men to obey instructions
took us a considerable distance out of our way and
cost us several days’ time, as we discovered
later.</p>
<p align="justify">We tracked through some rapids and
finally overhauled the others at a place where the
river branched again.  It was after seven o’clock,
a drizzling rain was falling, and here we pitched
camp on the east side of the river just opposite the
junction of the two branches.</p>
<p align="justify">On the west fork and directly across
from our camp was a rough rapid, and while supper
was cooking I paddled over with Richards to try for
fish.  We made our casts, and I quickly landed
a twenty-inch ouananiche and Richards hooked a big
trout that, after much play, was brought ashore. 
It measured twenty-two and a half inches from tip
to tip and eleven and a half inches around the shoulders. 
I had landed a couple more large trout, when Richards
enthusiastically announced that he had a big fellow
hooked.  He played the fish for half an hour
before he brought it to the edge of the rock, so completely
exhausted that it could scarcely move a fin. 
We had no landing net and he attempted to lift it
out by the line, when snap went the hook and the fish
was free!  I made a dash, caught it in my hands
and triumphantly brought it ashore.  It proved
to be an ouananiche that measured twenty-seven and
one-half inches in length by eleven and one-quarter
inches in girth.</p>
<p align="justify">In our excitement we had forgotten
all about supper and did not even know that it was
raining; but we now saw Pete on the further shore
gesticulating wildly and pointing at his open mouth,
in pantomime suggestion that the meal was waiting.</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, that <i>is</i> fishing!”
remarked Richards.  “I never landed a fish
as big as that before.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Yes,” I answered; “we’re
getting near the headwaters of the river now, where
the big fish are always found.”</p>
<p align="justify">“I never expected any such sport
as that.  It’s worth the hard work just
for this hour’s fishing.”</p>
<p align="justify">“You’ll get plenty more
of it before we’re through the country. 
There are some big fellows under that rapid. 
The Indians told us we should find salmon in this
section too, but we’re ahead of the salmon, I
think.  They’re hardly due for a month yet.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Let’s show the fellows
the trout, first.  They’re big enough to
make ’em open their eyes.  Then we’ll
spring the ouananiche on ’cm and they’ll
faint.  It’ll, be enough to make Easton
want to come and try a cast too.”</p>
<p align="justify">So when we pushed through the dripping
bushes to the tent we presented only the few big trout,
which did indeed create a sensation.  Then Richards
brought forward his ouananiche, and it produced the
desired effect.  After supper Pete and Easton
must try their hand at the fish, and they succeeded
in catching five trout averaging, we estimated, from
two to three pounds each.  Richards, however,
still held the record as to big fish, both trout and
ouananiche, and the others vowed they would take it
from him if they had to fish nights to do it.</p>
<p align="justify"><i>En route</i> up the river, in the
afternoon, Pete had shot a muskrat, and I asked him
that night what he was going to do with it.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he answered. 
“Muskrat no good now.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, never kill any animal
while you are with me that you cannot use, except
beasts of prey.”</p>
<p align="justify">This was one of the rules that I had
laid down at the beginning:  that no member of
the party should kill for the sake of killing any living
thing.  I could not be angry with Pete, however,
for he was always so goodnatured.  No matter
how sharply I might reprove him, in five minutes he
would be doing something for my comfort, or singing
some Indian song as he went lightheartedly about his
work.  I understood how hard it was for him to
down the Indian instinct to kill, and that the muskrat
bad been shot thoughtlessly without considering for
a moment whether it were needed or not.  The
flesh of the muskrat at this season of the year is
very strong in flavor and unpalatable, and besides,
with the grouse that were occasionally killed, the
fish that we were catching, and the dried venison
still on hand, we could not well use it.  No
fur is, of course, in season at this time of year,
and so there was no excuse for killing muskrats for
the pelts.</p>
<p align="justify">In the vicinity of this camp we saw
some of the largest spruce timber that we came upon
in the whole journey across Labrador.  Some of
these trees were fully twenty-two inches in diameter
at the butt and perhaps fifty to sixty feet in height. 
These large trees were very scattered, however, and
too few to be of commercial value.  For the most
part the trees that we met with were six to eight,
and, occasionally, ten inches through, scrubby and
knotted.  In Labrador trees worth the cutting
are always located near streams in sheltered valleys.</p>
<p align="justify">That evening before we retired the
drizzle turned to a downpour, and we were glad to
leave our unprotected camp fire for the unwarmed shelter
of our tent.  While I lay within and listened
to the storm, I wrote in my diary:  “As
I lie here, the rain pours upon the tent over my head
and drips—­drips—­drips through
small holes in the silk; the wind sweeps through the
spruce trees outside and a breath of the fragrance
of the great damp forest comes to me.  I hear
the roar of the rapid across the river as the waters
pour down over the rocks in their course to the sea. 
I wonder if some of those very waters do not wash
the shores of New York.  How far away the city
seems, and how glad I shall be to return home when
my work here is finished!</p>
<p align="justify">“This is a feeling that comes
to one often in the wilderness.  Perhaps it is
a touch of homesickness—­a hunger for the
sympathy and companionship of our friends.”</p>
<p align="justify">The days that followed were days of
weary waiting and inactivity.  A cold northeast
storm was blowing and the rain fell heavily and incessantly
day and night.  Trail hunting was impracticable
while the storm lasted, but the halt offered an opportunity
that was taken advantage of to repair our outfit;
also there was much needed mending to be done, as
some of our clothing was badly torn.</p>
<p align="justify">Everything we had in the way of wearing
apparel was wet, and we set up our tent stove for
the first time, that we might dry our things under
cover.  This stove proved a great comfort to us,
and all agreed that it was an inspiration that led
me to bring it.  It was not an inspiration, however,
but my experience on the trip with Hubbard that taught
the necessity of a stove for just such occasions as
this, and for the colder weather later.</p>
<p align="justify">Some of us went to the rapid to fish,
but it was too cold for either fly or bait, and we
soon gave it up.  I slipped off a rock in the
lower swirl of the rapid, and went into the river over
head and ears.  Pete, who was with me, gave audible
expression to his amusement at my discomfiture as
I crawled out of the water like a half drowned rat;
but I could see no occasion for his hilarity and I
told him so.</p>
<p align="justify">This experience dampened my enthusiasm
as a fisherman for that day.  The net was set,
however, which later yielded us some trout.  A
fish planked on a dry spruce log hewn flat on one
side, made a delicious dinner, and a savory kettle
of fish chowder made of trout and dried onions gave
us an equally good supper.</p>
<p align="justify">On July fifteenth sleet was mingled
with the rain in the early morning, and it was so
cold that Duncan used his mittens when doing outdoor
work.  Easton was not feeling well, and I looked
upon our delay as not altogether lost time, as it
gave him an opportunity to get into shape again.</p>
<p align="justify">A pocket copy of “Hiawatha,”
from which Stanton read aloud, furnished us with entertainment. 
Pete was very much interested in the reading, and
I found he was quite familiar with the legends of his
Indian hero, and he told us some stories of Hiawatha
that I had never heard.  “Hiawatha,”
said Pete, “he the same as Christ.  He do
anything he want to.”  Pete produced his
harmonica and proved himself a very good performer.</p>
<p align="justify">July sixteenth was Sunday, and I decided
that rain or shine we must break camp on Monday and
move forwards for the inactivity was becoming unendurable.</p>
<p align="justify">A little fishing was done, and Pete
landed a twenty-two and three-quarter inch trout,
thus wresting the big-trout record from Richards. 
Pete was proud and boasted a great deal of this feat,
which he claimed proved his greater skill as a fisherman,
but which the others attributed to luck.</p>
<p align="justify">We were enabled to do some scouting
in the afternoon, which resulted in the discovery
that our camp was on an island.  Nowhere could
we find any Indian signs, and we were therefore quite
evidently off the trail.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_6"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER VI</h1>
<p><b>LAKE NIPISHISH IS REACHED</b></p>
<p align="justify">As already stated, the Indians at
Northwest River Post had informed us that the Crooked
River had its rise in Lake Nipishish, and I therefore
decided to follow the stream from the point where we
were now encamped to the lake, or until we should
come upon the trail again, as I felt sure we should
do farther up, rather than retrace our steps to the
abandoned cache on the island in the expansion below,
and probably consume considerable time in locating
the old portage route from that point.</p>
<p align="justify">Accordingly, on Monday morning we
began our work against the almost continuous rapids,
which we discovered as we proceeded were characteristic
of the river.  A heavy growth of willows lined
the banks, forcing us into the icy water, where the
swift current made it very difficult to keep our footing
upon the slippery bowlders of the river bed. 
Tracking lines were attached to the bows of the canoes
and we floundered forward.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning was cloudy and cool and
resembled a day in late October, but before noon the
sun graciously made his appearance and gave us new
spirit for our work.  When we stopped for dinner
I sent Pete and Easton to look ahead, and Pete brought
back the intelligence that a half-mile portage would
cut off a considerable bend in the river and take
us into still water.  It was necessary to clear
a portion of the way with the ax.  This done,
the portage was made, and then we found to our disappointment
that the still water was less than a quarter mile
in length, when rapids occurred again.</p>
<p align="justify">As I deemed it wise to get an idea
of the lay of the land before proceeding farther,
I took Pete with me and went ahead to scout the route. 
Less than a mile away we found two small lakes, and
climbing a ridge two miles farther on, we had a view
of the river, which, so far as we could see, continued
to be very rough, taking a turn to the westward above
where our canoes were stationed, and then swinging
again to the northeast in the direction of Nipishish,
which was plainly visible.  The Indians, instead
of taking the longer route that we were following,
undoubtedly crossed from the old cache to a point
in the river some distance above where it took its
westward swing, and thus, in one comparatively easy
portage, saved themselves several miles of rough traveling. 
It was too late for us now, however, to take advantage
of this.</p>
<p align="justify">Pete and I hurried back to the others. 
The afternoon was well advanced, but sufficient daylight
remained to permit us to proceed a little way up the
river, and portage to the shores of one of the lakes,
where camp was made just at dusk.</p>
<p align="justify">Field mice in this section were exceedingly
troublesome.  They would run over us at night,
sample our food, and gnawed a hole as large as a man’s
hand in the side of the tent.  Porcupines, too,
were something of a nuisance.  One night one
of them ate a piece out of my tumpline, which was
partially under my head, while I slept.</p>
<p align="justify">The next morning we passed through
the lakes to the river above, and for three days,
in spite of an almost continuous rain and wind storm,
worked our way up stream, “tracking” the
canoes through a succession of rapids or portaging
around them, with scarcely any opportunity to paddle.</p>
<p align="justify">On the afternoon of the third day,
with the wind dashing the rain in sheets into our
faces, we halted on a rough piece of ground just above
the river bank and pitched our tent.</p>
<p align="justify">When camp was made Pete took me to
a rise of ground a little distance away, and pointing
to the northward exclaimed:  “Look, Lake
Nipishish!  I know we reach him to-day.”</p>
<p align="justify">And sure enough, there lay Lake Nipishish
close at hand!  I was more thankful than I can
say to see the water stretching far away to the northward,
for I felt that now the hardest and roughest part of
our journey to the height of land was completed.</p>
<p align="justify">“That’s great, Pete,”
said I.  “We’ll have more water after
this and fewer and easier portages, and we can travel
faster.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Maybe better, I don’t
know,” remarked Pete, rather skeptically. 
“Always hard find trail out big lakes. 
May leave plenty places.  Take more time hunt
trail maybe now.  Indian maps no good.  Maybe
easier when we find him.”</p>
<p align="justify">Pete was right, and I did not know
the difficulties still to be met with before we should
reach Michikamau.</p>
<p align="justify">Duncan was of comparatively little
help to us now, and as I knew that he was more than
anxious to return to Groswater Bay, I decided to dispense
with his further services and send him back with letters
to be mailed home.  When I returned to the tent
I said to him: </p>
<p align="justify">“Duncan, I suppose you would
like to go home now, and I will let you turn back
from here and take some letters out.  Does that
suit you?”</p>
<p align="justify">“Yes, sir, that suits me fine,”
replied be promptly, and in a tone that left no doubt
of the fact that he was glad to go.</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, this is Thursday. 
I’ll write my letters tomorrow, and you may
go on Saturday.”</p>
<p>“All right, sir.”</p>
<p align="justify">The letters were all written and ready
for Duncan on Friday night, and he packed sufficient
provisions into a waterproof bag I gave him to carry
him out, and prepared for an early start in the morning. 
But the rain that had been falling for several days
still poured down on Saturday, and he decided to postpone
his departure another day in the hope of better weather
on Sunday.  He needed the time anyway to mend
his sealskin boots before starting back, for he had
pretty nearly worn them out on the sharp rocks on
the portages.  The rest of us were well provided
with oil-tanned moccasins (sometimes called larigans
or shoe-packs), which I have found are the best footwear
for a journey like ours.  Pete’s khaki
trousers were badly torn; and Richards and Easton,
who wore Mackinaw trousers, were in rags.  This
cloth had not withstood the hard usage of Labrador
travel a week, and both men, when they bad a spare
hour, occupied it in sewing on canvas patches, until
now there was almost as much canvas patch as Mackinaw
cloth in these garments.  Richards, however,
carried an extra pair of moleskin trousers, and I
wore moleskin.  This latter material is the best
obtainable, so far as my experience goes, for rough
traveling in the bush, and my trousers stood the trip
with but one small patch until winter came.</p>
<p align="justify">Sunday morning was still stormy, but
before noon the rain ceased, and Duncan announced
his intention of starting homeward at once.  We
raised our flags and exchanged our farewells and Godspeeds
with him.  Then he left us, and as be disappeared
down the trail a strange sense of loneliness came
upon us, for it seemed to us that his going broke
the last link that connected us with the outside world. 
Duncan was always so cheerful, with his quaint humor,
and so ready to do his work to the very best of his
ability, that we missed him very much, and often spoke
of him in the days that followed.</p>
<p align="justify">We had made the best of our enforced
idleness in this camp to repack and condense and dry
our outfit as much as possible.  The venison,
at the first imperfectly cured, had been so continuously
soaked that the most of what remained of it was badly
spoiled and we could not use it, and with regret we
threw it away.  The erbswurst was also damp, and
this we put into small canvas bags, which were then
placed near the stove to dry.</p>
<p align="justify">A rising barometer augured good weather
for Monday morning.  A light wind scattered the
clouds that had for so many days entombed the world
in storm and gloom, and the sun broke out gloriously,
setting the moisture-laden trees aglinting as though
hung with a million pearls and warming the damp fir
trees until the air was laden with the forest perfume. 
It was as though a pall had been lifted from the world. 
How our hearts swelled with the new enthusiasm of
the returned sunshine!  It was always so. 
It seemed as if the long-continued storms bound up
our hearts and crushed the buoyancy from them; but
the returning sunshine melted the bonds at once and
gave us new ambition.  A robin sang gayly from
a near-by tree—­a messenger from the kindlier
Southland come to cheer us—­and the “whisky
jacks,” who had not shown themselves for several
days, appeared again with their shrill cries, venturing
impudently into the very door of our tent to claim
scraps of refuse.</p>
<p align="justify">I was for moving forward that very
afternoon, but some of our things were still wet,
and I deemed it better judgment to let them have the
day in which to dry and to delay our start until Monday
morning.</p>
<p align="justify">After supper, in accordance with the
Sunday custom established by Hubbard when I was with
him, I read aloud a selection from the Testament—­the
last chapter of Revelation—­and then went
out of the tent to take the usual nine o’clock
weather observation.  Between the horizon and
a fringe of black clouds that hung low in the north
the reflected sun set the heavens afire, and through
the dark fir trees the lake stretched red as a lake
of blood.  I called the others to see it and
Easton joined me.  We climbed a low hill close
at hand to view the scene, and while we looked the
red faded into orange, and the lake was transformed
into a mirror, which reflected the surrounding trees
like an inverted forest.  In the direction from
which we had come we could see the high blue hills
beyond the Nascaupee, very dim in the far distance. 
Below us the Crooked River lost itself as it wound
its tortuous way through the wooded valley that we
had traversed.  Somewhere down there Duncan was
bivouacked, and we wondered if his fire was burning
at one of our old camping places.</p>
<a name="nipish"></a>
<a href="nipish.jpg">
<img alt="Below Lake Nipishish" src="nipishth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">Darkness soon came and we returned
to the tent to find the others rolled in their blankets,
and we joined them at once that we might have a good
night’s rest preparatory to an early morning
advance.</p>
<p align="justify">Before seven o’clock on Monday
morning (July twenty-fourth) we had made our portage
to the water that we had supposed to be an arm of
Lake Nipishish, but which proved instead to be an expansion
of the river into which the lake poured its waters
through a short rapid.  This rapid necessitated
another short portage before we were actually afloat
upon the bosom of Nipishish itself.  There was
not a cloud to mar the azure of the sky, hardly a
breath of wind to make a ripple on the surface of
the lake, and the morning was just cool enough to be
delightful.</p>
<p align="justify">It was the kind of day and kind of
wilderness that makes one want to go on and on. 
I felt again the thrill in my blood of that magic
something that had held possession of Hubbard and me
and lured us into the heart of this unknown land two
years before, and as I looked hungrily away toward
the hills to the northward, I found myself repeating
again one of those selections from Kipling that I had
learned from him: </p>
<p>  “Something hidden.  Go and
find it.  Go and look behind the<br>
Ranges—­<br>
   Something lost behind the Ranges. 
Lost and waiting for you. <br>
Go!”</p>
<a NAME="chapter_7"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER VII</h1>
<p><b>SCOUTING FOR THE TRAIL</b></p>
<p align="justify">Lake Nipishish is approximately twenty
miles in length, and at its broadest part ten or twelve
miles in width.  It extends in an almost due
easterly direction from the place where we launched
our canoes near its outlet.  The shores are rocky
and rise gradually into low, well-wooded hills, by
which the lake is surrounded.  Five miles from
the outlet a rocky point juts out into the water, and
above the point an arm of the lake reaches into the
hills to the northward to a distance of six miles,
almost at right angles to the main lake.  In
the arm there are several small, rocky islands which
sustain a scrubby growth of black spruce and fir balsam.</p>
<p align="justify">Hitherto the Indian maps had been
of little assistance to us.  No estimate of distance
could be made from them, and the lakes through which
we had passed (not all of them shown on the map) were
represented by small circles with nothing to indicate
at what point on their shores the trail was to be
found.  Lake Nipishish, however, was drawn on
a larger scale and with more detail, and we readily
located the trail leading out of the arm which I have
mentioned.</p>
<p align="justify">After a day’s work through several
small lakes or ponds, with short intervening portages,
and a trail on the whole well defined and easily followed,
we came one afternoon to a good-sized lake of irregular
shape which Pete promptly named Washkagama (Crooked
Lake).</p>
<p align="justify">A stream flowed into Washkagama near
the place where we went ashore, and it seemed to me
probable that our route might be along this stream,
which it was likely drained lakes farther up; but a
search in the vicinity failed to uncover any signs
of the trail, and the irregu-lar shape of the lake
suggested several other likely places for it. 
We were, therefore, forced to go into camp, disappointing
as it was, until we should know our position to a
certainty.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day was showery, but we began
in the morning a determined hunt for the trail. 
Stanton remained in camp to make needed repairs to
the outfit; Easton went with Pete to the northward,
while Richards and I in one of the canoes paddled
to the eastern side of the lake arm, upon which we
were encamped, to climb a barren hill from which we
hoped to get a good view of the country, and upon reaching
the summit we were not disappointed.  A wide
panorama was spread before us.  To the north
lay a great rolling country covered with a limitless
forest of firs, with here and there a bit of sparkling
water.  A mile from our camp a creek, now and
again losing itself in the green woods, rushed down
to join Washkagama, anxious to gain the repose of the
lake.  To the northeast the rugged white hills,
that we were hoping to reach soon, loomed up grand
and majestic, with patches of snow, like white sheets,
spread over their sides and tops.  From Nipishish
to Washkagama we had passed through a burned and rocky
country where no new growth save scant underbrush
and a few scattering spruce, balsam and tamarack trees
had taken the place of the old destroyed forest. 
The dead, naked tree trunks which, gaunt and weather-beaten,
still stood upright or lay in promiscuous confusion
on the ground, gave this part of the country from
our hilltop view an appearance of solitary desolation
that we had not noticed when we were traveling through
it.  But this unregenerated district ended at
Washkagama; and below it Nipishish, with its green-topped
hills, seemed almost homelike.</p>
<p align="justify">The creek that I have mentioned as
flowing into the lake a mile from our camp seemed
to me worthy to be explored for the trail, and I determined
to go there at once upon our return to camp, while
Richards desired to climb a rock-topped hill which
held its head above the timber line three or four
miles to the northwest, that he might make topographical
and geological observations there.</p>
<p align="justify">We returned to camp, and Richards,
with a package of erbswurst in his pocket to cook
for dinner and my rifle on his shoulder, started immediately
into the bush, and was but just gone when Pete and
Easton appeared with the report that two miles above
us lay a large lake, and that they had found the trail
leading from it to the creek I had seen from the hill. 
The lake lay among the hills to the northward, and
the bits of water I had seen were portions of it. 
I was anxious to break camp and start forward, but
this could not be done until Richards’ return. 
Easton, Pete and I paddled up to the creek’s
mouth, therefore, and spent the day fishing, and landed
eighty-seven trout, ranging from a quarter pound to
four pounds in weight.  The largest ones Stanton
split and hung over the fire to dry for future use,
while the others were applied to immediate need.</p>
<p align="justify">When Richards came into camp in the
evening he brought with him an excellent map of the
country that he had seen from the hill and reported
having counted ten lakes, including the large one that
Easton and Pete had visited.  He also had found
the trail and followed it back.</p>
<p align="justify">The next morning some tracking and
wading up the creek was necessary before we found
ourselves upon the trail with packs on our backs, and
before twelve o’clock we arrived with all our
outfit at the lake, which we shall call Minisinaqua. 
It was an exceedingly beautiful sheet of water, the
main body, perhaps, ten or twelve miles in length,
but narrow, and with many arms and indentations and
containing numerous round green islands.  The
shores and surrounding country were well wooded with
spruce, fir, balsam, larch, and an occasional small
white birch.</p>
<p align="justify">I took my place in the larger canoe
with Pete and Easton and left Stanton to follow with
Richards.  Pete’s eyes, as always, were
scanning with keen scrutiny every inch of shore. 
Suddenly he straightened up, peered closely at an
island, and in a stage whisper exclaimed “Caribou! 
Caribou!  Don’t make noise!  Paddle,
quick!”</p>
<p align="justify">We saw them then—­two old
stags and a fawn—­on an island, but they
had seen us, too, or winded us more likely, and, rushing
across the island, took to the water on the opposite
side, making for the mainland.  We bent to our
paddles with all our might, hoping to get within shooting
distance of them, but they had too much lead. 
We all tried some shots when we saw we could not
get closer, but the deer were five hundred yards away,
and from extra exertion with our paddles, we were
unable to hold steady, and missed.</p>
<p align="justify">Our canoes were turned into an arm
of the lake leading to the northward.  Amongst
some islands we came upon a flock of five geese—­
two old ones and three young ones.  The old ones
had just passed through the molting season, and their
new wing feathers were not long enough to bear them,
and the young ones, though nearly full grown, had
not yet learned to fly.  Pete brought the mother
goose and two of her children down with the shotgun,
but father gander and the other youngster escaped,
flapping away on the surface of the lake at a remarkable
speed, and they were allowed to go with their lives
without a chase.</p>
<p align="justify">We stumbled upon the trail leading
from Lake Minisinaqua, almost immediately upon landing. 
Its course was in a northerly direction through the
valley of a small river that emptied into the lake. 
This valley was inclosed by low hills, and the country,
like that between Washkagama and Lake Minisinaqua,
was well covered with the same varieties of small
trees that were found there.  For a mile and three-quarters,
the stream along which the trail ran was too swift
for canoeing, but it then expanded into miniature
lakes or ponds which were connected by short rapids. 
Each of us portaged a load to the first pond, where
the canoes were to be launched, and I directed Pete
and Stanton to remain here, pluck the geese, and prepare
two of them for an evening dinner, while Richards,
Easton and I brought forward a second load and pitched
camp.</p>
<p align="justify">This was Easton’s twenty-second
birthday and it occurred to me that it would be a
pleasant variation to give a birthday dinner in his
honor and to have a sort of feast to relieve the monotony
of our daily life, and give the men something to think
about and revive their spirits; for “bucking
the trail” day after day with no change but the
gradual change of scenery does grow monotonous to
most men, and the ardor of the best of them, especially
men unaccustomed to roughing it, will become damped
in time unless some variety, no matter how slight,
can be brought into their lives.  A good dinner
always has this effect, for after men are immersed
in a wilderness for several weeks, good things to
eat take the first place in their thoughts and, to
judge from their conversation, the attainment of these
is their chief aim in life.</p>
<p align="justify">My instructions to Pete included the
baking of an extra ration of bread to be served hot
with the roast geese, and I asked Stanton to try his
hand at concocting some kind of a pudding out of the
few prunes that still remained, to be served with
sugar as sauce, and accompanied by black coffee. 
Our coffee supply was small and it was used only
on Sundays now, or at times when we desired an especial
treat.</p>
<p align="justify">We were pretty tired when we returned
with our second packs and dropped them on a low, bare
knoll some fifty yards above the fire where Pete and
Stanton were carrying on their culinary operations,
but a whiff of roasting goose came to us like a tonic,
and it did not take us long to get camp pitched.</p>
<p align="justify">“Um-m-m,” said Easton,
stopping in his work of driving tent pegs to sniff
the air now bearing to us appetizing odors of goose
and coffee, “that smells like home.”</p>
<p align="justify">“You bet it does,” assented
Richards.  “I haven’t been filled
up for a week, but I’m going to be to-night.”</p>
<p align="justify">At length dinner was ready, and we
fell to with such good purpose that the two birds,
a generous portion of hot bread, innumerable cups of
black coffee, and finally, a most excellent pudding
that Stanton had made out of bread dough and prunes
and boiled in a canvas specimen bag disappeared.</p>
<p align="justify">How we enjoyed it!  “No
hotel ever served such a banquet,” one of the
boys remarked as we filled our pipes and lighted them
with brands from the fire.  Then with that blissful
feeling that nothing but a good dinner can give, we
lay at full length on the deep white moss, peace-fully
puffing smoke at the stars as they blinked sleepily
one by one out of the blue of the great arch above
us until the whole firmament was glittering with a
mass of sparkling heaven gems.  The soft perfume
of the forest pervaded the atmosphere; the aurora borealis
appeared in the northern sky, and its waves of changing
light swept the heavens; the vast silence of the wilderness
possessed the world and, wrapped in his own thoughts,
no man spoke to break the spell.  Finally Pete
began a snatch of Indian song: </p>
<p>  “Puhgedewawa enenewug<br>
   Nuhbuggesug kamiwauw.”</p>
<p align="justify">Then he drew from his pocket a harmonica,
and for half an hour played soft music that harmonized
well with the night and the surroundings; when he
ceased, all but Richards and I went to their blankets. 
We two remained by the dying embers of our fire for
another hour to enjoy the perfect night, and then,
before we turned to our beds, made an observation
for compass variation, which calculations the following
morning showed to be thirty-seven degrees west of the
true north.</p>
<a name="marsh"></a>
<a href="marsh.jpg">
<img alt="Through Ponds and Marshes Northward Toward Otter Lake" src="marshth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">Paddling through the ponds, polling
and tracking through the rapids or portaging around
them up the little river on which we were encamped
the night before, brought us to Otter Lake, which was
considerably larger than Lake Minisinaqua, but not
so large as Nipishish.  The main body was not
over a mile and a half in width, but it had a number
of bays and closely connected tributary lakes. 
Its eastern end, which we did not explore, penetrated
low spruce and balsam-covered hills.  To the
north and northeast were rugged, rock-tipped hills,
rising to an elevation of some seven hundred feet
above the lake.  The country at their base was
covered with a green forest of small fir, spruce and
birch, and near the water, in marshy places, as is
the case nearly everywhere in Labrador, tamarack,
but the hills themselves had been fire swept, and
were gray with weather-worn, dead trees.  On the
summits, and for two hundred feet below, bare basaltic
rock indicated that at this elevation they had never
sustained any growth, save a few straggling bushes. 
On some of these hills there still remained patches
of snow of the previous winter.</p>
<p align="justify">We paddled eastward along the northern
shore of the lake.  Once we saw a caribou swimming
far ahead of us, but he discovered our approach and
took to the timber before we were within shooting distance
of him.  A flock of sawbill ducks avoided us. 
No sign of Indians was seen, and four miles up the
lake we stopped upon a narrow, sandy point that jutted
out into the water for a distance of a quarter mile,
to pitch camp and scout for the trail.  All along
the point and leading back into the bush, were fresh
caribou tracks, where the animals came out to get
the benefit of the lake breezes and avoid the flies,
which torment them terribly.  Natives in the
North have told me of caribou having been worried
to death by the insects, and it is not improbable. 
The “bulldogs” or “stouts,”
as they are sometimes called, which are as big as
bumblebees, are very vicious, and follow the poor caribou
in swarms.  The next morning a caribou wandered
down to within a hundred and fifty yards of camp,
and Pete and Stanton both fired at it, but missed,
and it got away unscathed.</p>
<p align="justify">After breakfast, with Pete and Easton,
I climbed one of the higher hills for a view of the
surrounding country.  Near the foot of the hill,
and in the depth of the spruce woods, we passed a lone
Indian grave, which we judged from its size to be
that of a child.  It was inclosed by a rough
fence, which had withstood the pressure of the heavy
snows of many winters and a broken cross lay on it. 
From the summit of the hill we could see a string
of lakes extending in a general northwesterly direction
until they were lost in other hills above, and also
numerous lakes to the south, southwest, east and northeast. 
We could count from one point nearly fifty of these
lakes, large and small.  To the north and northwest
the country was rougher and more diversified, and
the hills much higher than any we had as yet passed
through.</p>
<p align="justify">Down by our camp it had been excessively
warm, but here on the hilltop a cold wind was blowing
that made us shiver.  We found a few scattered
dry sticks, and built a fire under the lee of a high
bowlder, where we cooked for luncheon some pea-meal
porridge with water that Pete, with foresight, had
brought with him from a brook that we passed half way
down the hillside.  We then continued our scouting
tour several miles inland, climbing two other high
hills, from one of which an excellent view was had
of the string of lakes penetrating the northwestern
hills.  Everywhere so far as our vision extended
the valleys were comparatively well wooded, but the
treeless, rock-bound hills rose grimly above the timber
line.</p>
<p align="justify">When we returned to camp we were still
unsettled as to where the trail left the lake, but
there was one promising bay that had not been explored,
and Richards and Easton volunteered to take a canoe
and search this bay.  They were supplied with
tarpaulin, blankets, an ax and one day’s rations,
and started immediately.</p>
<p align="justify">I felt some anxiety as to our slow
progress.  August was almost upon us and we had
not yet reached Seal Lake.  Here, as at other
places, we had experienced much delay in finding the
trail, and we did not know what difficulties in that
direction lay before us.  I had planned to reach
the George River by early September, and the question
as to whether we could do it or not was giving me
much concern.</p>
<p align="justify">Pete and Stanton had been in bed and
asleep for an hour, but I was still awake, turning
over in my mind the situation, and planning to-morrow’s
campaign, when at ten o’clock I heard the soft
dip of paddles, and a few moments later Richards and
Easton appeared out of the night mist that hung over
the lake, with the good news that they had found the
trail leading northward from the bay.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_8"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER VIII</h1>
<p><b>SEAL LAKE AT LAST</b></p>
<p align="justify">A thick, impenetrable mist, such as
is seldom seen in the interior of Labrador, hung over
the water and the land when we struck camp and began
our advance.  For two days we traveled through
numerous small lakes, making several short portages,
before we came to a lake which we found to be the
headwaters of a river flowing to the northwest. 
This lake was two miles long, and we camped at its
lower end, where the river left it.  Portage
Lake we shall call it, and the river that flowed out
of it Babewendigash.</p>
<p align="justify">The portage into the lake crossed
a sand desert, upon which not a drop of water was
seen, and instead of the usual rocks there were uncovered
sand and gravel knolls and valleys, where grew only
occasional bunches of very stunted brush; the surface
of the sand was otherwise quite bare and sustained
not even the customary moss and lichens.  The
heat of the sun reflected from the sand was powerful. 
The day was one of the most trying ones of the trip,
and the men, with faces and hands swollen and bleeding
from the attacks of not only the small black flies,
which were particularly bad, but also the swarms of
“bulldogs,” complained bitterly of the
hardships.  When we halted to eat our luncheon
one of the men remarked, “Duncan said once that
if there are no flies there, hell can’t be as
bad as this, and he’s pretty near right.”</p>
<p align="justify">The river left the lake in a rapid,
and while Pete was making his fire, Richards, Easton
and I went down to catch our supper, and in half an
hour had secured forty-five good-sized trout—­sufficient
for supper that night and breakfast and dinner the
next day.</p>
<p align="justify">Since leaving Otter Lake, caribou
signs had been plentiful, fresh trails running in
every direction.  Pete was anxious to halt a day
to hunt, but I decreed otherwise, to his great disappointment.</p>
<p align="justify">The scenery at this point was particularly
fine, with a rugged, wild beauty that could hardly
be surpassed.  Below us the great, bald snow
hills loomed very close at hand, with patches of snow
glinting against the black rocks of the hills, as
the last rays of the setting sun kissed them good-night. 
Nearer by was the more hospitable wooded valley and
the shining river, and above us the lake, placid and
beautiful, and beyond it the line of low sand hills
of the miniature desert we had crossed.  One
of the snow hills to the northwest had two knobs resembling
a camel’s back, and was a prominent landmark. 
We christened it “The Camel’s Hump.”</p>
<p align="justify">Heretofore the streams had been taking
a generally southerly direction, but this river flowed
to the northwest, which was most encouraging, for
running in that direction it could have but one outlet-the
Nascaupee River.</p>
<p align="justify">A portage in the morning, then a short
run on the river, then another portage, around a shallow
rapid, and we were afloat again on one of the prettiest
little rivers I have ever seen.  The current was
strong enough to hurry us along.  Down we shot
past the great white hills, which towered in majestic
grandeur high above our heads, in some places rising
almost perpendicularly from the water, with immense
heaps of debris which the frost had detached from their
sides lying at their base.  The river was about
fifty yards wide, and in its windings in and out among
the hills almost doubled upon itself sometimes. 
The scenery was fascinating.  One or two small
lake expansions were passed, but generally there was
a steady current and a good depth of water. 
“This is glorious!” some one exclaimed,
as we shot onward, and we all appreciated the relief
from the constant portaging that had been the feature
of our journey since leaving the Nascaupee River.</p>
<p align="justify">The first camp on this river was pitched
upon the site of an old Indian camp, above a shallow
rapid.  The many wigwam poles, in varying states
of decay, together with paddles, old snowshoes, broken
sled runners, and other articles of Indian traveling
paraphernalia, in-dicated that it had been a regular
stopping place of the Indians, both in winter and
in summer, in the days when they had made their pilgrimages
to Northwest River Post.  Near this point we found
some beaver cuttings, the first that we had seen since
leaving the Crooked River.</p>
<p align="justify">Babewendigash soon carried us into
a large lake expansion, and six hours were consumed
paddling about the lake before the outlet was discovered. 
At first we thought it possible we were in Seal Lake,
but I soon decided that it was not large enough, and
its shape did not agree with the description of Seal
Lake that Donald Blake and Duncan McLean had given
me.</p>
<a name="babewe"></a>
<a href="babewe.jpg">
<img alt="We Shall Call the River Babewendigash" src="babeweth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">During the morning I dropped a troll
and landed the first namaycush of the trip—­a
seven-pound fish.  The Labrador lakes generally
have a great depth of water, and it is in the deeper
water that the very large namaycush, which grow to
an immense size, are to be caught.  Our outfit
did not contain the heavy sinkers and larger trolling
spoons necessary in trolling for these, and we therefore
had to content ourselves with the smaller fish caught
in the shallower parts of the lakes.  We had
two more portages before we shot the first rapid of
the trip, and then camped on the shores of a small
expansion just above a wide, shallow rapid where the
river swung around a ridge of sand hills.  This
ridge was about two hundred feet in elevation, and
followed the river for some distance below.  In
the morning we climbed it, and walked along its top
for a mile or so, to view the rapid, and suddenly,
to the westward, beheld Seal Lake.  It was a great
moment, and we took off our hats and cheered. 
The first part of our fight up the long trail was
almost ended.</p>
<p align="justify">The upper part of the rapid was too
shallow to risk a full load in the canoes, so we carried
a part of our outfit over the ridge to a point where
the river narrowed and deepened, then ran the rapid
and picked up our stuff below.  Not far from
here we passed a hill whose head took the form of
a sphinx and we noted it as a remarkable landmark. 
Stopping but once to climb a mountain for specimens,
at twelve o’clock we landed on a sandy beach
where Babewendigash River emptied its waters into
Seal Lake.  We could hardly believe our good fortune,
and while Pete cooked dinner I climbed a hill to satisfy
myself that it was really Seal Lake.  There was
no doubt of it.  It had been very minutely described
and sketched for me by Donald and Duncan.  We
had halted at what they called on their maps “The
Narrows,” where the lake narrowed down to a
mere strait, and that portion of it below the canoes
was hidden from my view.  It stretched out far
to the northwest, with some distance up a long arm
reaching to the west.  A point which I recognized
from Duncan’s description as the place where
the winter tilt used by him and Donald was situated
extended for some distance out into the water. 
The entire length of Seal Lake is about forty miles,
but only about thirty miles of it could be seen from
the elevation upon which I stood.  Its shores
are generally well wooded with a growth of young spruce. 
High hills surround it.</p>
<p align="justify">We visited the tilt as we passed the
point and, in accordance with an arrangement made
with Duncan, added to our stores about twenty-five
pounds of flour that he had left there during the previous
winter.  Five miles above the point where Babewendigash
River empties into Seal Lake we entered the Nascaupee,
up which we paddled two miles to the first short rapid. 
This we tracked, and then made camp on an island
where the river lay placid and the wind blew cool and
refreshing.</p>
<p align="justify">Long we sat about our camp fire watching
the glories of the northern sunset, and the new moon
drop behind the spruce-clad hills, and the aurora
in all its magnificence light our silent world with
its wondrous fire.  Finally the others left me
to go to their blankets.</p>
<p align="justify">When I was alone I pushed in the ends
of the burning logs and sat down to watch the blaze
as it took on new life.  Gradually, as I gazed
into its depths, fantasy brought before my eyes the
picture of another camp fire.  Hubbard was sitting
by it.  It was one of those nights in the hated
Susan Valley.  We had been toiling up the trail
for days, and were ill and almost disheartened; but
our camp fire and the relaxation from the day’s
work were giving us the renewed hope and cheer that
they always brought, and rekindled the fire of our
half-lost enthusiasm.  “Seal Lake can’t
be far off now,” Hubbard was saying.  “We’re
sure to reach it in a day or two.  Then it’ll
be easy work to Michikamau, and we ’ll soon
be with the Indians after that, and forget all about
this hard work.  We’ll be glad of it all
when we get home, for we’re going to have a
bully trip.”  How much lighter my pack felt
the next day, when I recalled his words of encouragement! 
How we looked and looked for Seal Lake, but never
found it.  It lay hidden among those hills that
were away to the northward of us, with its waters
as placid and beautiful as they were to-day when we
passed through it.  I had never seen Michikamau. 
Was I destined to see it now?</p>
<p align="justify">The fire burned low.  Only a
few glowing coals remained, and as they blackened
my picture dissolved.  The aurora, like a hundred
searchlights, was whipping across the sky.  The
forest with its hidden mysteries lay dark beneath. 
A deep, impenetrable silence brooded over all. 
The vast, indescribable loneliness of the wilderness
possessed my soul.  I tried to shake off the
feeling of desolation as I went to my bed of boughs.</p>
<p align="justify">To-morrow a new stage of our journey
would begin.  It was ho for Michikamau!</p>
<a NAME="chapter_9"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER IX</h1>
<p><b>WE LOSE THE TRAIL</b></p>
<p align="justify">Saturday morning, August fifth, broke
with a radiance and a glory seldom equaled even in
that land of glorious sunrises and sunsets.  A
flame of red and orange in the east ushered in the
rising sun, not a cloud marred the azure of the heavens,
the moss was white with frost, and the crisp, clear
atmosphere sweet with the scent of the new day. 
Labrador was in her most amiable mood, displaying to
the best advantage her peculiar charms and beauties.</p>
<p align="justify">While we ate a hurried breakfast of
corn-meal mush, boiled fat pork and tea, and broke
camp, Michikamau was the subject of our conversation,
for now it was ho for the big lake!  A rapid advance
was expected upon the river, and the trail above,
where it left the Nascaupee to avoid the rapids which
the Indians had told us about, would probably be found
without trouble.  So this new stage of our journey
was begun with something of the enthusiasm that we
had felt the day we left Tom Blake’s cabin and
started up Grand Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">We had gone but a mile when Pete drew
his paddle from the water and pointed with it at a
narrow, sandy beach ahead, above which rose a steep
bank.  Almost at the same instant I saw the object
of his interests—­a buck caribou asleep
on the sand.  The wind was blowing toward the
river, and maintaining absolute silence, we landed
below a bend that hid us from the caribou.  Fresh
meat was in sight and we must have it, for we were
hungry now for venison.  To cover the retreat
of the animal should it take alarm, Pete was to go
on the top of the bank above it, Easton to take a
stand opposite it and I a little below it.  We
crawled to our positions with the greatest care; but
the caribou was alert.  The shore breeze carried
to it the scent of danger, and almost before we knew,
that we were discovered it was on its feet and away. 
For a fraction of a second I had one glimpse of the
animal through the brush.  Pete did not see it
when it started, but heard it running up the shore,
and away be started in that direction, running and
leaping recklessly over the fallen tree trunks. 
Presently the caribou turned from the river and showed
itself on the burned plateau above, two hundred yards
from Pete.  The Indian halted for a moment and
fired—­then fired again.  I hastened
up and came upon Pete standing by the prostrate caribou
and grinning from ear to ear.</p>
<a name="caribo"></a>
<a href="caribo.jpg">
<img alt="Pete, Standing by the Prostrate Caribou, Was Grinning from Ear to Ear" src="cariboth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">The carcass was quickly skinned and
the meat stripped from the bones and carried to the
canoe.  Here on the shore we made a fire, broiled
some thick luscious steaks, roasted some marrow bones
and made tea.  All the bones except the marrow
bones of the legs were abandoned as an unnecessary
weight.  Pete broke a hole through one of the
shoulder blades and stuck it on a limb of a tree above
the reach of animals.  That, you know, insures
further good luck in hunting.  It is a sort of
offering to the Manitou.  We took the skin with
us.  “Maybe we need him for something,”
said Pete.  “Clean and smoke him nice, me;
maybe mend clothes with him.”</p>
<p align="justify">The larger pieces of our venison were
to be roasted when we halted in the evening. 
We could not dally now, and I chose this method of
preserving the meat, rather than “jerk”
it (that is, dry it in the open air over a smoky fire),
which would have necessitated a halt of three or four
days.</p>
<p align="justify">Within three hours after we had first
seen the caribou we were on our way again.  The
river up which we were passing was from two to four
hundred yards in width, and with the exception of an
occasional rock, had a gravelly bottom, and the banks
were generally low and gravelly.  A little distance
back ridges of low hills paralleled the stream, and
on the south side behind the lower ridge was a higher
one of rough hills; but none of them with an elevation
above the valley of more than three hundred feet. 
The country had been burned on both sides of the
river and there was little new growth to hide the dead
trees.</p>
<p align="justify">Twenty-five miles above Seal Lake
we encountered a rapid which necessitated a mile and
a half portage around it.  Where we landed to
make the portage I noticed along the edge of the sandy
beach a black band about two feet in width. 
I thought at first that the water had discolored the
sand, but upon a closer examination discovered that
it was nothing more nor less than myriads of our black
fly pests that had lost their lives in the water and
been washed ashore.</p>
<p align="justify">We had much rain and progress was
slow and difficult in the face of a strong wind and
current.  Seven or eight miles above the rapid
around which we had portaged we passed into a large
expansion of the river which the Indians at Northwest
River Post had told us to look for, and which they
called Wuchusknipi (Big Muskrat) Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">High gravelly banks, rising in terraces
sometimes fully fifty feet above the water’s
edge, had now become the feature of the stream. 
The current increased in strength, and only for short
distances above Wuchusknipi, where the river occasionally
broadened, were we able to paddle.  The tracking
lines were brought into service, one man hauling each
canoe, while the others, wading in the water, or walking
on the bank with poles where the stream was too deep
to wade, kept the canoes straight in the current and
clear of the shore.  Once when it became necessary
to cross a wide place in the river a squall struck
us, and Richards and Stanton in the smaller canoe
were nearly swamped.  The strong head wind precluded
paddling, even when the current would otherwise have
permitted it.</p>
<p align="justify">Finally the sky cleared and the wind
ceased to blow; but with the calm came a cause for
disquietude.  A light smoke had settled in the
valley and the air held the odor of it, suggesting
a forest fire somewhere above.  This would mean
retreat, if not disaster, for when these fires once
start rivers and lakes prove small obstacles in their
path.  From a view-point on the hills no dense
smoke could be discovered, only the light haze that
we had seen and smelled in the valley, and we therefore
decided that the gale that had blown for several days
from the northwest may have carried it for a long
distance, even from the district far west of Michikamau,
and that at any rate there was no cause for immediate
alarm.</p>
<p align="justify">The ridges with an increasing altitude
were crowding in upon us more closely.  Once
when we stopped to portage around a low fall we climbed
some of the hills that were near at hand that we might
obtain a better knowledge of the topography of the
country than could be had from the confined river
valley.  Away to the northwest we found the country
to be much more rugged than the district we had recently
passed through.  Observations showed us that the
highest of the hills we were on had an elevation of
six hundred feet above the river.  We had but
a single day of fine weather and then a fog came so
thick that we could not see the opposite banks of
the Nascaupee, and after it a cold rain set in which
made our work in the icy current doubly hard. 
One morning I slipped on a bowlder in the river and
strained my side, and for me the remainder of the
day was very trying.  That evening we reached
a little group of three or four islands, where the
Nascaupee was wide and shallow, but just above the
islands it narrowed down again and a low fall occurred. 
Not far from the fall a small river tumbled down
over the rocks a sheer thirty feet, and emptied into
the Nascaupee.  Since leaving Seal Lake we had
passed two rivers flowing in from the north, and this
was the second one coming from the south, marking the
point on the Indian map where we were to look for the
portage trail leading to the northward.  Therefore
a halt was made and camp was pitched.</p>
<p align="justify">During the night the weather cleared,
and Pete, Richards and Easton were dispatched in the
morning to scout the country to the northward in search
of the trail and signs of Indians.  The ligaments
of my side were very stiff and sore from the strain
they received the previous day, and I remained in
camp with Stanton to write up my records, take an
inventory of our food supply, and consider plans for
the future.</p>
<p align="justify">It was August twelfth.  How far
we had still to go before reaching Michikamau was
uncertain, but, in view of our experiences below Seal
Lake and the difficulties met with in finding and following
the old Indian trail there, our progress would now,
for a time at least, if we traveled the portage route,
be slower than on the river where we had done fairly
well.  True, our outfit was much lighter than
it had been in the beginning, and we were in better
shape for packing and were able to carry heavier loads. 
Still we must make two trips over every portage,
and that meant, for every five miles of advance, fifteen
miles of walking and ten of those miles with packs
on our backs.  Had we not better, therefore,
abandon the further attempt to locate the trail and,
instead, follow the river which was beyond doubt the
quicker and the easier route?  My inclinations
rebelled against this course.  One of the objects
of the expedition, for it was one of the things that
Hubbard had planned to do, was to locate the old trail,
if possible.  To abandon the search for it now,
and to follow the easier route, seemed to me a surrender.</p>
<p align="justify">On the other hand, should we not find
game or fish and have delays scouting for the trail,
it would be necessary to go on short rations before
reaching Michikamau, for enough food must be held back
to take us out of the country in safety.</p>
<p align="justify">In my present consideration of the
situation it seemed to me highly improbable that we
could reach George River Post in season to connect
with the Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer
<i>Pelican</i>, which touches there to land supplies
about the middle of September, and that is the only
steamer that ever visits that Post.  Not to connect
with the <i>Pelican</i> would, therefore, mean imprisonment
in the north for an entire year, or a return around
the coast by dog train in winter.  The former
of these alternatives was out of the question; the
latter would be impossible with an encumbrance of
four men, for dog teams and drivers in the early winter
are usually all away to the hunting grounds and hard
to engage.  I therefore concluded that but one
course was open to me.  Three of the men must
be sent back and with a single companion I would push
on to Ungava.  This, then, was the line of action
I decided upon.</p>
<p align="justify">Toward evening gathering clouds augured
an early renewal of the storm, and Stanton and I had
just put up the stove in the tent in anticipation
of it when Pete and Easton, the latter thoroughly fagged
out, came into camp.</p>
<p>“Well, Pete,” I asked, “what luck?”</p>
<p align="justify">“Find trail all right,”
he answered.  “Can’t follow him easy. 
Long carry.  First lake far, maybe eleven, twelve
mile.  Little ponds not much good for canoe. 
Trail old.  Not used long time.  All time
go up hill.”</p>
<p>“Where’s Richards?” I inquired,
noticing his absence.</p>
<p align="justify">“Left us about four miles back
to take a short cut to the river and follow it down
to camp,” said Easton.  “He thought
you might want to know how it looked above, and perhaps
keep on that way instead of tackling the portage,
for the trail’s going to be mighty hard. 
It looks as though the river would be better.”</p>
<p align="justify">We waited until near dark for Richards,
but he did not come.  Then we ate our supper
without him.</p>
<p align="justify">The rain grew into a downpour and
darkness came, but no Richards, and at length I became
alarmed for his safety.  I pushed back the tent
flaps and peered out into the pitchy darkness and pouring
rain.</p>
<p align="justify">“He’ll never get in to-night,”
I remarked.  “No,” said some one,
“and he’ll have a hard time of it out
there in the rain.”  There was nothing to
do but wait.  Pete rummaged in his bag and produced
a candle (we had a dozen in our outfit), sharpened
one end of a stick, split the other end for two or
three inches down, forced open the split end and set
the candle in it and stuck the sharpened end in the
ground, all the while working in the dark.  Then
he lit the candle.</p>
<p align="justify">I do not know how long we had been
sitting by the candle light and putting forth all
sorts of conjectures about Richards and his uncomfortable
position in the bush without cover and the probable
reasons for his failure to return, when the tent front
opened and in he came, as wet as though he had been
in the river.</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, Richards,” I asked,
when he was comfortably settled at his meal, “what
do you think of the river?”</p>
<p align="justify">“The river!” he paused
between mouthfuls to exclaim, “that’s the
only thing within twenty miles that I didn’t
see.  I’ve been looking for it for four
hours, but it kept changing its location and I never
found it till I struck camp just now.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Now, boys,” said I, when
all the pipes were going, “I’ve something
to say to you.  Up to this time we’ve had
no real hardships to meet.  We’ve had hard
work, and it’s been most trying at times, but
there’s been no hardship to endure that might
not be met with upon any journey in the bush. 
If we go on we <i>shall</i> have hardships, and perhaps,
some pretty severe ones.  There’ll soon
be sleet and snow in the air, and cold days and shivery
nights, and the portages will be long and hard. 
On the whole, there’s been plenty to eat—­not
what we would have had at home, perhaps, but good,
wholesome grub—­and we’re all in better
condition and stronger than when we started, but flour
and pork are getting low, lentils and corn meal are
nearly gone, and short rations, with hungry days,
are soon to come if we don’t strike game, and
you know how uncertain that is.  I cannot say
what is before us, and I’m not going to drag
you fellows into trouble.  I’m going to
ask for one volunteer to go on with me to Ungava with
the small canoe, and let the rest return from here
with the other canoe and what grub they need to take
them out.  Who wants to go home?”</p>
<p align="justify">It came to them like a shock. 
Outside, the wind howled through the trees and dashed
the rain spitefully against the tent.  The water
dripped through on us, and the candle flickered and
sputtered and almost went out.  In the weird
light I could see the faces of the men work with emotion. 
For a moment no one spoke.  Finally Richards,
in a tone of reproach that made me feel sorry for
the very suggestion, asked:  “Do you think
there’s a quitter here?”</p>
<p align="justify">The loyalty and grit of the men touched
my heart.  Not one of them would think of leaving
me.  Nothing but a positive order would have
turned them back, and I decided to postpone our parting
until we reached Michikaumau at least, if it could
be postponed so long consistently with safety.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day was Sunday, and it was
spent in rest and in preparation for our advance up
the trail.  The weather was damp and cheerless,
with rain falling intermittently throughout the day.</p>
<p align="justify">To cover a possible retreat a cache
was made near our camp of thirty pounds of pemmican
in tin cans and forty-five pounds of flour and some
tea in a waterproof bag.  A hole was dug in the
ground and the provisions were deposited in it, then
covered with stones as a pro-tection from animals.</p>
<p align="justify">By Monday morning the storm had gained
new strength, and steadily and pitilessly the rain
fell, accompanied by a cold, northwest wind.</p>
<p align="justify">What narrowly escaped being a serious
accident occurred when we halted that day for dinner. 
Easton was cutting firewood, when suddenly he dropped
the ax he was using with the exclamation “That
fixes me!” He had given himself what looked
at first like an ugly cut near the shin bone. 
Fortunately, however, upon examination, it proved
to be only a flesh wound and not sufficiently severe
to interfere with his traveling.  Stanton dressed
the cut.  Our adhesive plaster we found had become
useless by exposure and electrician’s tape was
substituted for it to draw the flesh together.</p>
<p align="justify">On the evening of the second day after
leaving the Nascaupee, our tent was pitched upon the
site of an extensive but ancient Indian camp beside
a mile-long lake, four hundred and fifty feet above
the river.  Five ponds had been passed <i>en route</i>,
but all of them so small it was scarcely worth while
floating the canoe in any of them.</p>
<p align="justify">In these two days we had covered but
eleven miles, but during the whole time the wind had
driven the rain in sweeping gusts into our faces and
made it impossible for a man, single-handed, to portage
a canoe.  Thus, with two men to carry each canoe
we had been compelled to make three loads of our outfit,
and this meant fifty-five miles actual walking, and
thirty-three miles of this distance with packs on
our backs.  The weather conditions had made the
work more than hard—­ it was heartrending—­as
we toiled over naked hills, across marshes and moraines,
or through dripping brush and timber land.</p>
<p align="justify">A beautiful afternoon, two days later,
found us paddling down the first lake worthy of mention
since leaving the Nascaupee River.  The azure
sky overhead shaded to a pearly blue at the horizon,
with a fleecy cloud or two floating lazily across
its face.  The atmosphere was perfect in its
purity, and only the sound of screeching gulls and
the dip of our paddles disturbed the quiet of the wilderness. 
Lake Bibiquasin, as we shall call it, was five miles
in length and nestled between ridges of low, moss-covered
hills.  It lay in a southeasterly and northwesterly
direction, and rested upon the summit of a sub-sidiary
divide that we had been gradually ascending. 
A creek ran out of its northwesterly end, flowing
in that direction.</p>
<p align="justify">Until now we had found the trail with
little difficulty, but here we were baffled. 
A search in the afternoon failed to uncover it, and
we were forced to halt, perplexed again as to our
course.  Camp was pitched in a grove of spruces
at the lower end of the lake.  Not far from us
was an old hunting camp which Pete said was “most
hundred years old,” and he was not far wrong
in his estimate, for the frames upon which the Indians
had stretched skins and the tepee poles crumbled to
pieces when we touched them.</p>
<p align="justify">Strange to say, not a fish of any
description had been seen for several days and not
one could be induced to rise to fly or bait, and our
net was always empty now.  Game, too, was scarce. 
There were no fresh caribou tracks this side of the
Nascaupee River, and but one duck and one spruce partridge
had been killed.  The last bit of our venison
was eaten the day before.  It was pretty badly
spoiled and turning a little green in color, but Pete
washed it well several times and we all avoided the
lee side of the kettle while it was cooking. 
It was pronounced “not so bad.”</p>
<p align="justify">Another day was lost on Lake Bibiquasin
in an ineffectual hunt for the trail.  I scouted
alone all day and in my wanderings came upon the first
ptarmigans of the trip and shot one of them with my
rifle.  The others flew away.  They wore
their mottled summer coat, as it was still too early
for them to don their pure white dress of winter.</p>
<p align="justify">During my scouting trip I also discovered
the first ripe bake-apple berries we had seen. 
This is a salmon-colored berry resembling in size
and shape the raspberry, and grows on a low plant like
the strawberry.</p>
<p align="justify">On Saturday morning, August nineteenth,
the temperature was four degrees below the freezing
point, and the ground was stiff with frost.  In
a further search on the north side of the lake opposite
our camp we found an old blaze and a trail leading
from it along a ridge and through marshes to a small
lake.  This was the only trail that we could
find anywhere, so we decided to follow it, though it
did not bear all the earmarks of the portage trail
we had been tracing—­it was decidedly more
ancient.  We started our work with a will. 
It was a hard portage and we sometimes sank knee
deep into the marsh and got mired frequently, but
finally reached the lake.</p>
<p align="justify">Indian signs now completely disappeared. 
Down the lake, where a creek flowed out, was a bare
hill, and Pete and I climbed it.  From its summit
we could easily locate the creek taking a turn to the
north and then to the northeast and, finally, flowing
into one of a series of lakes extending in an easterly
and westerly direction.  The land was comparatively
flat to the eastward and the lakes no doubt fed a river
flowing out of that end, probably one of those that
we had noted as joining the Nascaupee on its north
side.  To the north of these lakes were high,
rugged ridges.  It was possible there was an opening
in the hills to the westward, where they seemed lower;
we could not tell from where we were, but we determined
to portage along the creek into the lakes with that
hope.</p>
<p align="justify">Again the smoke of a forest fire hung
in the valleys and over the hills, and the air was
heavy with the smell of it, which revived the former
uneasiness, but by the next day every trace of it had
disappeared.</p>
<p align="justify">Another day found us afloat upon the
first of the lakes.  Several short carries across
necks of land took us from this lake into the one
which Pete and I had seen extending back to the ridges
to the westward, and which we shall call Lake Desolation.</p>
<p align="justify">On the northern shore of Lake Desolation
we stopped to climb a mountain.  A decided change
in the features of the country had taken place since
leaving Lake Bibiquasin, and the low moss-covered hills
had given place to rough mountains of bare rock. 
To the northward from where we stood nothing but
higher mountains of similar formation met our view—­a
great, rolling vista of bare, desolate rocks. 
To the westward the country was not, perhaps, so
rough, though there, too, in the far distance could
be discerned the tops of rugged hills breaking the
line of the horizon.  Through a valley in that
direction was distinguishable, with a considerable
interval between them, a string of small lakes or
ponds.  This valley led up from the western end
of Lake Desolation, and there was no other possible
place for the trail to leave the lake.  The valley
was the only opening.</p>
<p align="justify">Our mountain climbing had consumed
a good part of an afternoon, and it was evening when
finally we reached the western end of the lake and
pitched our camp near a creek flowing in.  As
we paddled we tried our trolls, but were not rewarded
with a single strike.  When camp was made the
net was stretched across the creek’s mouth and
we tried our rods in the stream for trout, but our
efforts were useless.  No fish were caught.</p>
<p align="justify">The prospect for game had not improved,
in fact was growing steadily worse.  We were
now in a country that had been desolated by a forest
fire within four or five years.  The moss under
foot had not renewed itself and where any of it remained
at all, it was charred and black.  The trees were
dead and the land harbored almost no life.  It
seemed to me that even the fish had been scalded out
of the water and the streams had never restocked themselves.</p>
<p align="justify">A thorough search was made for Indian
signs, but there were absolutely none.  There
was nothing to show that any human being had ever been
here before us.  Back on Lake Bibiquasin we had
lost the trail and now on Lake Desolation we were
far and hopelessly astray, with only the compass to
guide us.</p>
<p align="justify">After supper the men sat around the
camp fire, smoking and talking of their friends at
home, while I walked alone by the lake shore. 
It was a wild scene that lay before me—­the
aurora, with its waves of changing color flashing
weirdly as they swept and lighted the sky, the dead
trees everywhere like skeletons gray and gaunt, the
blazing camp fire in the foreground, with the figures
lying about it and the little white tent in the background. 
Somewhere hidden in the depths of that vast and silent
wilderness to the westward lay Michikamau.</p>
<p align="justify">There was no mark on the face of the
earth to direct us on our road.  We must blaze
a new trail up that valley and over those ridges that
looked so dark and forbidding in the uncertain light
of the aurora.  We must find Michikamau.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_10"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER X</h1>
<p><b>“WE SEE MICHIKAMAU”</b></p>
<p align="justify">“It’s no use, Pete. 
You may as well go back to your blankets.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was the morning of the second day
after reaching the lake which we named Desolation. 
We had portaged through a valley and over a low ridge
to the shores of a pond, out of which a small stream
ran to the southeast.  The country was devastated
by fire and to the last degree inhospitable. 
Not a green shrub over two feet in height was to be
seen, the trees were dead and blackened; not even the
customary moss covered the naked earth, and loose
bowlders were scattered everywhere about.</p>
<p align="justify">There was no fixed trail now to look
for or to guide us, but by keeping a general westerly
course, we knew that we must, sooner or later, reach
Michikamau.  Rough, irregular ridges blocked our
path and it was necessary to look ahead that we might
not become tangled up amongst them.  One hill,
higher than the others, a solitary bailiff that guarded
the wilderness beyond, was to have been climbed this
morning, but when Pete and I at daybreak came out of
the tent we were met by driving rain and dashes of
sleet that cut our faces, and a mist hung over the
earth so thick we could not even see across the tiny
lake at our feet.  I looked longingly into the
storm and mist in the direction in which I knew the
big hill lay, and realized the hopelessness and foolhardiness
of attempting to reach it.</p>
<p align="justify">“It’s no use, Pete,”
I continued, “to try to scout in this storm. 
You could see nothing from the hill if you reached
it, and the chances are, with every landmark hidden,
you couldn’t find the tent again.  I don’t
want to lose you yet.  Go back and sleep.”</p>
<p align="justify">Later in the morning to my great relief
the weather cleared, and Richards and Pete were at
once dispatched to scout.  We who remained “at
home,” as we called our camp, found plenty of
work to keep us occupied.  The bushes had ravaged
our clothing to such an extent that some of us were
pretty ragged, and every halt was taken advantage of
to make much needed repairs.</p>
<p align="justify">It was nearly dark when Richards and
Pete came back.  They had reached the high hill
and from its summit saw, some distance to the westward,
long stretches of water reaching far away to the hills
in that direction.  A portage of several miles
in which some small lakes occurred would take us,
they said, into a large lake.  Beyond this they
could not see.</p>
<p align="justify">Pete brought back with him a hatful
of ripe currants which he stewed and which proved
a very welcome addition to our supper of corn-meal
mush.</p>
<p align="justify">The report of water ahead made us
happy.  It was now August twenty-third. 
If we could reach Michikamau by September first that
should give me ample time, I believed, to reach the
George River before the caribou migration would take
place.</p>
<p align="justify">The following morning we started forward
with a will, and with many little lakes to cross and
short portages between them, we made fairly good progress,
and each lake took us one step higher on the plateau.</p>
<p align="justify">The character of the country was changing,
too.  The naked land and rocks and dead trees
gave way to a forest of green spruce, and the ground
was again covered with a thick carpet of white caribou
moss.</p>
<p align="justify">We were catching no fish, however,
although our efforts to lure them to the hook or entangle
them in the net were never relinquished.  Pork
was a luxury, and no baker ever produced anything half
so dainty and delicious as our squaw bread. 
A strict distribution of rations was maintained, and
when the pork was fried, Pete, with a spoon, dished
out the grease into the five plates in equal shares. 
Into this the quarter loaf ration of bread was broken
and the mixture eaten to the last morsel.  Sometimes
the men drank the warm pork grease clear.  Finally
it became so precious that they licked their plates
after scraping them with their spoons, and the longing
eyes that were cast at the frying pan made me fear
that some time a raid would be made on that.</p>
<p align="justify">One day, an owl was shot and went
into the pot to keep company with a couple of partridges. 
Pete demurred.  “Owl eat mice,” said
he.  “Not good man eat him.</p>
<p align="justify">“You can count me out on owl,
too,” Richards volunteered.</p>
<p align="justify">“Oh! they’re all right,”
I assured them.  “The Labrador people always
eat them and you’ll find them very nice.”</p>
<p>“Not me.  Owl eat mice,” Pete insisted.</p>
<p align="justify">“Well,” I suggested, “possibly
we’ll be eating mice, too, before we get home,
and it’s a good way to begin by eating owl—­for
then the mice won’t seem so bad when we have
to eat them.”</p>
<p align="justify">Stanton took charge of the kettle
and dished out the rations that night.</p>
<p align="justify">“Partridge is good enough for
me,” said Richards, fearing that Stanton might
forget his prejudice against owl.</p>
<p>“Me, too,” echoed Pete.</p>
<p>“I’ll take owl,” said I.</p>
<p>Easton said nothing.</p>
<p align="justify">After we had eaten, Stanton asked: 
“How’d you like the partridge, Richards?”</p>
<p align="justify">“It was fine,” said he. 
“Guess it was a piece of a young one you gave
me, for it wasn’t as tough as they usually are.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Maybe it was young, but that
partridge was <i>owl</i>.”  “I’ll
be darned!” exclaimed Richards.  His face
was a study for a moment, then he laughed.  “If
that was owl they’re all right and I’m
a convert.  I’ll eat all I can get after
this.”</p>
<p align="justify">After leaving Lake Desolation the
owls had begun to come to us, and Richards was one
of the best owl hunters of the party.  At first
one or two a day were killed, but now whenever we
halted an owl would fly into a tree and twitter, and,
with a very wise appearance, proceed to look us over
as though he wanted to find out what we were up to
anyway, for these owls were very inquisitive fellows. 
He immediately became a candidate for our pot, and
as many as six were shot in one day.  The men
called them the “manna of the Labrador wilderness.” 
Pete’s disinclination to eat them was quickly
forgotten, for hunger is a wonderful killer of prejudices,
and he was as keen for them now as any of us.</p>
<p align="justify">An occasional partridge was killed
and now and again a black duck or two helped out our
short ration, but the owls were our mainstay. 
We did not have enough to satisfy the appetites of
five hungry men, however; still we did fairly well.</p>
<p align="justify">The days were growing perceptibly
shorter with each sunset, and the nights were getting
chilly.  On the night of August twenty-fifth,
the thermometer registered a minimum temperature of
twenty-five degrees above zero, and on the twenty-sixth
of August, forty-eight degrees was the maximum at
midday.</p>
<p align="justify">During the forenoon of that day we
reached the largest of the lakes that the scouting
party had seen three days before, and further scouting
was now necessary.  At the western end of the
lake, about two miles from where we entered, a hill
offered itself as a point from which to view the country
beyond, and here we camped.</p>
<p align="justify">We were now out of the burned district
and the scant growth of timber was apparently the
original growth, though none of the trees was more
than eight inches or so in diameter.  In connection
with this it might be of interest to note here the
fact that the timber line ended at an elevation of
two hundred and seventy-five feet above the lake. 
The hill was four hundred feet high and there was
not a vestige of vegetation on its summit.  The
top of the hill was strewn with bowlders, large and
small, lying loose upon the clean, storm-scoured bed
rock, just as the glaciers had left them.</p>
<a name="lakes"></a>
<a href="lakes.jpg">
<img alt="A Network of Lakes and the Country Level as a Table" src="lakesth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">What a view we had!  To the northwest,
to the west, and to the southwest, for fifty miles
in any direction was a network of lakes, and the country
was as level as a table.  The men called it “the
plain of a thousand lakes,” and this describes
it well.  To the far west a line of blue hills
extending to the northwest and southeast cut off our
view beyond.  They were low, with but one high,
conical peak standing out as a landmark.  Another
ridge at right angles to this one ran to the eastward,
bounding the lakes on that side.  I examined them
carefully through my binoculars and discovered a long
line of water, like a silver thread, following the
ridge running eastward, and decided that this must
be the Nascaupee River, though later I was convinced
that I was mistaken and that the river lay to the southward
of the ridge.  To the cast and north of our hill
was an expanse of rolling, desolate wilderness. 
Carefully I examined with my glass the great plain
of lakes, hoping that I might discover the smoke of
a wigwam fire or some other sign of life, but none
was to be seen.  It was as still and dead as
the day it was created.  It was a solemn, awe-inspiring
scene, impressive beyond description, and one that
I shall not soon forget.</p>
<p align="justify">We outlined as carefully as possible
the course that we should follow through the maze
of lakes, with the round peak as our objective point,
for just south of it there seemed to be an opening
through the ridge:  beyond which we hoped lay
Michikamau.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day we portaged through a
marsh and into the lake country and made some progress,
portaging from lake to lake across swampy and marshy
necks.  It was Sunday, but we did not realize
it until our day’s work was finished and we
were snug in camp in the evening.</p>
<p align="justify">Monday’s dawn brought with it
a day of superb loveliness.  The sky was cloudless,
the earth was white with hoarfrost, the atmosphere
was crisp and cool, and we took deep breaths of it
that sent the blood tingling through our veins. 
It was a day that makes one love life.</p>
<p align="justify">Through small lakes and short portages
we worked until afternoon and then—­hurrah!
we were on big water again.  Thirty or forty miles
in length the lake stretched off to the westward to
carry us on our way.  It was choked in places
with many fir-topped islands, and the channels in
and out amongst these islands were innumerable, so
Pete called it Lake Kasheshebogamog, which in his
language means “Lake of Many Channels.”</p>
<p align="justify">As we paddled I dropped a troll and
before we stopped for the night landed a seven-pound
namaycush, and another large one broke a troll. 
The “Land of God’s Curse” was behind
us.  We were with the fish again, and caribou
and wolf tracks were seen.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day found us on our way early. 
A fine wind sent us spinning before it and at the
same time kept us busy with a rough sea that was running
on the wide, open lake when we were away from the shelter
of the islands.  At one o’clock we boiled
the kettle at the foot of a low sand ridge, and upon
climbing the ridge we found it covered with a mass
of ripe blueberries.  We ate our fill and picked
some to carry with us.</p>
<p align="justify">At three o’clock we were brought
up sharply at the end of the water with no visible
outlet.  The nature of the lake and the lateness
of the season made it impracticable to turn back and
look in other channels for the connection with western
waters.  Former experience had taught me that
we might paddle around for a week before we found
it, for these were big waters.  Five miles ahead
was the high, round peak that we were aiming for,
and I had every confidence that from its top Michikamau
could be seen and a way to reach the big lake. 
I decided that it must be climbed the next morning,
and selected Pete and Easton for the work.  A
fall the day before had given me a stiff knee, and
it was a bitter disappointment that I could not go
myself, for I was nervously anxious for a first view
of Michikamau.  However, I realized that it was
unwise to attempt the journey, and I must stay behind.</p>
<p align="justify">That night Stanton made two roly-polies
of the blueberries we picked in the afternoon, boiling
them in specimen bags, and we used the last of our
sugar for sauce.  This, with coffee, followed
a good supper of boiled partridge and owl.  It
was like the old days when I was with Hubbard. 
We were making good progress, our hopes ran high,
and we must feast.  Pete’s laughs, and
songs and jokes added to our merriment.  Rain
came, but we did not mind that.  We sat by a big,
blazing fire and ate and enjoyed ourselves in spite
of it.  Then we went to the tent to smoke and
every one pronounced it the best night in weeks.</p>
<p align="justify">On Wednesday rain poured down at the
usual rising time and the men were delayed in starting,
for we were in a place where scouting in thick weather
was dangerous.  It was the morning of the famous
eclipse, but we had forgotten the fact.  The rain
had fallen away to a drizzle and we were eating a
late breakfast when the darkness came.  It did
not last long, and then the rain stopped, though the
sky was still overcast.  Shortly after breakfast
Pete and Easton left us.  I gave Pete a new corncob
pipe as he was leaving.  When he put it in his
pocket he said, “I smoke him when I see Michikaman,
when I climb hill, if Michikamau there.  Sit
down, me, look at big water, feel good then. 
Smoke pipe, me, and call hill Corncob Hill.”</p>
<p align="justify">“All right,” said I, laughing
at Pete’s fancy.  “I hope the hill
will have a name to-day.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was really a day of anxiety for
me, for if Michikamau were not visible from the mountain
top with the wide view of country that it must offer,
then we were too far away from the lake to hope to
reach it.</p>
<p align="justify">A mile from camp, Richards discovered
a good-sized river flowing in from the northwest and
set the net in it.  Then he and Stanton paddled
up the river a mile and a half to another lake, but
did not explore it farther.</p>
<p align="justify">With what impatience I awaited the
return of Pete and Easton can be imagined, and when,
near dusk, I saw them coming I almost dreaded to hear
their report, for what if they had not seen Michikamau?</p>
<p align="justify">But they had seen Michikamau. 
When Pete was within talking distance of me, he shouted
exultantly, “We see him!  We see him! 
We see Michikamau!”</p>
<a name="michik"></a>
<a href="michik.jpg">
<img alt="Ice Encountered off the Labrador Coast" src="michikth.jpg">
</a>
<a NAME="chapter_11"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XI</h1>
<p><b>THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU</b></p>
<p align="justify">Pete and Easton had taken their course
through small, shallow, rocky lakes until they neared
the base of the round hill.  Here the canoe was
left, and up the steep side of the hill they climbed. 
“When we most up,” Pete told me afterward,
“I stop and look at Easton.  My heart beat
fast.  I most afraid to look.  Maybe Michikamau
not there.  Maybe I see only hills.  Then
I feel bad.  Make me feel bad come back and tell
you Michikamau not there.  I see you look sorry
when I tell you that.  Then I think if Michikamau
there you feel very good.  I must know quick. 
I run.  I run fast.  Hill very steep. 
I do not care.  I must know soon as I can, and
I run.  I shut my eyes just once, afraid to look. 
Then I open them and look.  Very close I see
when I open my eyes much water.  Big water. 
So big I see no land when I look one way; just water. 
Very wide too, that water.  I know I see Michikamau. 
My heart beat easy and I feel very glad.  I almost
cry.  I remember corncob pipe you give me, and
what I tell you.  I take pipe out my pocket. 
I fill him, and light him.  Then I sit on rock
and smoke.  All the time I look at Michikamau. 
I feel good and I say, ‘This we call Corncob
Hill.’”</p>
<p align="justify">And so we were all made glad and the
conical peak had a name.</p>
<p align="justify">Pete told me that we should have to
cut the ridge to the south of Corncob Hill, taking
a rather wide detour to reach the place.  A chain
of lakes would help us, but some long portages were
necessary and it would require several days’
hard work.  This we did not mind now.  We
were only anxious to dip our paddles into the waters
of the big lake.  At last Michikamau, which I
had so longed to see through two summers of hardship
in the Labrador wilds, was near, and I could hope to
be rewarded with a look at it within the week.</p>
<p align="justify">But with the joy of it there was also
a sadness, for I must part from three of my loyal
companions.  The condition of our commissariat
and the cold weather that was beginning to be felt
made it imperative that the men be sent back from
the big lake.</p>
<p align="justify">The possibility of this contingency
had been foreseen by me before leaving New York, and
I had mentioned it at that time.  Easton had
asked me then, if the situation would permit of it,
to consider him as a candidate to go through with
me to Ungava.  When the matter had been suggested
at the last camp on the Nascaupee River be had again
earnestly solicited me to choose him as my companion,
and upon several subsequent occasions had mentioned
it.  Richards was the logical man for me to choose,
for he had had experience in rapids, and could also
render me valuable assistance in the scientific work
that the others were not fitted for.  He was
exceedingly anxious to continue the journey, but his
university duties demanded his presence in New York
in the winter, and I had promised his people that he
should return home in the autumn.  This made
it out of the question to keep him with me, and it
was a great disappointment to both of us.  That
I might feel better assured of the safety of the returning
men, I decided to send Pete back with them to act
as their guide.  Stanton, too, wished to go on,
but Easton had spoken first, so I decided to give him
the opportunity to go with me to Ungava, as my sole
companion.</p>
<p align="justify">That night, after the others had gone
to bed, we two sat late by the camp fire and talked
the matter over.  “It’s a dangerous
undertaking, Easton,” I said, “and I want
you to understand thoroughly what you’re going
into.  Before we reach the George River Post we
shall have over four hundred miles of territory to
traverse.  We may have trouble in locating the
George River, and when we do find it there will be
heavy rapids to face, and its whole course will be
filled with perils.  If any accident happens
to either of us we shall be in a bad fix.  For
that reason it’s always particularly dangerous
for less than three men to travel in a country like
this.  Then there’s the winter trip with
dogs.  Every year natives are caught in storms,
and some of them perish.  We shall be exposed
to the perils and hardships of one of the longest
dog trips ever made in a single season, and we shall
be traveling the whole winter.  I want you to
understand this.”</p>
<p align="justify">“I do understand it,”
he answered, “and I’m ready for it. 
I want to go on.”</p>
<p>And so it was finally settled.</p>
<p align="justify">It was not easy for me to tell the
men that the time had come when we must part, for
I realized how hard it would be for them to turn back. 
The next morning after breakfast, I asked them to remain
by the fire and light their pipes.  Then I told
them.  Richards’ eyes filled with tears. 
Stanton at first said he would not turn back without
me, but finally agreed with me that it was best he
should.  Pete urged me to let him go on. 
Later he stole quietly into the tent, where I was
alone writing, and without a word sat opposite me,
looking very woe-begone.  After awhile he spoke: 
“To-day I feel very sad.  I forget to smoke. 
My pipe go out and I do not light it.  I think
all time of you.  Very lonely, me.  Very
bad to leave you.”</p>
<p align="justify">Here he nearly broke down, and for
a little while he could not speak.  When he could
control himself he continued: </p>
<p align="justify">“Seems like I take four men
in bush, lose two.  Very bad, that.  Don’t
know how I see your sisters.  I go home well. 
They ask me, ’Where my brother?’ I don’t
know.  I say nothing.  Maybe you die in rapids. 
Maybe you starve.  I don’t know.  I
say nothing.  Your sisters cry.”  Then
his tone changed from brokenhearted dejection to one
of eager pleading: </p>
<p align="justify">“Wish you let me go with you. 
Short grub, maybe.  I hunt.  Much danger;
don’t care, me.  Don’t care what danger. 
Don’t care if grub short.  Maybe you don’t
find portage.  Maybe not find river.  That
bad.  I find him.  I take you through. 
I bring you back safe to your sisters.  Then
I speak to them and they say I do right.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was hard to withstand Pete’s
pleadings, but my duty was plain, and I said: </p>
<p align="justify">“No, Pete.  I’d like
to take you through, but I’ve got to send you
back to see the others safely out.  Tell my sisters
I’m safe.  Tell everybody we’re safe. 
I’m sure we’ll get through all right. 
We’ll do our best, and trust to God for the
rest, so don’t worry.  We’ll be all
right.”</p>
<p align="justify">“I never think you do this,”
said he.  “I don’t think you leave
me this way.”  After a pause be continued,
“If grub short, come back.  Don’t
wait too long.  If you find Indian, then you all
right.  He help you.  You short grub, don’t
find Indian, that bad.  Don’t wait till
grub all gone.  Come back.”</p>
<p align="justify">Pete did not sing that day, and he
did not smoke.  He was very sad and quiet.</p>
<p align="justify">We spent the day in assorting and
dividing the outfit, the men making a cache of everything
that they would not need until their return, that
we might not be impeded in our progress to Michikamau. 
They would get their things on their way back. 
Eight days, Pete said, would see them from this point
to the cache we had made on the Nascaupee, and only
eight days’ rations would they accept for the
journey.  They were more than liberal.  Richards
insisted that I take a new Pontiac shirt that he had
reserved for the cold weather, and Pete gave me a
new pair of larigans.  They deprived themselves
that we might be comfortable.  Easton and I were
to have the tent, the others would use the tarpaulin
for a wigwam shelter; each party would have two axes,
and the other things were divided as best we could. 
Richards presented us with a package that we were not
to open until the sixteenth of September—­his
birthday.  It was a special treat of some kind.</p>
<p align="justify">Some whitefish, suckers and one big
pike were taken out of the net, which was also left
for them to pick up upon their return.  A school
of large pike had torn great holes in it, but it was
still useful.</p>
<p align="justify">We were a sorrowful group that gathered
around the fire that night.  The evening was raw. 
A cold north wind soughed wearily through the fir
tops.  Black patches of clouds cast a gloom over
everything, and there was a vast indefiniteness to
the dark spruce forest around us.  I took a flashlight
picture of the men around the fire.  Then we sat
awhile and talked, and finally went to our blankets
in the chilly tent.</p>
<a name="letter"></a>
<a href="letter.jpg">
<img alt="Writing Letters to the Home Folks" src="letterth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">September came with a leaden sky and
cold wind, but the clouds were soon dispelled, and
the sun came bright and warm.  Our progress was
good, though we had several portages to make. 
On September second, at noon, we left the larger
canoe for the men to get on their way back, and continued
with the eighteen-foot canoe, which, with its load
of outfit and five men, was very deep in the water,
but no wind blew and the water was calm.</p>
<p align="justify">Here the character of the lakes changed. 
The waters were deep and black, the shores were steep
and rocky, and some labradorite was seen.  One
small, curious island, evidently of iron, though we
did not stop to examine it, took the form of a great
head sticking above the water, with the tops of the
shoulders visible.</p>
<p align="justify">Sunday, September third, was a memorable
day, a day that I shall never forget while I live. 
The morning came with all the glories of a northern
sunrise, and the weather was perfect.  After two
short portages and two small lakes were crossed, Pete
said, “Now we make last portage and we reach
Michikamau.”  It was not a long portage—­a
half mile, perhaps.  We passed through a thick-grown
defile, Pete ahead, and I close behind him. 
Presently we broke through the bush and there before
us was the lake.  We threw down our packs by the
water’s edge. <i>We had reached Michikamau.</i>
I stood uncovered as I looked over the broad, far-reaching
waters of the great lake.  I cannot describe
my emotions.  I was living over again that beautiful
September day two years before when Hubbard had told
me with so much joy that he had seen the big lake—­that
Michikamau lay just beyond the ridge.  Now I
was on its very shores—­the shores of the
lake that we had so longed to reach.  How well
I remembered those weary wind-bound days, and the
awful weeks that followed.  It was like the recollection
of a horrid dream—­his dear, wan face, our
kiss and embrace, my going forth into the storm and
the eternity of horrors that was crowded into days. 
Pete, I think, understood, for he bad heard the story. 
He stood for a moment in silence, then he fashioned
his hat brim into a cup, and dipping some water handed
it to me.  “You reach Michikamau at last. 
Drink Michikamau water before others come.” 
I drank reverently from the hat.  Then the others
joined us and we all stood for a little with bowed
uncovered beads, on the shore.</p>
<p align="justify">Our camp was pitched on an elevated,
rocky point a few hundred yards farther up—­the
last camp that we were to have together, and the forty-sixth
since leaving Northwest River.  We had made over
half a hundred portages, and traveled about three
hundred and twenty-five miles.</p>
<p align="justify">The afternoon was occupied in writing
letters and telegrams to the home folks, for Richards
to take out with him; after which we divided the food. 
Easton and I were to take with us seventy-eight pounds
of pemmican, twelve pounds of pea meal, seven pounds
of pork, some beef extract, eight pounds of flour,
one cup of corn meal, a small quantity of desiccated
vegetables, one pound of coffee, two pounds of tea,
some salt and crystallose.  Richards gave us
nearly all of his tobacco, and Pete kept but two plugs
for himself.</p>
<p align="justify">Toward evening we gathered about our
fire, and talked of our parting and of the time when
we should meet again.  Every remaining moment
we had of each other’s company was precious
to us now.</p>
<p align="justify">The day had been glorious and the
night was one of rare beauty.  We built a big
fire of logs, and by its light I read aloud, in accordance
with our custom on Sunday nights, a chapter from the
Bible.  After this we talked for a while, then
sat silent, gazing into the glowing embers of our
fire.  Finally Pete began singing softly, “Home,
Sweet Home” in Indian, and followed it with
an old Ojibway song, “I’m Going Far Away,
My Heart Is Sore.”  Then he sang an Indian
hymn, “Pray For Me While I Am Gone.” 
When his hymn was finished he said, very reverently,
“I going pray for you fellus every day when I
say my prayers.  I can’t pray much without
my book, but I do my best.  I pray the best I
can for you every day.”  Pete’s devotion
was sincere, and I thanked him.  Stanton sang
a solo, and then all joined in “Auld Lang Syne.” 
After this Pete played softly on the harmonica, while
we watched the moon drop behind the horizon in the
west.  The fire burned out and its embers blackened. 
Then we went to our bed of fragrant spruce boughs,
to prepare for the day of our parting.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning of September fourth was
clear and beautiful and perfect, but in spite of the
sunshine and fragrance that filled the air our hearts
were heavy when we gathered at our fire to eat the
last meal that we should perhaps ever have together.</p>
<p align="justify">When we were through, I read from
my Bible the fourteenth of John—­the chapter
that I had read to Hubbard that stormy October morning
when we said good-by forever.</p>
<p align="justify">The time of our parting had come. 
I do not think I had fully realized before how close
my bronzed, ragged boys had grown to me in our months
of constant companionship.  A lump came in my
throat, and the tears came to the eyes of Richards
and Pete, as we grasped each other’s hands.</p>
<p align="justify">Then we left them.  Easton and
I dipped our paddles into the water, and our lonely,
perilous journey toward the dismal wastes beyond the
northern divide was begun.  Once I turned to see
the three men, with packs on their backs, ascending
the knoll back of the place where our camp had been. 
When I looked again they were gone.</p>
<a name="canoe"></a>
<a href="canoe.jpg">
<img alt="Our Lonely Perilous Journey Toward the Dismal Wastes...Was Begun" src="canoeth.jpg">
</a>
<a NAME="chapter_12"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XII</h1>
<p><b>OVER THE NORTHERN DIVIDE</b></p>
<p align="justify">Michikamau is approximately between
eighty and ninety miles in length, including the unexplored
southeast bay, and from eight to twenty-five miles
in width.  It is surrounded by rugged hills, which
reach an elevation of about five hundred feet above
the lake.  They are generally wooded for perhaps
two hundred feet from the base, with black spruce,
larch, and an occasional small grove of white birch. 
Above the timber line their tops are uncovered save
by white lichens or stunted shrubs.  The western
side of the lake is studded with low islands, but
its main body is unobstructed.  The water is exceedingly
clear, and is said by the Indians to have a great depth. 
The shores are rocky, sometimes formed of massive
bed rock in which is found the beautifully colored
labradorite; sometimes strewn with loose bowlders. 
Our entrance had been made in a bay several miles north
of the point where the Nascaupee River, its outlet,
leaves the lake and we kept to the east side as we
paddled north.</p>
<p align="justify">No artist’s imaginative brush
ever pictured such gorgeous sunsets and sunrises as
Nature painted for us here on the Great Lake of the
Indians.  Every night the sun went down in a blaze
of glory and left behind it all the colors of the
spectrum.  The dark hills across the lake in
the west were silhouetted against a sky of brilliant
red which shaded off into banks of orange and amber
that reached the azure at the zenith.  The waters
of the lake took the reflection of the red at the
horizon and became a flood of restless blood. 
The sky colorings during these few days were the
finest that I ever saw in Labrador, not only in the
evening but in the morning also.</p>
<p align="justify">Michikamau has a bad name amongst
the Indians for heavy seas, particularly in the autumn
months when the northwest gales sometimes blow for
weeks at a time without cessation, and the Indians
say that they are often held on its shores for long
periods by high running seas that no canoe could weather. 
These were the same winds that held Hubbard and me
prisoners for nearly two weeks on the smaller Windbound
Lake in 1903, bringing us to the verge of starvation
before we were permitted to begin our race for life
down the trail toward Northwest River.  Fate
was kinder now, and but one day’s rough water
interfered with progress.</p>
<p align="justify">Early on the third day after parting
from the other men, we found ourselves at the end
of Michikamau where a shallow river, in which large
bowlders were thickly scattered, flowed into it from
the north.  This was the stream draining Lake
Michikamats, the next important point in our journey. 
Michikamau, it might be explained, means, in the
Indian tongue, big water—­so big you cannot
see the land beyond; Michikamats means a smaller body
of water beyond which land may be seen.  So somebody
has paradoxically defined it “a little big lake.”</p>
<p align="justify">Barring a single expansion of somewhat
more than a mile in length the Michakamats River,
which runs through a flat, marshy and uninteresting
country, was too shallow to float our canoes, and we
were compelled to portage almost its entire length.</p>
<p align="justify">In the wide marshes between these
two lakes we met the first evidences of the great
caribou migration.  The ground was tramped like
a barnyard, in wide roads, by vast herds of deer,
all going to the eastward.  There must have been
thousands of them in the bands.  Most of the
hoof marks were not above a day or two old and had
all been made since the last rain had fallen, as was
evidenced by freshly turned earth and newly tramped
vegetation.  We saw none of the animals, however,
and there were no hills near from which we might hope
to sight the herds.</p>
<p align="justify">Evidences of life were increasing
and game was becoming abundant as we approached the
height of land.  Some geese and ptarmigans were
killed and a good many of both kinds of birds were
seen, as well as some ducks.  We began to live
in plenty now and the twittering owls were permitted
to go unmolested.</p>
<p align="justify">Lake Michikamats is irregular in shape,
about twenty miles long, and, exclusive of its arms,
from two to six miles wide.  The surrounding
country is flat and marshy, with some low, barren hills
on the westward side of the lake.  The timber
growth in the vicinity is sparse and scrubby, consisting
of spruce and tamarack.  The latter had now taken
on its autumnal dress of yellow, and, interspersing
the dark green of the spruce, gave an exceedingly
beautiful effect to the landscape.</p>
<p align="justify">Where we entered Michikamats, at its
outlet, the lake is very shallow and filled with bowlders
that stand high above the water.  A quarter of
a mile above this point the water deepens, and farther
up seems to have a considerable depth, though we did
not sound it.  The western shore of the upper
half is lined with low islands scantily covered with
spruce and tamarack.</p>
<p align="justify">During two days that we spent here
in a thorough exploration of the lake, our camp was
pitched on an island at the bottom of a bay that,
half way up the lake, ran six miles to the northward. 
This was selected as the most likely place for the
portage trail to leave the lake, as the island had
apparently, for a long period, been the regular rendezvous
of Indians, not only in summer, but also in winter. 
Tepee poles of all ages, ranging from those that were
old and decayed to freshly cut ones, were numerous. 
They were much longer and thicker than those used
by the Indians south of Michikamau.  Here, also,
was a well-built log cache, a permanent structure,
which was, no doubt, regularly used by hunting parties. 
Some new snowshoe frames were hanging on the trees
to season before being netted with babiche.  On
the lake shore were some other camping places that
had been used within a few months, and at one of them
a newly made “sweat hole,” where the medicine
man had treated the sick.  These sweat holes are
much in favor with the Labrador Indians, both Mountaineers
and Nascaupees.  They are about two feet in depth
and large enough in circumference for a man to sit
in the center, surrounded by a circle of good-sized
bowlders.  Small saplings are bent to form a dome-shaped
frame for the top.  The invalid is placed in the
center of this circle of bowlders, which have previously
been made very hot, water is poured on them to produce
steam, and a blanket thrown over the sapling frame
to confine the steam.  The Indians have great
faith in this treatment as a cure for almost every
malady.</p>
<p align="justify">On the mainland opposite the island
upon which we were encamped was a barren hill which
we climbed, and which commanded a view of a large
expanse of country.  On the top was a small cairn
and several places where fires had been made—­no
doubt Indian signal fires.  The fuel for them
must have been carried from the valley below, for not
a stick or bush grew on the hill itself.  “Signal
Hill,” as we called it, is the highest elevation
for many miles around and a noticeable landmark.</p>
<p align="justify">To the northward, at our feet, were
two small lakes, and just beyond, trending somewhat
to the northwest, was a long lake reaching up through
the valley until it was lost in the low hills and sparse
growth of trees beyond.  Great bowlders were strewn
indiscriminately everywhere, and the whole country
was most barren and desolate.  To the south of
Michikamats was the stretch of flat swamp land which
extended to Michikaman.  Petscapiskau, a prominent
and rugged peak on the west shore of Michikamau near
its upper end, stood out against the distant horizon,
a lone sentinel of the wilderness.</p>
<p align="justify">The head waters of the George River
must now be located.  There was nothing to guide
me in the search, and the Indians at Northwest River
had warned us that we were liable at this point to
be led astray by an entanglement of lakes, but I felt
certain that any water flowing northward that we might
come to, in this longitude, would either be the river
itself or a tributary of it, and that some such stream
would certainly be found as soon as the divide was
crossed.</p>
<p align="justify">With this object in view we kept a
course nearly due north, passing through four good-sized
lakes, until, one afternoon, at the end of a short
portage, we reached a narrow, shallow lake lying in
an easterly and westerly direction, whose water was
very clear and of a bottle-green color, in marked
contrast to that of the preceding lakes, which had
been of a darker shade.</p>
<p align="justify">This peculiarity of the water led
me to look carefully for a current when our canoe
was launched, and I believed I noticed one.  Then
I fancied I heard a rapid to the westward.  Easton
said there was no current and he could not hear a
rapid, and to satisfy myself, we paddled toward the
sound.  We had not gone far when the current became
quite perceptible, and just above could be seen the
waters of a brook that fed the lake, pouring down
through the rocks.  We were on the George River
at last!  Our feelings can be imagined when the
full realization of our good fortune came to us, and
we turned our canoe to float down on the current of
the little stream that was to grow into a mighty river
as it carried us on its turbulent bosom toward Ungava
Bay.</p>
<p align="justify">The course of the stream here was
almost due east.  The surrounding country continued
low and swampy.  Tamarack was the chief timber
and much of it was straight and fine, with some trees
fully twelve inches in diameter at the butt, and fifty
feet in height.</p>
<p align="justify">A rocky, shallow place in the river
that we had to portage brought us into an expansion
of considerable size, and here we pitched our first
camp on the George River.  This was an event that
Hubbard had planned and pictured through the weary
weeks of hardship on the Susan Valley trail and the
long portages across the ranges in his expedition of
1903.</p>
<p align="justify">“When we reach the George River,
we’ll meet the Indians and all will be well,”
he used to say, and how anxiously we looked forward
for that day, which never came.</p>
<p align="justify">At the time when he made the suggestion
to turn back from Windbound Lake I at first opposed
it on the ground that we could probably reach the
George River, where game would be found and the Indians
would be met with, in much less time than it would
take to make the retreat to Northwest River. 
Finally I agreed that it was best to return. 
On the twenty-first of September the retreat was
begun and Hubbard died on the eighteenth of October. 
Now, two years later, I realized that from Windbound
Lake we could have reached Michikamau in five or six
days at the very outside, and less than two weeks,
allowing for delays through bad weather and our weakened
condition, would have brought us to the George River,
where, at that time of the year, ducks and ptarmigans
are always plentiful.  All these things I pondered
as I sat by this camp fire, and I asked myself, “Why
is it that when Fate closes our eyes she does not
lead us aright?” Of course it is all conjecture,
but I feel assured that if Hubbard and I had gone on
then instead of turning back, Hubbard would still
be with us.</p>
<p align="justify">Below the expansion on which our first
camp on the river was pitched the stream trickled
through the thickly strewn rocks in a wide bed, where
it took a sharp turn to the northward and emptied into
another expansion several miles in length, with probably
a stream joining it from the northeast, though we
were unable to investigate this, as high winds prevailed
which made canoeing difficult, and we had to content
ourselves with keeping a direct course.</p>
<p align="justify">It seemed as though with the crossing
of the northern divide winter had come.  On the
night we reached the George River the temperature
fell to ten degrees below the freezing point, and the
following day it never rose above thirty-five degrees,
and a high wind and snow squalls prevailed that held
traveling in check.  On the morning of the fifteenth
we started forward in the teeth of a gale and the snow
so thick we could not see the shore a storm that would
be termed a “blizzard” in New York—­and
after two hours’ hard work were forced to make
a landing upon a sandy point with only a mile and a
quarter to our credit.</p>
<p align="justify">Here we found the first real butchering
camp of the Indians—­a camp of the previous
spring.  Piles of caribou bones that had been
cracked to extract the marrow, many pairs of antlers,
the bare poles of large lodges and extensive arrangements,
such as racks and cross poles for dressing and curing
deerskins.  In a cache we found two muzzle-loading
guns, cooking utensils, steel traps, and other camping
and hunting paraphernalia.</p>
<p align="justify">On the portage around the last shallow
rapid was a winter camp, where among other things
was a <i>komatik</i> (dog sledge), showing that some
of these Indians at least on the northern barrens
used dogs for winter traveling.  In the south
of Labrador this would be quite out of the question,
as there the bush is so thick that it does not permit
the snow to drift and harden sufficiently to bear
dogs, and the use of the komatik is therefore necessarily
confined to the coast or near it.  The Indian
women there are very timid of the “husky”
dogs, and the animals are not permitted near their
camps.</p>
<p align="justify">The sixteenth of September—­the
day we passed through this large expansion—­was
Richards’ birthday.  When we bade good-by
to the other men it was agreed that both parties should
celebrate the day, wherever they might be, with the
best dinner that could be provided from our respective
stores.  The meal was to be served at exactly
seven o’clock in the evening, that we might
feel on this one occasion that we were all sitting
down to eat together, and fancy ourselves reunited. 
In the morning we opened the package that Richards
gave us, and found in it a piece of fat pork and a
quart of flour, intended for a feast of our favorite
“darn goods.”  With self-sacrificing
generosity he had taken these from the scanty rations
they had allowed themselves for their return that
we might have a pleasant surprise.  With the now
plentiful game this made it possible to prepare what
seemed to us a very elaborate menu for the wild wastes
of interior Labrador.  First, there was bouillon,
made from beef capsules; then an entrée of fried
ptarmigan and duck giblets; a roast of savory black
duck, with spinach (the last of our desiccated vegetables);
and for dessert French toast <i>à la Labrador</i>
(alias darn goods), followed by black coffee. 
When it was finished we spent the evening by the
camp fire, smoking and talking of the three men retreating
down our old trail, and trying to calculate at which
one of the camping places they were bivouacked. 
Every night since our parting this had been our chief
diversion, and I must confess that with each day that
took us farther away from them an increased loneliness
impressed itself upon us.  Solemn and vast was
the great silence of the trackless wilderness as more
and more we came to realize our utter isolation from
all the rest of the world and all mankind.</p>
<a name="icamp"></a>
<a href="icamp.jpg">
<img alt="Abandoned Indian Camp on the Shores of Lake Michikamats" src="icampth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">The marsh and swamp land gradually
gave way to hills, which increased in size and ruggedness
as we proceeded.  We had found the river at its
very beginning, and for a short way portages, as has
been suggested, had to be made around shallow places,
but after a little, as other streams augmented the
volume of water, this became unnecessary, and as the
river grew in size it became a succession of rapids,
and most of them unpleasant ones, that kept us dodging
rocks all the while.</p>
<p align="justify">Mr. A. P. Low, of the Canadian Geological
Survey, in other parts of the Labrador interior found
black ducks very scarce.  This was not our experience. 
From the day we entered the George River until we
were well down the stream they were plentiful, and
we shot what we needed without turning our canoe out
of its course to hunt them.  This is apparently
a breeding ground for them.</p>
<p align="justify">Several otter rubs were noted, and
we saw some of the animals, but did not disturb them. 
In places where the river broadened out and the current
was slack every rock that stuck above the water held
its muskrat house, and large numbers of the rats were
seen.</p>
<p align="justify">After the snow we had one or two fine,
bright days, but they were becoming few now, and the
frosty winds and leaden skies, the forerunners of
winter, were growing more and more frequent. 
When the bright days did come they were exceptional
ones.  I find noted in my diary one morning: 
“This is a morning for the gods—­a
morning that could scarcely be had anywhere in the
world but in Labrador—­a cloudless sky,
no breath of wind, the sun rising to light the heavy
hoarfrost and make it glint and sparkle till every
tree and bush and rock seems made of shimmering silver.”</p>
<p align="justify">One afternoon as we were passing through
an expansion and I was scanning, as was my custom,
every bit of shore in the hope of discovering a wigwam
smoke, I saw, running down the side of a hill on an
island a quarter of a mile away, a string of Indians
waving wildly at us and signaling us to come ashore. 
After twelve weeks, in which not a human being aside
from our own party had been seen, we had reached the
dwellers of the wilderness, and with what pleasure
and alacrity we accepted the invitation to join them
can be imagined.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_13"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XIII</h1>
<p><b>DISASTER IN THE RAPIDS</b></p>
<p align="justify">It was a hunting party—­four
men and a half-grown boy—­with two canoes
and armed with rifles.  The Indians gave us the
hearty welcome of the wilderness and received us like
old friends.  First, the chief, whose name was
Toma, shook our hand, then the others, laughing and
all talking at once in their musical Indian tongue. 
It was a welcome that said:  “You are our
brothers.  You have come far to see us, and we
are glad to have you with us.”</p>
<p align="justify">After the first greetings were over
they asked for <i>stemmo,</i> and I gave them each
a plug of tobacco, for that is what stemmo means. 
They had no pipes with them, so I let them have two
of mine, and it did my heart good to see the look
of supreme satisfaction that crept into each dusky
face as its possessor inhaled in long, deep pulls the
smoke of the strong tobacco.  It was like the
food that comes to a half-starved man.  After
they had had their smoke, passing the pipes from mouth
to mouth, I brought forth our kettle.  In a jiffy
they had a fire, and I made tea for them, which they
drank so scalding hot it must have burned their throats. 
They told us they had had neither tea nor tobacco
for a long while, and were very hungry for both. 
These are the stimulants of the Labrador Indians,
and they will make great sacrifices to secure them.</p>
<p align="justify">All the time that this was taking
place we were jabbering, each in his own tongue, neither
we nor they understanding much that the other said. 
I did make out from them that we were the first white
men that had ever visited them in their hunting grounds
and that they were glad to see us.</p>
<p align="justify">Accepting an invitation to visit their
lodges and escorted by a canoe on either side of ours,
we finally turned down stream and, three miles below,
came to the main camp of the Indians, which was situated,
as most of their hunting camps are, on a slight eminence
that commanded a view of the river for several miles
in either direction, that watch might be constantly
kept for bands of caribou.</p>
<p align="justify">We were discovered long before we
arrived at the lodges, and were met by the whole population—­men,
women, children, dogs, and all.  Our reception
was tumultuous and cordial.  It was a picturesque
group.  The swarthy-faced men, lean, sinewy and
well built, with their long, straight black hair reaching
to their shoulders, most of them hatless and all wearing
a red bandanna handkerchief banded across the forehead,
moccasined feet and vari-colored leggings; the women
quaint and odd; the eager-faced children; little hunting
dogs, and big wolf-like huskies.</p>
<p align="justify">All hands turned to and helped us
carry our belongings to the camp, pitch our tent and
get firewood for our stove.  Then the men squatted
around until eleven of them were with us in our little
seven by nine tent, while all the others crowded as
near to the entrance as they could.  I treated
everybody to hot tea.  The men helped themselves
first, then passed their cups on to the women and children. 
The used tea leaves from the kettle were carefully
preserved by them to do service again.  The eagerness
with which the men and women drank the tea and smoked
the tobacco aroused my sympathies, and I distributed
amongst them all of these that I could well spare from
our store.  In appreciation of my gifts they
brought us a considerable quantity of fresh and jerked
venison and smoked fat; and Toma, as a special mark
of favor presented me with a deer’s tongue which
had been cured by some distinctive process unlike
anything I had ever eaten before, and it was delicious
indeed, together with a bladder of refined fat so
clear that it was almost transparent.</p>
<p align="justify">The encampment consisted of two deerskin
wigwams.  One was a large one and oblong in shape,
the other of good size but round.  The smaller
wigwam was heated by a single fire in the center, the
larger one by three fires distributed at intervals
down its length.  Chief Toma occupied, with his
family, the smaller lodge, while the others made their
home in the larger one.</p>
<a name="wigwam"></a>
<a href="wigwam.jpg">
<img alt="One of the Wigwams Was a Large One and Oblong in Shape" src="wigwamth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">This was a band of Mountaineer Indians
who trade at Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson’s
Bay Company, on the east coast, visiting the Post once
or twice a year to exchange their furs for such necessaries
as ammunition, clothing, tobacco and tea.  Unlike
their brothers on the southern slope, they have not
accustomed themselves to the use of flour, sugar and
others of the simplest luxuries of civilization, and
their food is almost wholly flesh, fish and berries. 
They live in the crude, primordial fashion of their
forefathers.  To aid them in their hunt they
have adopted the breech-loading rifle and muzzle-loading
shotgun, but the bow and arrow has still its place
with them and they were depending wholly upon this
crude weapon for hunting partridges and other small
game now, as they had no shotgun ammunition. 
The boys were constantly practicing with it while
at play and were very expert in its use.</p>
<p align="justify">These Indians are of medium height,
well built, sinewy and strong, alert and quick of
movement.  The women are generally squatty and
fat, and the greater a woman’s avoirdupois the
more beautiful is she considered.</p>
<p align="justify">All the Mountaineer Indians of Labrador
are nominally Roman Catholics.  Those in the south
are quite devoted to their priest, and make an effort
to meet him at least once a year and pay their tithes,
but here in the north this is not the case. 
In fact some of these people had seen their priest
but once in their life and some of the younger ones
had never seen him at all.  Therefore they are
still living under the influence of the ancient superstitions
of their race, though the women are all provided with
crucifixes and wear them on their breasts as ornaments.</p>
<p align="justify">They are perfectly honest.  Indians,
until they become contaminated by contact with whites,
always are honest.  It is the white man that
teaches them to steal, either by actually pilfering
from the ignorant savage, or by taking undue advantage
of him in trade.  Human nature is the same everywhere,
and the Indian will, when he finds he is being taken
advantage of and robbed, naturally resent it and try
to “get even.”  Our things were left
wholly unguarded, and were the object of a great deal
of curiosity and admiration, not only our guns and
instruments, but nearly everything we had, and were
handled and inspected by our hosts, but not the slightest
thing was filched.  No Labrador Indian north
of the Grand River will ever disturb a cache unless
driven to it by the direst necessity, and even then
will leave something in payment for what he takes.</p>
<p align="justify">We told them of the evidences we had
seen of the caribou migration having taken place between
Michikamau and Michikamats, and they were mightily
interested.  They had missed it but were, nevertheless,
meeting small bands of caribou and making a good killing,
as the quantities of meat hanging everywhere to dry
for winter use bore evidence.  The previous winter,
they told us, was a hard one with them.  Reindeer
and ptarmigan disappeared, and before spring they were
on the verge of starvation.</p>
<p align="justify">Our visit was made the occasion of
a holiday and they devoted themselves wholly to our
entertainment, and I believe were genuinely sorry
when, on the afternoon after our arrival, I announced
my decision to break camp and proceed.  They
helped us get ready, drew a rough sketch of the river
so far as they knew it, and warned us to look out
for numerous rapids and some high falls around which
there was a portage trail.  Farther on, they
said, the river was joined by another, and then it
became a “big, big river,” and for two
days’ journey was good.  Beyond that it
was reported to be very bad.  They had never
traveled it, because they heard it was so bad, and
they could not tell us, from their own knowledge,
what it was like, but repeated the warning, “Shepoo
matchi, shepoo matchi” (River bad), and told
us to look out.</p>
<p align="justify">When we were ready to go, as a particular
mark of good feeling, they brought us parting gifts
of smoked deer’s fat and were manifestly in
earnest in their urgent invitations to us to come again. 
The whole encampment assembled at the shore to see
us off and, as our canoes pushed out into the stream,
the men pitched small stones after us as a good luck
omen.  If the stones hit you good luck is assured. 
You will have a good hunt and no harm will come to
you.  None of the stones happened to hit us. 
We could see the group waving at us until we rounded
the point of land upon which the lodges stood; then
the men all appeared on the other side of the point,
where they had run to watch us until we disappeared
around a bend in the river below, as we passed on
to push our way deeper and deeper into the land of
silence and mystery.</p>
<p align="justify">The following morning brought us into
a lake expansion some twelve miles long and two miles
or so in width, with a great many bays and arms which
were extremely confusing to us in our search for the
place where the river left it.  The lower end
was blocked with islands, and innumerable rocky bars,
partially submerged, extended far out into the water. 
A strong southwest wind sent heavy rollers down the
lake.  Low, barren hills skirted the shores.</p>
<p align="justify">Early in the afternoon we turned into
a bay where I left Easton with the canoe while I climbed
one of the barren knolls.  I had scarcely reached
the summit when I heard a rifle shot, and then, after
a pause, three more in quick succession.  There
were four cartridges in my rifle.  I ran down
to the canoe where I found Easton in wild excitement,
waving the gun and calling for cartridges, and half-way
across the bay saw the heads of two caribou swimming
toward the opposite shore.  I loaded the magazine
and sat down to wait for the animals to land.</p>
<p align="justify">When the first deer got his footing
and showed his body above the water three hundred
and fifty yards away, I took him behind the shoulder. 
He dropped where he stood.  The other animal
stopped to look at his comrade, and a single bullet,
also behind his shoulder, brought him down within
ten feet of where he had stood when he was hit. 
I mention this to show the high efficiency of the
.33 Winchester.  At a comparatively long range
two bullets had killed two caribou on the spot without
the necessity of a chase after wounded animals, and
one bullet had passed from behind the shoulder, the
length of the neck, into the head and glancing downward
had broken the jaw.</p>
<p align="justify">I desired to make a cache here that
we might have something to fall back upon in case
our retreat should become necessary, and four days
were employed in fixing up the meat and preparing the
cache, and this gave us also sufficient time, in spite
of continuous heavy wind and rain, to thoroughly explore
the lake and its bays.  An ample supply of the
fresh venison was reserved to carry with us.</p>
<p align="justify">We now had on hand, exclusive of the
pemmican and other rations still remaining, and the
meat cached, eight weeks’ provisions, with plenty
of ducks and ptarmigans everywhere, and there seemed
to be no further danger from lack of food.</p>
<p align="justify">One day, while we were here, five
caribou tarried for several minutes within two hundred
yards of us and then sauntered off without taking
alarm, and later the same day another was seen at closer
range; but we did not need them and permitted them
to go unmolested.</p>
<p align="justify">From a hill near this bay, where we
killed the deer, on the eastern side of the lake,
we discovered a trail leading off toward a string of
lakes to the eastward.  This is undoubtedly the
portage trail which the Indians follow in their journeys
to the Post at Davis Inlet.  Toma had told me
we might see it here, and that, not far in, on one
of these lakes was another Indian camp.</p>
<p align="justify">An inordinate craving for fat takes
possession of every one after a little while in the
bush.  We had felt it, and now, with plenty,
overindulged, with the result that we were attacked
with illness, and for a day or two I was almost too
sick to move.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning we left Atuknipi, or Reindeer
Lake, as we shall call the expansion, a blinding snowstorm
was raging, with a strong head wind.  Several
rapids were run though it was extremely dangerous work,
for at times we could scarcely see a dozen yards ahead. 
At midday the snow ceased, but the wind increased
in velocity until finally we found it quite out of
the question to paddle against it, and were forced
to pitch camp on the shores of a small expansion and
under the lee of a hill.  For two days the gale
blew unceasingly and held us prisoners in our camp. 
The waves broke on the rocky shores, sending the spray
fifty feet in the air and, freezing on the surrounding
bowlders, covered them with a glaze of ice. 
I cannot say what the temperature was, for on the
day of our arrival here my last thermometer was broken;
but with half a foot of snow on the ground, the freezing
spray and the bitter cold wind, we were warned that
winter was reaching out her hand toward Labrador and
would soon hold us in her merciless grasp.  This
made me chafe under our imprisonment, for I began to
fear that we should not reach the Post before the
final freeze-up came, and further travel by canoe
would be out of the question.  On the morning
of September twenty-ninth, the wind, though still blowing
half a gale in our faces, had so much abated that
we were able to launch our canoe and continue our
journey.</p>
<p align="justify">It was very cold.  The spray
froze as it struck our clothing, the, canoe was weighted
with ice and our paddles became heavy with it. 
We ran one or two short rapids in safety and then
started into another that ended with a narrow strip
of white water with a small expansion below. 
We had just struck the white water, going at a good
speed in what seemed like a clear course, when the
canoe, at its middle, hit a submerged rock. 
Before there was time to clear ourselves the little
craft swung in the current, and the next moment I found
myself in the rushing, seething flood rolling down
through the rocks.</p>
<p align="justify">When I came to the surface I was in
the calm water below the rapid and twenty feet away
was the canoe, bottom up, with Easton clinging to it,
his clothing fast on a bolt under the canoe. 
I swam to him and, while he drew his hunting knife
and cut himself loose, steadied the canoe.  We
had neglected—­and it was gross carelessness
in us—­to tie our things fast, and the lighter
bags and paddles were floating away while everything
that was heavy had sunk beyond hope of recovery. 
The thwarts, however, held fast in the overturned
canoe a bag of pemmican, one other small bag, the
tent and tent stove.  Treading water to keep
ourselves afloat we tried to right the canoe to save
these, but our efforts were fruitless.  The icy
water so benumbed us we could scarcely control our
limbs.  The tracking line was fast to the stern
thwart, and with one end of this in his teeth, Easton
swam to a little rocky island just below the rapid
and hauled while I swam by the canoe and steadied
the things under the thwarts.  It took us half
an hour to get the canoe ashore, and we could hardly
stand when he had it righted and the water emptied
out.</p>
<p align="justify">Then I looked for wood to build a
fire, for I knew that unless we could get artificial
heat immediately we would perish with the cold, for
the very blood in our veins was freezing.  Not
a stick was there nearer than an eighth of a mile
across the bay.  Our paddles were gone, but we
got into the canoe and used our hands for paddles. 
By the time we landed Easton had grown very pale. 
He began picking and clutching aimlessly at the trees. 
The blood had congealed in my hands until they were
so stiff as to be almost useless.  I could not
guide them to the trousers pocket at first where I
kept my waterproof match-box.  Finally I loosened
my belt and found the matches, and with the greatest
difficulty managed to get one between my benumbed fingers,
and scratched it on the bottom of the box.  The
box was wet and the match head flew off.  Everything
was wet.  Not a dry stone even stuck above the
snow.  I tried another match on the box, but,
like the first, the head flew off, and then another
and another with the same result.  Under ordinary
circumstances I could have secured a light somehow
and quickly, but now my hands and fingers were stiff
as sticks and refused to grip the matches firmly. 
I worked with desperation, but it seemed hopeless. 
Easton’s face by this time had taken on the
waxen shade that comes with death, and he appeared
to be looking through a haze.  His senses were
leaving him.  I saw something must be done at
once, and I shouted to him:  “Run! run! 
Easton, run!” Articulation was difficult, and
I did not know my own voice.  It seemed very
strange and far away to me.  We tried to run but
had lost control of our legs and both fell down. 
With an effort I regained my feet but fell again
when I tried to go forward.  My legs refused to
carry me.  I crawled on my hands and knees in
the snow for a short distance, and it was all I could
do to recover my feet.  Easton had now lost all
understanding of his surroundings.  He was looking
into space but saw nothing.  He was groping blindly
with his hands.  He did not even know that he
was cold.  I saw that only a fire could save his
life, and perhaps mine, and that we must have it quickly,
and made one more superhuman effort with the matches. 
One after another I tried them with the same result
as before until but three remained.  All depended
upon those three matches.  The first one flickered
for a moment and my hopes rose, but my poor benumbed
fingers refused to hold it and it fell into the snow
and went out.  The wind was drying the box bottom. 
I tried another—­an old sulphur match, I
remember.  It burned!  I applied it with
the greatest care to a handful of the hairy moss that
is found under the branches next the trunk of spruce
trees, and this ignited.  Then I put on small
sticks, nursing the blaze with the greatest care,
adding larger sticks as the smaller ones took fire. 
I had dropped on my knees and could reach the sticks
from where I knelt, for there was plenty of dead wood
lying about.  As the blaze grew I rose to my
feet and, dragging larger wood, piled it on. 
A sort of joyful mania took possession of me as I
watched the great tongues of flames shooting skyward
and listened to the crackling of the burning wood,
and I stood back and laughed.  I had triumphed
over fate and the elements.  Our arms, our clothing,
nearly all our food, our axes and our paddles, and
even the means of making new paddles were gone, but
for the present we were safe.  Life, no matter
how uncertain, is sweet, and I laughed with the very
joy of living.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_14"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XIV</h1>
<p><b>TIDE WATER AND THE POST</b></p>
<p align="justify">When Easton came to his senses, he
found himself warming by the fire.  It is wonderful
how quickly a half-frozen man will revive.  As
soon as we were thoroughly thawed out we stripped
to our underclothing and hung our things up to dry,
permitting our underclothing to dry on us as we stood
near the blaze.  We were little the worse for
our dip, escaping with slightly frosted fingers and
toes.  I discovered in my pockets a half plug
of black tobacco such as we use in the North, put
it on the end of a stick and dried it out, and then
we had a smoke.  We agreed that we had never in
our life before had so satisfactory a smoke as that. 
The stimulant was needed and it put new life into
us.</p>
<p align="justify">Easton was very pessimistic. 
He was generally inclined to look upon the dark side
of things anyway, and now he believed our fate was
sealed, especially if we could not find our paddles,
and he began to talk about returning to our cache
and thence to the Indians.  But I had been in
much worse predicaments than this, and paddles or no
paddles, determined to go on, for we could work our
way down the river somehow with poles and the bag
of pemmican would keep us alive until we reached the
Post—­unless the freeze-up caught us.</p>
<p align="justify">When we had dried ourselves we went
to the canoe to make an inventory of our remaining
goods and chattels, and with a vague hope that a paddle
might be found on the shore.  What, then, was
our surprise and our joy to find not only the paddles
but our dunnage bags and my instrument bag amongst
the rocks, where an eddy below the rapid swirled the
water in.  Thus our blankets and clothing were
safe, we had fifty pounds of pemmican, our tent and
tent stove, and in the small bag that I have mentioned
as having remained in the canoe with the other things
was all our tea and five or six pounds of caribou
tallow.  Our matches—­and this was a
great piece of good fortune—­were uninjured,
and we had a good stock of them.  The tent stove
seemed useless without the pipe, but we determined
to cling to it, as our luggage now was light. 
Our guns, axes, the balance of our provisions, including
salt, the tea kettle and all our other cooking utensils,
were gone, and worst of all, three hundred and fifty
unexposed photographic films.  Only twenty or
thirty unexposed films were saved, but fortunately,
only one roll of ten exposed films, which was in one
of the cameras, was injured, and none of the exposed
films was lost.  One camera was damaged beyond
use, as were also my aneroid barometer and binoculars. 
However, we were fortunate to get off so easily as
we did, and the accident taught us the lesson to take
no chances in rapids and to tie everything fast at
all times.  Carelessness is pretty sure to demand
its penalty, and the wilderness is constantly springing
surprises upon those who submit themselves to its care.</p>
<p align="justify">A pretty dreary camp we pitched that
evening near the place of our mishap.  Fortunately
there was plenty of dead wood loose on the ground,
and we did very well for our camp fire without the
axes.  A pemmican can with the end cut off about
an inch from the top, with a piece of copper wire
that I found in my dunnage bag fashioned into a bale,
made a very serviceable tea pail, from which we drank
in turn, as our cups were lost.  The top of the
can answered for a frying pan in which to melt our
caribou tallow and pemmican when we wanted our ration
hot, and as a plate.  Tent pegs were cut with
our jackknives and the tent stretched between two
trees, which avoided the necessity of tent poles. 
Thus, with our cooking and living outfit reduced to
the simplest and crudest form, and with a limited and
unvaried diet of pemmican, tallow and tea, we were
on the whole able, so long as loose wood could be
found for our night camps, to keep comparatively comfortable
and free from any severe hardships.</p>
<p align="justify">We certainly had great reason to be
thankful, and that night before we rolled into our
blankets I read aloud by the light of our camp fire
from my little Bible the one hundred and seventh Psalm,
in thanksgiving.</p>
<p align="justify">The next morning before starting forward
we paddled out to the rapid, in the vain hope that
we might be able to recover some of the lost articles
from the bottom of the river, but at the place where
the spill had occurred the water was too swift and
deep for us to do anything, and we were forced to
abandon the attempt and reluctantly resume our journey
without the things.</p>
<p align="justify">That night we felt sorely the loss
of the axes.  Our camp was pitched in a spot
where no loose wood was to be found save very small
sticks, insufficient in quantity for an adequate fire
in the open, for the evening was cold.  We could
not pitch our tent wigwam fashion with an opening
at the top for the smoke to escape, as to do that several
poles were necessary, and we had no means of cutting
them.  However, with the expectation that enough
smoke would find its way out of the stovepipe hole
to permit us to remain inside, we built a small round
Indian fire in the center of the tent.  We managed
to endure the smoke and warm ourselves while tea was
making, but the experiment proved a failure and was
not to be resorted to again, for I feared it might
result in an attack of smoke-blindness.  This
is an affliction almost identical in effect to snow-blindness. 
I had suffered from it in the first days of my wandering
alone in the Susan Valley in the winter of 1903, and
knew what it meant, and that an attack of it would
preclude traveling while it lasted, to say nothing
of the pain that it would inflict.</p>
<p align="justify">Here a portage was necessary around
a half-mile canyon through which the river, a rushing
torrent, tumbled in the interval over a series of
small falls, and all the way the perpendicular walls
of basaltic rock that confined it rose on either side
to a height of fifty to seventy-five feet above the
seething water.  Just below this canyon another
river joined us from the east, increasing the volume
of water very materially.  Our tumplines were
gone, but with the tracking line and pieces of deer
skin we improvised new ones that answered our purpose
very well.</p>
<p align="justify">The hills, barren almost to their
base, and growing in altitude with every mile we traveled,
were now closely hugging the river valley, which was
almost destitute of trees.  Rapids were practically
continuous and always strewn with dangerous rocks that
kept us constantly on the alert and our nerves strung
to the highest tension.</p>
<p align="justify">The general course of the river for
several days was north, thirty degrees east, but later
assumed an almost due northerly course.  It made
some wide sweeps as it worked its tortuous way through
the ranges, sometimes almost doubling on itself. 
At intervals small streams joined it and it was constantly
growing in width and depth.  Once we came to a
place where it dropped over massive bed rock in a
series of falls, some of which were thirty or more
feet in height.  Few portages, however, were necessary. 
We took our chances on everything that there was
any prospect of the canoe living through—­
rapids that under ordinary circumstances we should
never have trusted--for the grip of the cold weather
was tightening with each October day.  The small
lakes away from the river, where the water was still,
must even now have been frozen, but the river current
was so big and strong that it had as yet warded off
the frost shackles.  When the real winter came,
however, it would be upon us in a night, and then
even this mighty torrent must submit to its power.</p>
<p align="justify">At one point the valley suddenly widened
and the hills receded, and here the river broke up
into many small streams—­no less than five—­
but some four or five miles farther on these various
channels came together again, and then the growing
hills closed in until they pinched the river banks
more closely than ever.</p>
<p align="justify">On the morning of October sixth we
swung around a big bend in the river, ran a short
but precipitous rapid and suddenly came upon another
large river flowing in from the west.  This stream
came through a sandy valley, and below the junction
of the rivers the sand banks rose on the east side
a hundred feet or so above the water.  The increase
here in the size of the stream was marked—­it
was wide and deep.  A terrific gale was blowing
and caught us directly in our faces as we turned the
bend and lost the cover of the lee share above the
curve, and paddling ahead was impossible.  The
waves were so strong, in fact, that we barely escaped
swamping before we effected a landing.</p>
<p align="justify">We here found ourselves in an exceedingly
unpleasant position.  We were only fitted with
summer clothing, which was now insufficient protection. 
There was not enough loose wood to make an open fire
to keep us warm for more than an hour or so, and we
could not go on to look for a better camping place. 
In a notch between the sand ridges we found a small
cluster of trees, between two of which our tent was
stretched, but it was mighty uncomfortable with no
means of warming.  “If we only had our stovepipe
now we’d be able to break enough small stuff
to keep the stove going,” said Easton. 
With nothing else to do we climbed a knoll to look
at the river below, and there on the knoll what should
we find but several lengths of nearly worn-out but
still serviceable pipe that some Indian had abandoned. 
“It’s like Robinson Crusoe,” said
Easton.  “Just as soon as we need something
that we can’t get on very well without we find
it.  A special Providence is surely caring for
us.”  We appropriated that pipe, all right,
and it did not take us long to get a fire in the stove,
which we had clung to, useless as it had seemed to
be.</p>
<p align="justify">A mass of ripe cranberries, so thick
that we crushed them with every step, grew on the
hills, and we picked our pailful and stewed them,
using crystallose (a small phial of which I had in
my dunnage bag) as sweetening.  A pound of pemmican
a day with a bit of tallow is sustaining, but not
filling, and left us with a constant, gnawing hunger. 
These berries were a godsend, and sour as they were
we filled up on them and for once gratified our appetites. 
We had a great desire, too, for something sweet,
and always pounced upon the stray raisins in the pemmican. 
When either of us found one in his ration it was
divided between us.  Our great longing was for
bread and molasses, just as it had been with Hubbard
and me when we were short of food, and we were constantly
talking of the feasts we would have of these delicacies
when we reached the Post—­wheat bread and
common black molasses.</p>
<p align="justify">The George River all the way down
to this point had been in past years a veritable slaughter
house.  There were great piles of caribou antlers
(the barren-ground caribou or reindeer), sometimes
as many as two or three hundred pairs in a single
pile, where the Indians had speared the animals in
the river, and everywhere along the banks were scattered
dry bones.  Abandoned camps, and some of them
large ones and not very old, were distributed at frequent
intervals, though we saw no more of the Indians themselves
until we reached Ungava Bay.</p>
<p align="justify">Wolves were numerous.  We saw
their tracks in the sand and fresh signs of them were
common.  They always abound where there are caribou,
which form their main living.  Ptarmigans in the
early morning clucked on the river banks like chickens
in a barnyard, and we saw some very large flocks of
them.  Geese and black ducks, making their way
to the southward, were met with daily.  But we
had no arms or ammunition with which to kill them. 
I saw some fox signs, but there were very few or
no rabbit signs, strange to say, until we were a full
hundred miles farther down the river.</p>
<p align="justify">This camp, where we found the stovepipe,
we soon discovered was nearly at the head of Indian
House Lake, so called by a Hudson’s Bay Company
factor-John McLean-because of the numbers of Indians
that he found living on its shores.  McLean,
about seventy years earlier, had ascended the river
in the interests of his company, for the purpose of
establishing interior posts.  The most inland
Post that he erected was at the lower end of this
lake, which is fifty-five miles in length.  He
also built a Post on a large lake which he describes
in his published journal as lying to the west of Indian
House Lake.  The exact location of this latter
lake is not now known, but I am inclined to think
it is one which the Indians say is the source of Whale
River, a stream of considerable size emptying into
Ungava Bay one hundred and twenty miles to the westward
of the mouth of the George River.  These two
rivers are doubtless much nearer together, however,
farther inland, where Whale River has its rise. 
The difficulty experienced by McLean in getting supplies
to these two Posts rendered them unprofitable, and
after experimenting with them for three years they
were abandoned.  The agents in charge were each
spring on the verge of starvation before the opening
of the waters brought fish and food or they were relieved
by the brigades from Ungava.  They had to depend
almost wholly upon their hunters for provisions. 
It was not attempted in those days to carry in flour,
pork and other food stuffs now considered by the traders
necessaries.  And almost the only goods handled
by them in the Indian trade were axes, knives, guns,
ammunition and beads.</p>
<p align="justify">Indian House Lake now, as then, is
a general rendezvous for the Indians during the summer
months, when they congregate there to fish and to
hunt reindeer.  In the autumn they scatter to
the better trapping grounds, where fur bearing animals
are found in greater abun-dance.  We were too
late in the season to meet these Indians, though we
saw many of their camping places.</p>
<p align="justify">A snowstorm began on October seventh,
but the wind had so far abated that we were able to
resume our journey.  It was a bleak and dismal
day.  Save for now and then a small grove of spruce
trees in some sheltered nook, and these at long intervals,
the country was destitute and barren of growth. 
Below our camp, upon entering the lake, there was
a wide, flat stretch of sand wash from the river, and
below this from the lake shore on either side, great
barren, grim hills rose in solemn majesty, across
whose rocky face the wind swept the snow in fitful
gusts and squalls.  Off on a mountain side a wolf
disturbed the white silence with his dismal cry, and
farther on a big black fellow came to the water’s
edge, and with the snow blowing wildly about him held
his head in the air and howled a challenge at us as
we passed close by.  Perhaps he yearned for companionship
and welcomed the sight of living things.  For
my part, grim and uncanny as be looked, I was glad
to see him.  He was something to vary the monotony
of the great solemn silence of our world.</p>
<p align="justify">The storm increased, and early in
the day the snow began to fall so heavily that we
could not see our way, and forced us to turn into a
bay where we found a small cluster of trees amongst
big bowlders, and pitched our tent in their shelter. 
The snow had drifted in and filled the space between
the rocks, and on this we piled armfuls of scraggy
boughs and made a fairly level and wholly comfortable
bed; but it was a long, tedious job digging with our
hands and feet into the snow for bits of wood for
our stove.  The conditions were growing harder
and harder with every day, and our experience here
was a common one with us for the most of the remainder
of the way down the river from this point.</p>
<p align="justify">The day we reached the lower end of
the lake I summed up briefly its characteristics in
my field book as follows: </p>
<p align="justify">“Indian House Lake has a varying
width of from a quarter mile to three miles. 
It is apparently not deep.  Both shores are followed
by ridges of the most barren, rocky hills imaginable,
some of them rising to a height of eight to nine hundred
feet and sloping down sharply to the shores, which
are strewn with large loose bowlders or are precipitous
bed rock.  An occasional sand knoll occurs, and
upon nearly every one of these is an abandoned Indian
camp.  The timber growth—­none at all
or very scanty spruce and tamarack.  Length of
lake (approximated) fifty-five miles.”</p>
<p align="justify">I had hoped to locate the site of
McLean’s old Post buildings, more than three
score years ago destroyed by the Indians, doubtless
for firewood, but the snow had bidden what few traces
of them time had not destroyed, and they were passed
unnoticed.  The storm which raged all the time
we were here made progress slow, and it was not until
the morning of the tenth that we reached the end of
the lake, where the river, vastly increased in volume,
poured out through a rapid.</p>
<p align="justify">Below Indian House Lake there were
only a few short stretches of slack water to relieve
the pretty continuous rapids.  The river wound
in and out, in and out, rushing on its tumultuous
way amongst ever higher mountains.  There was
no time to examine the rapids before we shot them. 
We had to take our chances, and as we swung around
every curve we half expected to find before us a cataract
that would hurl us to destruction.  The banks
were often sheer from the water’s edge, and
made landing difficult or even impossible.  In
one place for a dis-tance of many miles the river
had worn its way through the mountains, leaving high,
perpendicular walls of solid rock on either side,
forming a sort of canyon.  In other places high
bowlders, piled by some giant force, formed fifty-foot
high walls, which we had to scale each night to make
our camp.  In the morning some peak in the blue
distance would be noted as a landmark.  In a couple
of hours we would rush past it and mark another one,
which, too, would soon be left behind.</p>
<p align="justify">The rapids continued the characteristic
of the river and were terrific.  Often it would
seem that no canoe could ride the high, white waves,
or that we could not avoid the swirl of mighty cross-current
eddies, which would have swallowed up our canoe like
a chip had we got into them.  There were rapids
whose roar could be distinctly heard for five or six
miles.  These we approached with the greatest
care, and portaged around the worst places.  The
water was so clear that often we found ourselves dodging
rocks, which, when we passed them, were ten or twelve
feet below the surface.  It was here that a peculiar
optical illusion occurred.  The water appeared
to be running down an incline of about twenty degrees. 
At the place where this was noticed, however, the
current was not exceptionally swift.  We were
in a section now where the Indians never go, owing
to the character of the river—­a section
that is wholly untraveled and unhunted.</p>
<p align="justify">After leaving Indian House Lake, as
we descended from the plateau, the weather grew milder. 
There were chilly winds and bleak rains, but the
snow, though remaining on the mountains, disappeared
gradually from the valley, and this was a blessing
to us, for it enabled us to make camp with a little
less labor, and the bits of wood were left uncovered,
to be gathered with more ease.  Every hour of
light we needed, for with each dawn and twilight the
days were becoming noticeably shorter.  The sun
now rose in the southeast, crossed a small segment
of the sky, and almost before we were aware of it set
in the southwest.</p>
<p align="justify">The wilderness gripped us closer and
closer as the days went by.  Remembrances of the
outside world were becoming like dreamland fancies—­something
hazy, indefinite and unreal.  We could hardly
bring ourselves to believe that we had really met
the Indians.  It seemed to us that all our lives
we had been going on and on through rushing water,
or with packs over rocky portages, and the Post we
were aiming to reach appeared no nearer to us than
it did the day we left Northwest River—­long,
long ago.  We seldom spoke.  Sometimes in
a whole day not a dozen words would be exchanged. 
If we did talk at all it was at night over soothing
pipes, after the bit of pemmican we allowed ourselves
was disposed of, and was usually of something to eat—­planning
feasts of darn goods, bread and molasses when we should
reach a place where these luxuries were to be had. 
It was much like the way children plan what wonderful
things they will do, and what unbounded good things
they will indulge in, when they attain that high pinnacle
of their ambition—­“grown-ups.”</p>
<p align="justify">After our upset in the rapid Easton
eschewed water entirely, except for drinking purposes. 
He had had enough of it, he said.  I did bathe
my hands and face occasionally, particularly in the
morning, to rouse me from the torpor of the always
heavy sleep of night.  What savages men will
revert into when they are buried for a long period
in the wilderness and shake off the trammels and customs
of the conventionalism of civilization!  It does
not take long to make an Indian out of a white man
so far as habits and customs of living go.</p>
<p align="justify">Our routine of daily life was always
the same.  Long before daylight I would arise,
kindle a fire, put over it our tea water, and then
get Easton out of his blankets.  At daylight
we would start.  At midday we had tea, and at
twilight made the best camp we could.</p>
<p align="justify">The hills were assuming a different
aspect—­less conical in form and not so
high.  The bowlders on the river banks were superseded
by massive bed-rock granite.  The coves and hollows
were better wooded and there were some stretches of
slack water.  On October fifteenth we portaged
around a series of low falls, below which was a small
lake expansion with a river flowing into it from the
east.  Here we found the first evidence of human
life that we had seen in a long while—­a
wide portage trail that had been cut through now burned
and dead trees on the eastern side of the river. 
It was fully six feet in width and had been used
for the passage of larger boats than canoes. 
The moss was still unrenewed where the tramp of many
moccasins had worn it off.  This was the trail
made by John McLean’s brigades nearly three-quarters
of a century before, for in their journeys to Indian
House Lake they had used rowboats and not canoes for
the transportation of supplies.</p>
<p align="justify">The day we passed over this portage
was a most miserable one.  We were soaked from
morning till night with mingled snow and rain, and
numb with the cold, but when we made our night camp,
below the junction of the rivers, one or two ax cuttings
were found, and I knew that now our troubles were
nearly at an end and we were not far from men. 
The next afternoon (Monday, October sixteenth) we
stopped two or three miles below a rapid to boil our
kettle, and before our tea was made the canoe was
high and dry on the rocks.  We had reached tide
water at last!  How we hurried through that luncheon,
and with what light hearts we launched the canoe again,
and how we peered into every bay for the Post buildings
that we knew were now close at hand can be imagined. 
These bays were being left wide stretches of mud and
rocks by the receding water, which has a tide fall
here of nearly forty feet.  At last, as we rounded
a rocky point, we saw the Post.  The group of
little white buildings nestling deep in a cove, a feathery
curl of smoke rising peacefully from the agent’s
house, an Eskimo <i>tupek</i> (tent), boats standing
high on the mud flat below, and the howl of a husky
dog in the distance, formed a picture of comfort that
I shall long remember.</p>
<a name="post"></a>
<a href="post.jpg">
<img alt="At Last...We Saw the Post" src="postth.jpg">
</a>
<a NAME="chapter_15"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XV</h1>
<p><b>OFF WITH THE ESKIMOS</b></p>
<p align="justify">The tide had left the bay drained,
on the farther side and well toward the bottom of
which the Post stands, and between us and the buildings
was a lake of soft mud.  There seemed no approach
for the canoe, and rather than sit idly until the
incoming tide covered the mud again so that we could
paddle in, we carried our belongings high up the side
of the hill, safely out of reach of the water when
it should rise, and then started to pick our way around
the face of the clifflike hill, with the intention
of skirting the bay and reaching the Post at once
from the upper side.</p>
<p align="justify">It was much like walking on the side
of a wall, and to add to our discomfiture night began
to fall before we were half way around, for it was
slow work.  Once I descended cautiously to the
mud, thinking that I might be able to walk across
it, but a deep channel filled with running water intercepted
me, and I had to return to Easton, who had remained
above.  We finally realized that we could not
get around the hill before dark and the footing was
too uncertain to attempt to retrace our steps to the
canoe in the fading light, as a false move would have
hurled us down a hundred feet into the mud and rocks
below.  Fortunately a niche in the hillside offered
a safe resting place, and we drew together here all
the brush within reach, to be burned later as a signal
to the Post folk that some one was on the hill, hoping
that when the tide rose it would bring them in, a boat
to rescue us from our unpleasant position.  When
the brush was arranged for firing at an opportune
time we sat down in the thickening darkness to watch
the lights which were now flickering cozily in the
windows of the Post house.</p>
<p align="justify">“Well, this <i>is</i> hard luck,”
said Easton.  “There’s good bread
and molasses almost within hailing distance and we’ve
likely got to sit out here on the rocks all night
without wood enough to keep fire, and it’s going
to rain pretty soon and we can’t even get back
to our pemmican and tent.”</p>
<p align="justify">“Don’t give up yet, boy,”
I encouraged.  “Maybe they’ll see
our fire when we start it and take us off.”</p>
<p align="justify">We filled our pipes and struck matches
to light them.  They were wax taper matches and
made a good blaze.  “Wonder what it’ll
be like to eat civilized grub again and sleep in a
bed,” said Easton meditatively, as he puffed
uncomfortably at his pipe.</p>
<p align="justify">While he was speaking the glow of
a lantern appeared from the Post house, which we could
locate by its lamp-lit windows, and moved down toward
the place where we had seen the boats on the mud. 
The sight of it made us hope that we had been noticed,
and we jumped up and combined our efforts in shouting
until we were hoarse.  Then we ignited the pile
of brush.  It blazed up splendidly, shooting its
flames high in the air, sending its sparks far, and
lighting weirdly the strange scene.  We stood
before it that our forms might appear in relief against
the light reflected by the rocky background, waving
our arms and renewing our shouts.  Once or twice
I fancied I heard an answering hail from the other
side, like a far-off echo; but the wind was against
us and I was not sure.  The lantern light was
now in a boat moving out toward the main river. 
Even though it were coming to us this was necessary,
as the tide could not be high enough yet to permit
its coming directly across to where we were. 
We watched its course anxiously.  Finally it
seemed to be heading toward us, but we were not certain. 
Then it disappeared altogether and there was nothing
but blackness and silence where it had been.</p>
<p align="justify">“Some one that’s been
waiting for the tide to turn and he’s just going
down the river, where he likely lives,” remarked
Easton as we sat down again and relit our pipes. 
“I began to taste bread and molasses when I
saw that light,” he continued, after a few minutes’
pause.  “It’s just our luck. 
We’re in for a night of it, all right.”</p>
<p align="justify">We sat smoking silently, resigned
to our fate, when all at once there stepped out of
the surrounding darkness into the radius of light cast
by our now dying fire, an old Eskimo with an unlighted
lantern in his hands, and a young fellow of fifteen
or sixteen years of age.</p>
<p align="justify">“Oksutingyae,” * said
the Eskimo, and then proceeded to light his lantern,
paying no further attention to us.  “How
do you do?” said the boy.</p>
<p align="justify">* [Dual form meaning “You two
be strong,” used by the Eskimos as a greeting. 
The singular of the same is Oksunae, and the plural
(more than two) Oksusi]</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimo could understand no English,
but the boy, a grandson of Johm Ford, the Post agent,
told us that the Eskimo had seen us strike the matches
to light our pipes and reported the matter at once
at the house.  There was not a match at the Post
nor within a hundred miles of it, so far as they knew,
so Mr. Ford concluded that some strangers were stranded
on the hill—­possibly Eskimos in distress—­and
he gave them a lantern and started them over in a
boat to investigate.  Their lantern had blown
out on the way—­that was when we missed the
light.</p>
<p align="justify">With the lantern to guide us we descended
the slippery rocks to their boat and in ten minutes
landed on the mud flat opposite, where we were met
by Ford and a group of curious Eskimos.  We were
immediately con-ducted to the agent’s residence,
where Mrs. Ford received us in the hospitable manner
of the North, and in a little while spread before us
a delicious supper of fresh trout, white bread such
as we had not seen since leaving Tom Blake’s,
mossberry jam and tea.  It was an event in our
life to sit down again to a table covered with white
linen and eat real bread.  We ate until we were
ashamed of ourselves, but not until we were satisfied
(for we had emerged from the bush with unholy appetites)
and barely stopped eating in time to save our reputations
from utter ruin.  And now our hosts told us—­and
it shows how really generous and open-hearted they
were to say nothing about it until we were through
eating—­that the <i>Pelican</i>, the Hudson’s
Bay Company’s steamer, had not arrived on her
annual visit, that it was so late in the season all
hope of her coming had some time since been relinquished,
and the Post provisions were reduced to forty pounds
of flour, a bit of sugar, a barrel or so of corn meal,
some salt pork and salt beef, and small quantities
of other food stuffs, and there were a great many
dependents with hungry mouths to feed.  Molasses,
butter and other things were entirely gone. 
The storehouses were empty.</p>
<p align="justify">This condition of affairs made it
incumbent upon me, I believed, in spite of a cordial
invitation from Ford to stay and share with them what
they had, to move on at once and endeavor to reach
Fort Chimo ahead of the ice.  Fort Chimo is the
chief establishment of the fur trading companies on
Ungava Bay, and is the farthest off and most isolated
station in northern Labrador.  This journey would
be too hazardous to undertake in the month of October
in a canoe—­the rough, open sea of Ungava
Bay demanded a larger craft—­and although
Ford told me it was foolhardy to attempt it so late
in the season with any craft at all, I requested him
to do his utmost the following day to engage for us
Eskimos and a small boat and we would make the attempt
to get there.  It has been my experience that
frontier traders are wont to overestimate the dangers
in trips of this kind, and I was inclined to the belief
that this was the case with Ford.  In due time
I learned my mistake.</p>
<p align="justify">Ford had no tobacco but the soggy
black chewing plug dispensed to Eskimos, and we shared
with him our remaining plugs and for two hours sat
in the cozy Post house kitchen smoking and chatting. 
Over a year had passed since his last communication
with the outside world, for no vessel other than the
<i>Pelican</i> when she makes her annual call with
supplies ever comes here, and we therefore had some
things of interest to tell him.</p>
<p align="justify">Our host I soon discovered to be a
man of intelligence.  He was sixty-six years
of age, a native of the east coast of Labrador, with
a tinge of Eskimo blood in his veins, and as familiar
with the Eskimo language as with English.  For
twenty years, he informed me, with the exception of
one or two brief intervals, he had been buried at George
River Post, and was longing for the time when he could
leave it and enjoy the comforts of civilization.</p>
<p align="justify">After our chat we were shown to our
room, where the almost forgotten luxuries of feather
beds and pillows, and the great, warm, fluffy woolen
blankets of the Hudson’s Bay Company—­such
blankets as are found nowhere else in the world—­awaited
us.  To undress and crawl between them and lie
there, warm and snug and dry, while we listened to
the rain, which had begun beating furiously against
the window and on the roof, and the wind howling around
the house, seemed to me at first the pinnacle of comfort;
but this sense of luxury soon passed off and I found
myself longing for the tent and spruce-bough couch
on the ground, where there was more air to breathe
and a greater freedom.  I could not sleep. 
The bed was too warm and the four walls of the room
seemed pressing in on me.  After four months in
the open it takes some time for one to accustom one’s
self to a bed again.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day at high tide, with the
aid of a boat and two Eskimos, we recovered our things
from the rocks where we had cached them.</p>
<p align="justify">There were no Eskimos at the Post
competent or willing to attempt the open-boat journey
to Fort Chimo.  Those that were here all agreed
that the ice would come before we could get through
and that it was too dangerous an undertaking. 
Therefore, galling as the delay was to me, there
was nothing for us to do but settle down and wait for
the time to come when we could go with dog teams overland.</p>
<p align="justify">On Thursday afternoon, three days
after our arrival at the Post, we saw the Eskimos
running toward the wharf and shouting as though something
of unusual importance were taking place and, upon joining
the crowd, found them greeting three strange Eskimos
who had just arrived in a boat.  The real cause
of the excitement we soon learned was the arrival
of the <i>Pelican</i>.  The strange Eskimos were
the pilots that brought her from Fort Chimo. 
All was confusion and rejoicing at once.  Ford
manned a boat and invited us to join him in a visit
to the ship, which lay at anchor four miles below,
and we were soon off.</p>
<p align="justify">When we boarded the Pelican, which,
by the way, is an old British cruiser, we were received
by Mr. Peter McKenzie, from Montreal, who has superintendence
of eastern posts, and Captain Lovegrow, who commanded
the vessel.  They told us that they had called
at Rigolet on their way north and there heard of the
arrival of Richards, Pete and Stanton at Northwest
River.  This relieved my mind as to their safety.</p>
<p align="justify">We spent a very pleasant hour over
a cigar, and heard the happenings in the outside world
since our departure from it, the most important of
which was the close of the Russian-Japanese war. 
We also learned that the cause of delay in the ship’s
coming was an accident on the rocks near Cartwright,
making it necessary for them to run to St. Johns for
repairs; and also that only the fact of the distressful
condition of the Post, unprovisioned as they knew it
must be, had induced them to take the hazard of running
in and chancing imprison-ment for the winter in the
ice.</p>
<p align="justify">Mr. McKenzie extended me a most cordial
invitation to return with them to Rigolet, but the
Eskimo pilots had brought news of large herds of reindeer
that the Indians had reported as heading eastward toward
the Koksoak, the river on which Fort Chimo is situated,
and I determined to make an effort to see these deer. 
This determination was coupled with a desire to travel
across the northern peninsula and around the coast
in winter and learn more of the people and their life
than could be observed at the Post; and I therefore
declined Mr. McKenzie’s invitation.</p>
<p align="justify">Captain James Blanford, from St. Johns,
was on board, acting as ship’s pilot for the
east coast, and he kindly offered to carry out for
me such letters and telegrams as I might desire to
send and personally attend to their transmission. 
I gladly availed myself of this offer, as it gave
us an opportunity to relieve the anxiety of our friends
at home as to our safety.  Captain Blanford had
been with the auxiliary supply ship of the Peary Arctic
expedition during the summer and told us of having
left Commander Peary at eighty degrees north latitude
in August.  The expedition, he told us, would
probably winter as high as eighty-three degrees north,
and he was highly enthusiastic over the good prospects
of Peary’s success in at least reaching “Farthest
North.”</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimo pilots of the <i>Pelican</i>
were more venturesome than their friends at George
River.  They had a small boat belonging to the
Hudson’s Bay Company, and in it were going to
attempt to reach Fort Chimo.  Against his advice
I had Ford arrange with them to permit Easton and
me to accompany them.  It was a most fortunate
circumstance, I thought, that this opportunity was
opened to us.</p>
<p align="justify">Accordingly the letters for Captain
Blanford were written, sufficient provisions, consisting
of corn meal, flour, hard-tack, pork, and tea to last
Easton and me ten days, were packed, and our luggage
was taken on board the <i>Pelican</i> on Saturday
afternoon, where we were to spend the night as Mr.
McKenzie’s and Captain Lovegrow’s guests.</p>
<p align="justify">Mr. McKenzie, before going to Montreal,
had lived nearly a quarter of a century as Factor
at Fort Chimo, and, thoroughly familiar with the conditions
of the country and the season, joined Ford in advising
us strongly against our undertaking, owing to the
unusual hazard attached to it, and the probability
of getting caught in the ice and wrecked.  But
we were used to hardship, and believed that if the
Eskimos were willing to attempt the journey we could
get through with them some way, and I saw no reason
why I should change my plans.</p>
<p align="justify">Low-hanging clouds, flying snowflakes
and a rising northeast wind threatened a heavy storm
on Sunday morning, October twenty-second, when the
<i>Pelican</i> weighed anchor at ten o’clock,
with us on board and the small boat, the <i>Explorer</i>,
that was to carry us westward in tow, and steamed
down the George River, at whose mouth, twenty miles
below, we were to leave her, to meet new and unexpected
dangers and hardships.</p>
<p align="justify">At the Post the river is a mile and
a half in width.  About eight miles farther down
its banks close in and “the Narrows” occur,
and then it widens again.  There is very little
growth of any kind below the Narrows.  The rocks
are polished smooth and bare as they rise from the
water’s edge, and it is as desolate and barren
a land as one’s imagination could picture, but
withal possesses a rugged grand beauty in its grim
austerity that is impressive.</p>
<p align="justify">About three or four miles above the
open bay the <i>Pelican’s</i> engines ceased
to throb and the <i>Explorer</i> was hauled alongside. 
Everything but the provisions for the Eskimo crew
was already aboard.  We said a hurried adieu
and, watching our chances as the boat rose and fell
on the swell, dropped one by one into the little craft. 
A bag of ship’s biscuit, the provisions of
our Eskimos, was thrown after us.  Most of them
went into the sea and were lost, and we needed them
sadly later.  I thought we should swamp as each
sea hit us before we could get away, and when we were
finally off the boat was half full of water.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimos hoisted a sail and turned
to the west bank of the river, for it was too rough
outside to risk ourselves there in the little <i>Explorer</i>. 
The pulse of the big ship began to beat and slowly
she steamed out into the open and left us to the mercies
of the unfeeling rocks of Ungava.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_16"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XVI</h1>
<p><b>CAUGHT BY THE ARCTIC ICE</b></p>
<p align="justify">We ran to shelter in a small cove
and under the lee of a ledge pitched our tent, using
poles that the Eskimos had thoughtfully provided, and
anchoring the tent down with bowlders.</p>
<p align="justify">When I say the rocks here are scoured
bare, I mean it literally.  There was not a stick
of wood growing as big as your finger.  On the
lower George, below the Narrows, and for long distances
on the Ungava coast there is absolutely not a tree
of any kind to be seen.  The only exception is
in one or two bays or near the mouth of streams, where
a stunted spruce growth is sometimes found in small
patches.  There are places where you may skirt
the coast of Ungava Bay for a hundred miles and not
see a shrub worthy the name of tree, even in the bays.</p>
<p align="justify">The Koksoak (Big) River, on which
Fort Chimo is situated, is the largest river flowing
into Ungava Bay.  The George is the second in
size, and Whale River ranks third.  Between the
George River and Whale River there are four smaller
ones—­Tunulik (Back) River, Kuglotook (Overflow)
River, Tuktotuk (Reindeer) River and Mukalik (Muddy)
River; and between Whale River and the Koksoak the
False River.  I crossed all of these streams
and saw some of them for several miles above the mouth. 
The Koksoak, Mukalik and Whale Rivers are regularly
traversed by the Indians, but the others are too swift
and rocky for canoes.  There are several streams
to the westward of the Koksoak, notably Leaf River,
and a very large one that the Eskimos told me of, emptying
into Hope’s Advance Bay, but these I did not
see and my knowledge of them is limited to hearsay.</p>
<p align="justify">The hills in the vicinity of George
River are generally high, but to the westward they
are much lower and less picturesque.</p>
<p align="justify">After our camp was pitched we had
an opportunity for the first time to make the acquaintance
of our companions.  The chief was a man of about
forty years of age, Potokomik by name, which, translated,
means a hole cut in the edge of a skin for the purpose
of stretching it.  The next in importance was
Kumuk.  Kumuk means louse, and it fitted the man’s
nature well.  The youngest was Iksialook (Big
Yolk of an Egg).  Potokomik had been rechristened
by a Hudson’s Bay Company agent “Kenneth,”
and Kumuk, in like manner, had had the name of “George”
bestowed upon him, but Iksialook bad been overlooked
or neglected in this respect, and his brain was not
taxed with trying to remember a Christian cognomen
that none of his people would ever call or know him
by.</p>
<p align="justify">Potokomik was really a remarkable
man and proved most faithful to us.  It is, in
fact, to his faithfulness and control over the others,
particularly Kumuk, that Easton and I owe our lives,
as will appear later.  He was at one time conjurer
of the Kangerlualuksoakmiut, or George River Eskimos,
and is still their leader, but during a visit to the
Atlantic coast, some three or four years ago, he came
under the influence of a missionary, embraced Christianity,
and abandoned the heathen conjuring swindle by which
he was, up to that time, making a good living. 
Now he lives a life about as clean and free from the
heathenism and superstitions of his race as any Eskimo
can who adopts a new religion.  The missionary
whom I have mentioned led Potokomik’s mother
to accept Christ and renounce Torngak when she was
on her deathbed, and before she died she confessed
to many sins, amongst them that of having aided in
the killing and eating, when driven to the act by
starvation, of her own mother.</p>
<p align="justify">After our tent was pitched and the
Eskimos had spread the <i>Explorer’s</i> sail
as a shelter for themselves, Kumuk and Iksialook left
us to look for driftwood and, in half an hour, returned
with a few small sticks that they had found on the
shore.  These sticks were exceedingly scarce
and, of course, very precious and with the greatest
economy in the use of the wood, a fire was made and
the kettle boiled for tea.</p>
<p align="justify">At first the Eskimos were always doing
unexpected things and springing surprises upon us,
but soon we became more or less accustomed to their
ways.  Not one of them could talk or understand
English and my Eskimo vocabulary was limited to the
one word “Oksu-nae,” and we therefore
had considerable difficulty in making each other understand,
and the pantomime and various methods of communication
resorted to were often very funny to see.  Potokomik
and I started in at once to learn what we could of
each other’s language, and it is wonderful how
much can be accomplished in the ac-quirement of a
vocabulary in a short time and how few words are really
necessary to convey ideas.  I would point at the
tent and say, “Tent,” and he would say,
“Tupek”; or at my sheath knife and say,
“Knife,” and he would say, “Chevik,”
and thus each learned the other’s word for nearly
everything about us and such words as “good,”
“bad,” “wind” and so on; and
in a few days we were able to make each other understand
in a general way, with our mixed English and Eskimo.</p>
<p align="justify">The northeast wind and low-hanging
clouds of the morning carried into execution their
threat, and all Sunday afternoon and all day Monday
the snowstorm raged with fury.  I took pity on
the Eskimos and on Sunday night invited all of them
to sleep in our tent, but only Potokomik came, and
on Monday morning, when I went out at break of day,
I found the other two sleeping under a snowdrift, for
the lean-to made of the boat sail had not protected
them much.  After that they accepted my invitation
and joined us in the tent.</p>
<p align="justify">It did not clear until Tuesday morning,
and then we hoisted sail and started forward out of
the river and into the broad, treacherous waters of
Hudson Straits, working with the oars to keep warm
and accelerate progress, for the wind was against
us at first until we turned out of the river, and
we had long tacks to make.</p>
<p align="justify">At the Post, as was stated, there
is a rise and fall of tide of forty feet.  In
Ungava Bay and the straits it has a record of sixty-two
feet rise at flood, with the spring or high tides,
and this makes navigation precarious where hidden
reefs and rocks are everywhere; and there are long
stretches of coast with no friendly bay or harbor or
lee shore where one can run for cover when unheralded
gales and sudden squalls catch one in the open. 
The Atlantic coast of Labrador is dangerous indeed,
but there Nature has providentially distributed innumerable
safe harbor retreats, and the tide is insignificant
compared with that of Ungava Bay.  “Nature
exhausted her supply of harbors,” some one has
said, “before she rounded Cape Chidley, or she
forgot Ungava entirely; and she just bunched the tide
in here, too.”</p>
<p align="justify">That Tuesday night sloping rocks and
ominous reefs made it impossible for us to effect
a landing, and in a shallow place we dropped anchor. 
Fortunately there was no wind, for we were in an exposed
position, and had there been we should have come to
grief.  A bit of hardtack with nothing to drink
sufficed for supper, and after eating we curled up
as best we could in the bottom of the boat. 
No watch was kept.  Every one lay down. 
Easton and I rolled in our blankets, huddled close
to each other, pulled the tent over us and were soon
dreaming of sunnier lands where flowers bloom and
the ice trust gets its prices.</p>
<p align="justify">Our awakening was rude.  Some
time in the night I dreamed that my neck was broken
and that I lay in a pool of icy water powerless to
move.  When I finally roused myself I found the
boat tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees and
my head at the lower incline.  All the water in
the boat had drained to that side and my shoulders
and neck were immersed.  The tide was out and
we were stranded on the rocks.  It was bright
moonlight.  Kumuk and Iksialook got up and with
the kettle disappeared over the rocks.  The rising
tide was almost on us when they returned with a kettle
full of hot tea.  Then as soon as the water was
high enough to float the boat we were off by moonlight,
fastening now and again on reefs, and several times
narrowly escaped disaster.</p>
<p align="justify">It was very cold.  Easton and
I were still clad in the bush-ravaged clothing that
we had worn during the summer, and it was far too light
to keep out the bitter Arctic winds that were now blowing,
and at night our only protection was our light summer
camping blankets.  When we reached the Post at
George River not a thing in the way of clothing or
blankets was in stock and the new stores were not unpacked
when we left, so we were not able to re-outfit there.</p>
<p align="justify">Wednesday night we succeeded in finding
shelter, but all day Thursday were held prisoners
by a northerly gale.  On Friday we made a new
start, but early in the afternoon were driven to shelter
on an island, where with some difficulty we effected
a landing at low tide, and carried our goods a half
mile inland over the slippery rocks above the reach
of rising water.  The Eskimos remained with the
boat and worked it in foot by foot with the tide while
Easton and I pitched the tent and hunted up and down
on the rocks for bits of driftwood until we had collected
sufficient to last us with economy for a day or two.</p>
<p align="justify">That night the real winter came. 
The light ice that we had encountered heretofore
and the snow which attained a considerable depth in
the recent storms were only the harbingers of the true
winter that comes in this northland with a single
blast of the bitter wind from the ice fields of the
Arctic.  It comes in a night—­almost
in an hour—­as it did to us now.  Every
pool of water on the island was congealed into a solid
mass.  A gale of terrific fury nearly carried
our tent away, and only the big bowlders to which it
was anchored saved it.  Once we had to shift
it farther back upon the rock fields, out of reach
of an exceptionally high tide.  For three days
the wind raged, and in those three days the great
blocks of northern pack ice were swept down upon us,
and we knew that the <i>Explorer</i> could serve us
no longer.  There was no alternative now but to
cross the barrens to Whale River on foot.  With
deep snow and no snowshoes it was not a pleasant prospect.</p>
<p align="justify">Our hard-tack was gone, and I baked
into cakes all of our little stock of flour and corn
meal.  This, with a small piece of pork, six pounds
of pemmican, tea and a bit of tobacco was all that
we had left in the way of provisions.  The Eskimos
had eaten everything that they had brought, and it
now devolved upon us to feed them also from our meager
store, which at the start only provided for Easton
and me for ten days, as that had been considered more
than ample time for the journey.  I limited the
rations at each meal to a half of one of my cakes
for each man.  Potokomik agreed with me that this
was a wise and necessary restriction and protected
me in it.  Kumuk thought differently, and he
was seen to filch once or twice, but a close watch
was kept upon him.</p>
<p align="justify">With infinite labor we hauled the
<i>Explorer</i> above the high-tide level, out of
reach of the ice that would soon pile in a massive
barricade of huge blocks upon the shore, that she might
be safe until recovered the following spring. 
Then we packed in the boat’s prow our tent
and all paraphernalia that was not absolutely necessary
for the sustenance of life, made each man a pack of
his blankets, food and necessaries, and began our
perilous foot march toward Whale River.  I clung
to all the records of the expedition, my camera, photographic
films and things of that sort, though Potokomik advised
their abandonment.</p>
<p align="justify">At low tide, when the rocks were left
nearly uncovered, we forded from the island to the
mainland.  It was dark when we reached it, and
for three hours after dark, bending under our packs,
walking in Indian file, we pushed on in silence through
the knee-deep snow upon which the moon, half hidden
by flying clouds, cast a weird ghostlike light. 
Finally the Eskimos stopped in a gully by a little
patch of spruce brush four or five feet high, and
while Iksialook foraged for handfuls of brush that
was dry enough to burn, Potokomik and Kumuk cut snow
blocks, which they built into a circular wall about
three feet high, as a wind-break in which to sleep,
and Easton and I broke some green brush to throw upon
the snow in this circular wind-break for a bed. 
While we did this Iksialook filled the kettle with
bits of ice and melted it over his brush fire and
made tea.  There was only brush enough to melt
ice for one cup of tea each, which with our bit of
cake made our supper. .  We huddled close and
slept pretty well that night on the snow with nothing
but flying frost between us and heaven.</p>
<p align="justify">We were having our breakfast the next
morning a white arctic fox came within ten yards of
our fire to look us over as though wondering what
kind of animals we were.  Easton and I were unarmed,
but the Eskimos each carried a 45-90 Winchester rifle. 
Potokomik reached for his and shot the fox, and in
a few minutes its disjointed carcass was in our pan
with a bit of pork, and we made a substantial breakfast
on the half-cooked flesh.</p>
<p align="justify">That was a weary day.  We came
upon a large creek in the forenoon and had to ascend
its east bank for a long distance to cross it, as the
tide had broken the ice below.  Some distance
up the stream its valley was wooded by just enough
scattered spruce trees to hold the snow, and wallowing
and floundering through this was most exhausting.</p>
<p align="justify">During the day Kumuk proposed to the
other Eskimos that they take all the food and leave
the white men to their fate.  They had rifles
while we had none, and we could not resist. 
Potokomik would not hear of it.  He remained our
friend.  Kumuk did not like the small ration that
I dealt out, and if they could get the food out of
our possession they would have more for themselves.</p>
<p align="justify">That night a snow house was built,
with the exception of rounding the dome at the top,
over which Potokomik spread his blanket; but it was
a poor shelter, and not much warmer than the open. 
When I lay down I was dripping with perspiration
from the exertion of the day and during the night
had a severe chill.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day a storm threatened. 
We crossed another stream and halted, at twelve o’clock,
upon the western side of it to make tea.  The
Eskimos held a consultation here and then Potokomik
told us that they were afraid of heavy snow and that
it was thought best to cache everything that we had—­blankets,
food and everything—­and with nothing to
encumber us hurry on to a tupek that we should reach
by dark, and that there we should find shelter and
food.  Accordingly everything was left behind
but the rifles, which the Eskimos clung to, and we
started on at a terrific pace over wind-swept hills
and drift-covered valleys, where all that could be
seen was a white waste of unvarying snow.  We
had been a little distance inland, but now worked
our way down toward the coast.  Once we crossed
an inlet where we had to climb over great blocks of
ice that the tide in its force had piled there.</p>
<p align="justify">Just at dusk the Eskimos halted. 
We had reached the place where the tupek should have
been, but none was there.  Afterward I learned
that the people whom Potokomik expected to find here
had been caught on their way from Whale River by the
ice and their boat was crushed.</p>
<p align="justify">Another consultation was held, and
as a result we started on again.  After a two
hours’ march Potokomik halted and the others
left us.  Easton and I threw ourselves at full
length upon the snow and went to sleep on the instant. 
A rifle shot aroused us, and Potokomik jumped to
his feet with the exclamation, “Igloo!”
We followed him toward where Kumuk was shouting,
through a bit of bush, down a bank, across a frozen
brook and up a slope, where we found a miserable little
log shack.  No one was there.  It was a
filthy place and snow had drifted in through the openings
in the roof and side.  The previous occupant
of the hut had left behind him an ax and an old stove,
and with a few sticks of wood that we found a fire
was started and we huddled close to it in a vain effort
to get warm.  When the fire died out we found
places to lie down, and, shivering with the cold, tried
with poor success to sleep.</p>
<a name="shack"></a>
<a href="shack.jpg">
<img alt="A Miserable Little Log Shack" src="shackth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">I had another chill that night and
severe cramps in the calves of my legs, and when morning
came and Easton said he could not travel another twenty
yards, I agreed at once to a plan of the Eskimos to
leave us there while they went on to look for other
Eskimos whom they expected to find in winter quarters
east of Whale River.  Potokomik promised to send
them with dogs to our rescue and then go on with a
letter to Job Edmunds, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s
agent at Whale River.  This letter to Edmunds
I scribbled on a stray bit of paper I found in my
pocket, and in it told him of our position, and lack
of food and clothing.</p>
<p align="justify">Potokomik left his rifle and some
cartridges with us, and then with the promise that
help should find us ere we had slept three times, we
shook hands with our dusky friend upon whose honor
and faithfulness our lives now depended, and the three
were gone in the face of a blinding snowstorm.</p>
<p align="justify">Shortly after the Eskimos left us
we heard some ptarmigans clucking outside, and Easton
knocked three of them over with Potokomik’s rifle. 
There were four, but one got away.  It can be
imagined what work the .45 bullet made of them. 
After separating the flesh as far as possible from
the feathers, we boiled it in a tin can we had found
amongst the rubbish in the hut, and ate everything
but the bills and toe-nails—­bones, entrails
and all.  This, it will be remembered, was the
first food that we had had since noon of the day before. 
We had no tea and our only comfort-providing asset
was one small piece of plug tobacco.</p>
<p align="justify">Fortunately wood was not hard to get,
but still not sufficiently plentiful for us to have
more than a light fire in the stove, which we hugged
pretty closely.</p>
<p align="justify">The storm grew in fury.  It shrieked
around our illy built shack, drifting the snow in
through the holes and crevices until we could not
find a place to sit or lie that was free from it. 
On the night of the third day the weather cleared
and settled, cold and rasping.  I took the rifle
and looked about for game, but the snow was now so
deep that walking far in it was out of the question. 
I did not see the track or sign of any living thing
save a single whisky-jack, but even he was shy and
kept well out of range.</p>
<p align="justify">We had nothing to eat—­not
a mouthful of anything—­and only water to
drink; even our tobacco was soon gone.  Day after
day we sat, sometimes in silence, for hours at a time,
sometimes calculating upon the probabilities of the
Eskimos having perished in the storm, for they were
wholly without protection.  I had faith in Potokomik
and his resourcefulness, and was hopeful they would
get out safely.  If there had been timber in
the country where night shelter could be made, we
might have started for Whale River without further
delay.  But in the wide waste barrens, illy clothed,
with deep snow to wallow through, it seemed to me
absolutely certain that such an attempt would end in
exhaustion and death, so we restrained our impatience
and waited.  On scraps of paper we played tit-tat-toe;
we improvised a checkerboard and played checkers. 
These pastimes broke the monotony of waiting somewhat. 
No matter what we talked about, our conversation always
drifted to something to eat.  We planned sumptuous
banquets we were to have at that uncertain period
“when we get home,” discussing in the
minutest detail each dish.  Once or twice Easton
roused me in the night to ask whether after all some
other roast or soup had not better be selected than
the one we had decided upon, or to suggest a change
in vegetables.</p>
<p align="justify">We slept five times instead of thrice
and still no succor came.  The days were short,
the nights interminably long.  I knew we could
live for twelve or fifteen days easily on water. 
I had recovered entirely from the chills and cramps
and we were both feeling well but, of course, rather
weak.  We had lost no flesh to speak of. 
The extreme hunger had passed away after a couple
of days.  It is only when starving people have
a little to eat that the hunger period lasts longer
than that.  Novelists write a lot of nonsense
about the pangs of hunger and the extreme suffering
that accompanies starvation.  It is all poppycock. 
Any healthy person, with a normal appetite, after
missing two or three meals is as hungry as he ever
gets.  After awhile there is a sense of weakness
that grows on one, and this increases with the days. 
Then there comes a desire for a great deal of sleep,
a sort of lassitude that is not unpleasant, and this
desire becomes more pronounced as the weakness grows. 
The end is always in sleep.  There is no keeping
awake until the hour of death.</p>
<p align="justify">While, as I have said, the real sense
of hunger passes away quickly there remains the instinct
to eat.  That is the working of the first law
of nature—­self-preservation.  It prompts
one to eat anything that one can chew or swallow,
and it is what makes men eat refuse the thought of
which would sicken them at other times.  Of course,
Easton and I were like everybody else under similar
conditions.  Easton said one day that he would
like to have something to chew on.  In the refuse
on the floor I found a piece of deerskin about ten
inches square.  I singed the hair off of it and
divided it equally between us and then we each roasted
our share and ate it.  That was the evening after
we had “slept” five times.</p>
<p align="justify">After disposing of our bit of deerskin
we huddled down on the floor with our heads pillowed
upon sticks of wood, as was our custom, for a sixth
night, after discussing again the probable fate of
the Eskimos.  While I did not admit to Easton
that I entertained any doubt as to our ultimate rescue,
as the days passed and no relief came I felt grave
fears as to the safety of Potokomik and his companions. 
The severe storm that swept over the country after
their departure from the shack had no doubt materially
deepened the snow, and I questioned whether or not
this had made it impossible for them to travel without
snowshoes.  The wind during the second day of
the storm had been heavy, and it was my hope that
it had swept the barrens clear of the new snow, but
this was uncertain and doubtful.  Then, too,
I did not know the nature of Eskimos—­whether
they were wont to give up quickly in the face of unusual
privations and difficulties such as these men would
have to encounter.  They were in a barren country,
with no food, no blankets, no tent, no protection,
in fact, of any kind from the elements, and it was
doubtful whether they would find material for a fire
at night to keep them from freezing, and, even if
they did find wood, they had no ax with which to cut
it.  How far they would have to travel surrounded
by these conditions I had no idea.  Indians without
wood or food or a sheltering bush would soon give
up the fight and lie down to die.  If Potokomik
and his men had perished, I knew that Easton and I
could hope for no relief from the outside and that
our salvation would depend entirely upon our own resourcefulness. 
It seemed to me the time had come when some action
must be taken.</p>
<p align="justify">It was a long while after dark, I
do not know how long, and I still lay awake turning
these things over in my mind, when I heard a strange
sound.  Everything had been deathly quiet for
days, and I sat up.  In the great unbroken silence
of the wilderness a man’s fancy will make him
hear strange things.  I have answered the shouts
of men that my imagination made me hear.  But
this was not fancy, for I heard it again—­a
distinct shout!  I jumped to my feet and called
to Easton:  “They’ve come, boy! 
Get up, there’s some one coming!” Then
I hurried outside and, in the dim light on the white
stretch of snow, saw a black patch of men and dogs. 
Our rescuers had come.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_17"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XVII</h1>
<p><b>TO WHALE RIVER AND FORT CHIMO</b></p>
<p align="justify">The feeling of relief that came to
me when I heard the shout and saw the men and dogs
coming can be appreciated, and something of the satisfaction
I felt when I grasped the hands of the two Eskimos
that strode up on snowshoes can be understood.</p>
<p align="justify">The older of the two was an active
little fellow who looked much like a Japanese. 
He introduced himself as Emuk (Water).  His companion,
who, we learned later, rejoiced in the name Amnatuhinuk
(Only a Woman), was quite a young fellow, big, fat
and goodnatured.</p>
<p align="justify">Without any preliminaries Emuk pushed
right into the shack and, from a bag that he carried,
produced some tough dough cakes which he gave us to
eat, and each a plug of tobacco to smoke.  He
was all activity and command, working quickly himself
and directing Amnatuhinuk.  A candle from his
bag was lighted.  Amnatuhinuk was sent for a kettle
of water; wood was piled into the stove, and the kettle
put over to boil.  The stove proved too slow
for Emuk and he built a fire outside where tea could
be made more quickly, and when it was ready he insisted
upon our drinking several cups of it to stimulate
us.  Then he brought forth a pail containing
strong-smelling beans cooked in rancid seal oil, which
he heated.  This concoction he thought was good
strong food and just the thing for half-starved men,
and he set it before us with the air of one who has
done something especially nice.  We ate some of
it but were as temperate as Emuk with his urgings
would permit us to be, for I knew the penalty that
food exacts after a long fast.</p>
<p align="justify">A comfortable bed of boughs and blankets
was spread for us, and we were made to lie down. 
Emuk, on more than one occasion, bad been in a similar
position to ours and others had come to his aid, and
he wanted to pay the debt he felt he owed to humanity.</p>
<p align="justify">He told us that Potokomik and the
others, after suffering great hardships, had reached
his tupek near the Mukalik the day before, but I could
not understand his language well enough to draw from
him any of the details of their trip out.</p>
<p align="justify">At midnight Emuk made tea again and
roused us up to partake of it and eat more dough cakes
and beans with seal oil.  I feared the consequences,
but I could not refuse him, for he did not understand
why we should not want to eat a great deal.  The
result was that with happiness and stomach ache I
could not sleep, and before morning was going out
to vomit.  Even at the danger of seeming not to
appreciate Emuk’s hospitality, I was constrained
to decline to eat any breakfast.</p>
<p align="justify">Emuk noticed a hole in the bottom
of one of my seal-skin boots.  He promptly pulled
off his own and made me put them on.  He had another
though poorer pair for himself.</p>
<p align="justify">It was a delight to be moving again. 
We were on the trail before dawn, Emuk with his snowshoes
tramping the road ahead of the dogs and Amnatuhinuk
driving the team.  The temperature must have been
at least ten degrees below zero.  The weather
was bitterly cold for men so thinly clad as Easton
and I were, and the snow was so deep that we could
not exercise by running, for we had no snowshoes, and
while we wallowed through the deep snow the dogs would
have left us behind, so we could do nothing but sit
on the komatik (sledge) and shiver.</p>
<p align="justify">At noon we stopped at the foot of
a hill before ascending it, and the men threw up a
wind-break of snow blocks, back of which they built
a fire and put over the teakettle.  Easton and
I had just squatted close to the fire to warm our
benumbed hands when the husky dogs put their noses
in the air and gave out the long weird howl of welcome
or defiance that announces the approach of other dogs,
and almost immediately a loaded team with two men
came over the hill and down the slope at a gallop
toward us.  It proved to be Job Edmunds, the half-breed
Hudson’s Bay Company officer from Whale River,
and his Eskimo servant, coming to our aid.</p>
<p align="justify">Edmunds was greatly relieved to find
us safe.  He knew exactly what to do.  From
his komatik box he produced a bottle of port wine and
made us each take a small dose of it which he poured
into a tin cup.  He put a big, warm reindeer-skin
koolutuk [the outer garment of deerskin worn by the
Eskimos] on each of us and pulled the hoods over our
heads.  He had warm footwear—­in fact,
everything that was necessary for our comfort. 
Then he cut two ample slices of wheat bread from a
big loaf, and toasted and buttered them for us. 
He was very kind and considerate.  Edmunds has
saved many lives in his day.  Every winter he
is called upon to go to the rescue of Eskimos who have
been caught in the barrens without food, as we were. 
He had saved Emuk from starvation on one or two occasions.</p>
<p align="justify">After a half-hour’s delay we
were off again, I on the komatik with Edmunds, and
Easton with Emuk.  We passed the snow house where
Edmunds and his man had spent the previous night. 
They would have come on in the dark, but they knew
Emuk was ahead and would reach us anyway.</p>
<p align="justify">Edmunds had a splendid team of dogs,
wonderfully trained.  The big, wolfish creatures
loved him and they feared him.  He almost never
had to use the long walrus-hide whip.  They obeyed
him on the instant without hesitation—­“Ooisht,”
and they pulled in the harness as one; “Aw,”
and they stopped.  There was a power in his voice
that governed them like magic.  The wind had
packed the snow hard enough on the barrens beyond
the Tuktotuk—­and the country there was all
barren—­to bear up the komatik; the dogs
were in prime condition and traveled at a fast trot
or a gallop, and we made good time.  Once Emuk
stopped to take a white fox out of a trap.  He
killed it by pressing his knee on its breast and stifling
its heart beats.</p>
<p align="justify">Big cakes of ice were piled in high
barricades along the rivers where we crossed them,
and at these places we had to let the komatik down
with care on one side and help the dogs haul it up
with much labor on the other; and on the level, through
the rough ice hummocks or amongst the rocks, the drivers
were kept busy steering to prevent collisions with
the obstructions, while the dogs rushed madly ahead,
and we, on the komatik, clung on for dear life and
watched our legs that they might not get crushed. 
Once or twice we turned over, but the drivers never
lost their hold of the komatik or control of the dogs.</p>
<p align="justify">It was dark when we reached Emuk’s
skin tupek and were welcomed by a group of Eskimos,
men, women and children.  Iksialook was of the
number, and he was so worn and haggard that I scarcely
recognized him.  He had seen hardship since our
parting.  The people were very dirty and very
hospitable.  They took us into the tupek at once,
which was extremely filthy and made insufferably hot
by a sheet-iron tent stove.  The women wore sealskin
trousers and in the long hoods of their <i>adikeys</i>,
or upper garments, carried babies whose bright little
dusky-hued faces peeped timidly out at us over the
mothers’ shoulders.  A ptarmigan was boiled
and divided between Easton and me, and with that and
bread and butter from Edmunds’s box and hot tea
we made a splendid supper.  After a smoke all
around, for the women smoke as well as the men, polar
bear and reindeer skins were spread upon spruce boughs,
blankets were given us for covering, and we lay down. 
Eleven of us crowded into the tupek and slept there
that night.  How all the Eskimos found room I
do not know.  I was crowded so tightly between
one of the fat women on one side and Easton on the
other that I could not turn over; but I slept as I
had seldom ever slept before.</p>
<p align="justify">The next forenoon we crossed the Mukalik
River and soon after reached Whale River, big and
broad, with blocks of ice surging up and down upon
the bosom of the restless tide.  The Post is about
ten miles from its mouth.  We turned northward
along its east bank and, in a little while, came to
some scattered spruce woods, which Edmunds told me
were just below his home.  Then at a creek, above
which stood the miniature log cabin and small log
storehouse comprising the Post buildings, I got off
and climbed up through rough ice barricades.</p>
<p align="justify">Never in my life have I had such a
welcome as I received here.  Mrs. Edmunds came
out to meet me.  She told me that they had been
watching for us at the Post all the morning and how
glad they were that we were safe, and that we had
come to see them, and that we must stay a good long
time and rest.  For two-score years they had lived
in that desolate place and never before had a traveler
come to visit them.  In all that time the only
white people they had ever met were the three or four
connected with the Post at Fort Chimo, for the ship
never calls at Whale River on her rounds.  Edmunds
brings the provisions over from Fort Chimo in a little
schooner.  There are five in the family—­Edmunds
and his wife, their daughter (a young woman of twenty)
and her husband, Sam Ford (a son of John Ford at George
River), and Mary’s baby.</p>
<p align="justify">A good wash and clean clothing followed
by a sumptuous dinner of venison put us on our feet
again.  I suffered little as a result of the
fasting period, but Easton had three or four days of
pretty severe colic.  This is the usual result
of feast after famine, and was to be expected.</p>
<p align="justify">And now I learned the details of Potokomik’s
journey out.  When the three Eskimos left us
in the shack they started at once in search of Emuk’s
tupek.  The storm that raged for two days swept
pitilessly across their path, but they never halted,
pushing through the deep-ening snow in single file,
taking turns at going ahead and breaking the way,
until night, and then they stopped.  They had
no ax and could have no fire, so they built themselves
a snow igloo as best they could without the proper
implements and it protected them against the drifting
snow and piercing wind while they slept.  On the
second day they shot, with their rifles, seven ptarmigans. 
These they plucked and ate raw.  They saw no
more game, and finally became so weak and exhausted
they could carry their rifles no farther and left them
on the trail.  Each night they built a snow house. 
With increasing weakness their progress was very
slow; still they kept going, staggering on and on
through the snow.  It was only their lifelong
habit of facing great odds and enduring great hardships
that kept them up.  Men less inured to cold and
privation would surely have succumbed.  They
were making their final fight when at last they stumbled
into Emuk’s tupek.  Kumuk sat down and cried
like a child.  It was two weeks before any of
them was able to do any physical work.  They looked
like shadows of their former selves when I saw them
at Whale River.</p>
<p align="justify">It was after dark Sunday night when
my letter to Edmunds reached the Post.  Earlier
in the evening Edmunds and his man had crossed the
river, which is here over half a mile in width, and
pitched their camp on the opposite shore, preparatory
to starting up the river the next morning on a deer
hunt, herds having been reported to the northward by
Eskimos.  Mrs. Edmunds read the letter, and she
and Mary were at once all excitement.  They lighted
a lantern and signaled to the camp on the other side
and fired guns until they had a reply.  Then,
for fear that Edmunds might not understand the urgency
of his immediate returns they kept firing at intervals
all night, stopping only to pack the komatik box with
the clothing and food that Edmunds was to bring to
us.  Neither of the women slept.  With the
thought of men starving out in the snow they could
not rest.  The floating ice in the river and
the swift tide made it impossible for a boat to cross
in the darkness, but with daylight Edmunds returned,
harnessed his dogs, and was off to meet us as has
been described.</p>
<p align="justify">We had left George River on October
twenty-second, and it was the eighth of November when
we reached Whale River, and in this interval the caribou
herds that the Indians had reported west of the Koksoak
had passed to the east of Whale River and turned to
the northward.  Fifty miles inland the Indian
and Eskimo hunters had met them.  The killing
was over and they told us hundreds of the animals lay
dead in the snow above.  So many had been butchered
that all the dogs and men in Ungava would be well
supplied with meat during the winter, and numbers
of the carcasses would feed the packs of timber wolves
that infested the country or rot in the next summer’s
sun.  Sam Ford had gone inland but was too late
for the big hunt and only killed four or five deer. 
The wolves were so thick, he told us, that he could
not sleep at night in his camp with the noise of their
howling.  One Eskimo brought in two wolf skins
that were so large when they were stretched a man
could almost have crawled into either of them. 
I saw wolf tracks myself within a quarter mile of
the Post, for the animals were so bold they ventured
almost to the door.</p>
<p align="justify">Edmunds is a famous hunter. 
During the previous winter, besides attending to his
post duties, he killed nearly half a hundred caribou
to supply his Post and Fort Chimo with man and dog
food, and in the same season his traps yielded him
two hundred fox pelts—­mostly white ones—­his
personal catch.  This was not an unusual year’s
work for him.  Mary inherits her father’s
hunting instincts.  In the morning she would
put her baby in the hood of her adikey, shoulder her
gun, don her snowshoes, and go to “tend”
her traps.  One day she did not take her gun,
and when she had made her rounds of the traps and
started homeward discovered that she was being followed
by a big gray timber wolf.  When she stopped,
the wolf stopped; when she went on, it followed, stealing
gradually closer and closer to her, almost imperceptibly,
but still gaining upon her.  She wanted to run,
but she realized that if she did the wolf would know
at once that she was afraid and would attack and kill
her and her baby; so without hastening her pace, and
only looking back now and again to note the wolf’s
gain, she reached the door of the house and entered
with the animal not ten paces away.  Now she
always carries a gun and feels no fear, for she can
shoot.</p>
<p align="justify">I took advantage of the delay at Whale
River to partially outfit for the winter.  Edmunds
and his family rendered us valuable assistance and
advice, securing for us, from the Eskimos, sealskin
boots, and from the Indians who came to the Post while
we were there, deer skins for trousers, koolutuks
and sleeping bags, Mrs. Edmunds and Mary themselves
making our moccasins, mittens and duffel socks.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimos were all away at their
hunting grounds and it was not possible to secure
a dog team to carry us on to Fort Chimo.  Therefore,
when Edmunds announced one day that he must send Sam
Ford and the Eskimo servant over with the Post team
for a load of provisions, I availed myself of the
opportunity to accompany them, and on the twenty-eighth
of November we said good-by to the friends who had
been so kind to us and again faced toward the westward.</p>
<p align="justify">The morning was clear, crisp and bracing;
the temperature was twenty degrees below zero. 
We ascended the river some seven or eight miles before
we found a safe crossing, as the tide had kept the
ice broken in the center of the channel below, and
piled it like hills along the banks.</p>
<p align="justify">I noted that the Whale River valley
was much better wooded than any country we had seen
for a long time—­since we had left the head
waters of the George River, in fact—­and
the Indians say it is so to its source.  The
trees are small black spruce and larch, but a fairly
thick growth.  This “bush,” however,
is evidently quite restricted in width, for after
crossing the river we were almost immediately out of
it, and the same interminable, barren, rocky, treeless
country that we had seen to the eastward extended
westward to the Koksoak.</p>
<p align="justify">That night was spent in a snow igloo. 
The next day we crossed the False River, a wide stream
at its mouth, but a little way up not over two hundred
yards wide.  At twelve o’clock a halt was
made at an Eskimo tupek for dinner.</p>
<p align="justify">The people were, as these northern
people always are, most hospitable, giving us the
best they had—­fresh venison and tea. 
After but an hour’s delay we were away again,
and at three o’clock, with the dogs on a gallop,
rounded the hill above Fort Chimo and pulled into the
Post, the farthest limit of white man’s habitation
in all Labrador.</p>
<p align="justify">We were welcomed by Mr. Duncan Mathewson,
the Chief Trader, who has charge of the Ungava District
for the Hudson’s Bay Company, and Dr. Alexander
Milne, Assistant Commissioner of the Company, from
Winnipeg, who had arrived on the <i>Pelican</i> and
was on a tour of inspection of the Labrador Coast
Posts.</p>
<p align="justify">The Chief Trader’s residence
is a small building, and Mr. Mathewson was unable
to entertain us in the house, but he gave orders at
once to have a commodious room in one of the dozen
or so other buildings of the Post fitted up for us
with beds, stove and such simple furnishings as were
necessary to establish us in housekeeping and make
us comfortable during our stay with him.  Here
we were to remain until the Indian and Eskimo hunters
came for their Christmas and New Year’s trading,
at which time, I was advised, I should probably be
able to engage Eskimo drivers and dogs to carry us
eastward to the Atlantic coast.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_18"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XVIII</h1>
<p><b>THE INDIANS OF THE NORTH</b></p>
<p align="justify">Fort Chmio is situated upon the east
bank of the Koksoak River and about twenty-five miles
from its mouth, where the river is nearly a mile and
a half wide.  There are two trading posts here;
one, that of the Hudson’s Bay Company, consisting
of a dozen or so buildings, which include dwelling
and storehouses and native cabins; the other that of
Revellion Brothers, the great fur house of Paris, colloquially
referred to as “the French Company,” which
stands just above and ad-joining the station of the
Hudson’s Bay Company.  This latter Post
was erected in the year 1903, and has nearly as many
buildings as the older establishment.  We used
to refer to them respectively as “London”
and “Paris.”</p>
<p align="justify">The history of Fort Chimo extends
back to the year 1811, when Kmoch and Kohlmeister,
two of the Moravian Brethren of the Okak Mission on
the Atlantic coast, in the course of their efforts
for the conversion of the Eskimos to Christianity
cruised into Ungava Bay, discovered the George River,
which they named in honor of King George the Third,
and then proceeded to the Koksoak, which they ascended
to the point of the present settlement.  The
natives received them well.  They erected a beacon
on a hill, tarried but a few days and then turned back
to Okak.  Upon their return they gave glowing
accounts of their reception by the natives and the
great possibilities for profitable trade, but they
did not deem it advisable themselves to extend their
labors to that field.</p>
<p align="justify">In the course of time this report
drifted to England and to the ears of the officials
of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who were attracted
by it, and in 1827 Dr. Mendry, an officer of the Company
at Moose Factory, with a party of white men and Indian
guides crossed the peninsula from Richmond Gulf, through
Clearwater Lake to the head waters of the Larch River,
a tributary of the Koksoak, thence descended the Larch
and Koksoak to the place where the Moravians had erected
the beacon, and on a low terrace, just across the river
from the beacon, established the original Fort Chimo. 
The difficulties of navigation and the consequent
uncertainty and expense of keeping the Post supplied
with provisions and articles of trade were such, however,
that after a brief trial Ungava was abandoned.</p>
<p align="justify">The opportunities for lucrative trade
here were not forgotten by the Company, and in the
year 1837 Factor John McLean was detailed to re-establish
Fort Chimo.  This he did, and a year later built
the first Post at George River.  During the succeeding
winter he crossed the interior with dogs to Northwest
River.  Upon their return journey McLean and
his party ate their dogs and barely escaped perishing
from starvation; one of his Indians, who was sent
ahead, reaching Fort Chimo and bringing succor when
McLean and the others, through extreme weakness, were
unable to proceed farther.  In the following summer
McLean built the fort on Indian House Lake, and the
other one that has been mentioned, on a large lake
to the westward—­Lake Eraldson he called
it—­presumably the source of Whale River. 
Later he succeeded in crossing to Northwest River
by canoe, ascending the George River and descending
the Atlantic slope of the plateau by way of the Grand
River.  His object was to establish a regular
line of communication between Fort Chimo and Northwest
River, with interior posts along the route. 
The natural obstacles which the country presented finally
forced the abandonment of this plan as impracticable,
and the two interior posts were closed after a brief
trial.  This was before the days of steam navigation,
and with sailing vessels it was only possible to reach
these isolated northern stations in Ungava Bay with
supplies once every two years.  Even these infrequent
visits were so fraught with danger and uncertainty
that finally, in 1855, Fort Chimo and George River
were again abandoned as unprofitable.  In 1866,
however, the building of the Company’s steamship
Labrador made yearly visits possible, and in that
year another attack was made upon the Ungava district
and Fort Chimo was rebuilt, George River Post re-established,
and a little later the small station at Whale River
was erected.  With the improved facilities for
transportation the trade with Indians and Eskimos,
and the salmon and white whale fisheries carried on
by the Posts, now proved most profitable, and the Company
has since and is still reaping the reward of its persistence.</p>
<p align="justify">Dr. Milne, as has been stated, was
not a permanent resident of the Post.  Regularly
stationed here, besides Mathewson, there is a young
clerk, a cooper, a carpenter, and a handy man, all
Scotchmen, and a comparatively new arrival, Rev. Samuel
M. Stewart, a missionary of the Church Mission Society
of England.  Of Mr. Stewart, who did much to
relieve the monotony of our several weeks’ sojourn
at Fort Chimo, and his remarkable self-sacrifice and
work, I shall have something to say later.</p>
<p align="justify">The day after our arrival we took
occasion to pay our respects to Monsieur D. Thévenet,
the officer in charge of the “French Post.” 
Our reception was most cordial.  M. Thévenet
is a gentleman by birth.  He was at one time
an officer in the French cavalry, but his love of
adventure and active temperament rebelled against the
inactivity of garrison duty and he resigned his commission
in the army, came to Canada, and joined the Northwest
mounted police in the hope of obtaining a detail in
the Klondike.  In this he was disappointed, and
the outbreak of the South African war offering a new
field of adventure he quit the police, enlisted in
the Canadian Mounted Rifles, and served in the field
throughout the war.  After his return to Canada
and discharge from the army, he took service with Revellion
Brothers.</p>
<p align="justify">M. Thévenet invited us to dine
with him that very evening, and we were not slow to
accept his hospitality.  His bright conversation,
pleasing personality and unstinted hospitality offered
a delightful evening and we were not disappointed. 
This and many other pleasant evenings spent in his
society during our stay at Fort Chimo were some of
the most enjoyable of our trip.</p>
<p align="justify">Here an agreeable surprise awaited
me.  When we sat down to dinner Thévenet
called in his new half-breed French-Indian interpreter,
and who should he prove to be but Belfleur, one of
the dog drivers who in April, 1904, accompanied me
from Northwest River to Rigolet, when I began that
anxious journey over the ice with Hubbard’s body. 
He was apparently as well pleased at the meeting
as I. Belfleur and a half-breed Scotch-Eskimo named
Saunders are employed as Indian and Eskimo interpreters
at the French Post, and are the only ones of M. Thévenet’s
people with whom he can converse.  Belfleur speaks
French and broken English, and Saunders English, besides
their native languages.</p>
<p align="justify">None of the people of Ungava, with
the exception of two or three, speaks any but his
mother tongue, and they have no ambition, apparently,
to extend their linguistic acquirements.  It is,
indeed, a lonely life for the trader, who but once
a year, when his ship arrives, has any communication
with the great world which he has left behind him. 
No white woman is here with her softening influence,
no physician or surgeon to treat the sick and injured,
and never until the advent of Mr. Stewart any permanent
missionary.</p>
<p align="justify">The natives that remain at Fort Chimo
all the year are three or four families of Eskimos,
a few old or crippled Indians, and some half-breed
Indians and Eskimos, who do chores around the Posts
and lead an uncertain existence.  The half-breed
Indian children are taken care of at the “Indian
house,” a log structure presided over by the
“Queen” of Ungava, a very corpulent old
Nascaupee woman, who lives by the labor of others
and draws tribute from trading Indians who make the
Indian house their rendezvous when they visit the
Post.  She is and always has been very kind,
and a sort of mother, to the little waifs that nearly
every trader or white servant has left behind him,
when the Company’s orders transferred him to
some other Post and he abandoned his temporary wife
forever.</p>
<p align="justify">The Indians of the Ungava district
are chiefly Nascaupees, with occasionally a few Crees
from the West.  “Nenenot” they call
themselves, which means perfect, true men.  “Nascaupee”
means false or untrue men and is a word of opprobrium
applied to them by the Mountaineers in the early days,
because of their failure to keep a compact to join
forces with the latter at the time of the wars for
supremacy between the Indians and Eskimos.  Nascaupee
is the name by which they are known now, outside of
their own lodges, and the one which we shall use in
referring to them.  In like manner I have chosen
to use the English Mountaineer, rather than the French
<i>Montagnais</i>, in speaking of the southern Indians. 
North of the Straits of Belle Isle the French word
is never heard, and if you were to refer to these
Indians as “Montagnais” to the Labrador
natives it is doubtful whether you would be understood.</p>
<p align="justify">Both Mountaineers and Nascaupees are
of Cree origin, and belong to the great Algonquin
family.  Their language is similar, with only
the variation of dialect that might be expected with
the different environments.  The Nascaupees have
one peculiarity of speech, however, which is decidedly
their own.  In conversation their voice is raised
to a high pitch, or assumes a whining, petulant tone. 
An outsider might believe them to be quarreling and
highly excited, when in fact they are on the best
of terms and discussing some ordinary subject in a
most matter of fact way.</p>
<p align="justify">In personal appearance the Nascaupees
are taller and more angular than their southern brothers,
but the high cheek bones, the color and general features
are the same.  They are capable of enduring the
severest cold.  In summer cloth clothing obtained
in barter at the Posts is, worn, but in winter deerskin
garments are usual.  The coat has the hair inside,
and the outside of the finely dressed, chamoislike
skin is decorated with various designs in color, in
startling combinations of blue, red and yellow, painted
on with dyes obtained at the Post or manufactured
by themselves from fish roe and mineral products. 
When the garment has a hood it is sometimes the skin
of a wolf’s head, with the ears standing and
hair outside, giving the wearer a startling and ferocious
appearance.  Tight-fitting deerskin or red cloth
leggings decorated with beads, and deerskin moccasins
complete the costume.</p>
<p align="justify">Some beadwork trimming is made by
the women, but they do little in the way of needlework
embroidery, and the results of their attempts in this
direction are very indifferent.  This applies
to the full-blood Nascaupees.  I have seen some
fairly good specimens of moccasin embroidery done
by the half-breed women at the Post, and by the Mountaineer
women in the South.</p>
<p align="justify">The Nascaupees are not nearly so clean
nor so prosperous as the Mountaineers, and, coming
very little in contact with the whites, live now practically
as their forefathers lived for untold generations
before them—­just as they lived, in fact,
before the white men came.  They are perhaps the
most primitive Indians on the North American continent
to-day.</p>
<p align="justify">The Mountaineers, on the other hand,
see much more, particularly during the summer months,
of the whites and half-breeds of the coast.  Most
of those who spend their summers on the St. Lawrence,
west of St. Augustine, have more or less white blood
in their veins through consorting with the traders
and settlers.  With but two or three exceptions
the Mountaineers of the Atlantic coast, Groswater Bay,
and at St. Augustine and the eastward, are pure, uncontaminated
Indians.</p>
<p align="justify">The line of territorial division between
the Nascaupee and Mountaineer Indians’ hunting
grounds is pretty closely drawn.  The divide north
of Lake Michikamau is the southern and the George
River the eastern boun-dary of the Nascaupee territory,
and to the south and to the east of these boundaries,
lie the hunting grounds of the Mountaineers.</p>
<p align="justify">These latter, south of the height
of land, as has been stated, are practically all under
the influence of the Roman Catholic Church, and are
most devout in the observance of their religious obligations. 
While it is true that their faith is leavened to some
extent by the superstitions that their ancestors have
handed down to them, yet even in the long months of
the winter hunting season they never forget the teachings
of their father confessor.</p>
<p align="justify">The Nascaupees are heathens. 
About the year 1877 or 1878 Father Père Lacasse
crossed overland from Northwest River, apparently by
the Grand River route, to Fort Chimo, in an attempt
to carry the work of the mission into that field. 
The Nascaupees, however, did not take kindly to the
new religion, and unfortunately during the priest’s
stay among them, which was brief, the hunting was
bad.  This was attributed to the missionary’s
presence, and the sachems were kept busy for a time
dispelling the evil charm.  No one was converted. 
Let us hope that Mr. Stewart, who is there to stay,
and is an earnest, persistent worker, will reach the
savage confidence and conscience, though his opportunity
with the Indians is small, for these Nascaupees tarry
but a very brief time each year within his reach. 
With open water in the summer they come to the Fort
with the pelts of their winter catch.  These are
exchanged for arms, ammunition, knives, clothing, tea
and tobacco, chiefly.  Then, after a short rest
they disappear again into the fastnesses of the wilderness
above, to fish the interior lakes and hunt the forests,
and no more is seen of them until the following summer,
excepting only a few of the younger men who usually
emerge from the silent, snow-bound land during Christmas
week to barter skins for such necessaries as they
are in urgent need of, and to get drunk on a sort
of beer, a concoction of hops, molasses and unknown
ingredients, that the Post dwellers make and the “Queen”
dispenses during the holiday festivals.</p>
<p align="justify">Reindeer, together with ptarmigans
(Arctic grouse) and fish, form their chief food supply,
with tea always when they can get it.  All of
these northern Indiana are passionately fond of tea,
and drink unbelievable quantities of it.  Little
flour is used.  The deer are erratic in their
movements and can never be depended upon with any
degree of certainty, and should the Indians fail in
their hunt they are placed face to face with starvation,
as was the case in the winter of 1892 and 1893, when
full half of the people perished from lack of food.</p>
<p align="justify">Formerly the migrating herds pretty
regularly crossed the Koksoak very near and just above
the Post in their passage to the eastward in the early
autumn, but for several years now only small bands
have been seen here, the Indians meeting the deer
usually some forty or fifty miles farther up the river. 
When the animals swim the river they bunch close
together; Indian canoe men head them off and turn them
up-stream, others attacking the helpless animals
with spears.  An agent of the Hudson’s
Bay Company told me that he had seen nearly four hundred
animals slaughtered in this manner in a few hours. 
When bands of caribou are met in winter they are
driven into deep snow banks, and, unable to help themselves,
are speared at will.</p>
<p align="justify">Of course when the killing is a large
one the flesh of all the animals cannot be preserved,
and frequently only the tongues are used.  Of
late years, however, owing to the growing scarcity
of reindeer, it is said the Indians have learned to
be a little less wasteful than for-merly, and to
restrict their kill more nearly to their needs, though
during the winter I was there hundreds were slaughtered
for tongues and sinew alone.  Large quantities
of the venison are dried and stored up against a season
of paucity.  Pemmican, which was formerly so
largely used by our western Indians, is occasionally
though not generally made by those of Labrador. 
When deer are killed some bone, usually a shoulder
blade, is hung in a tree as an offering to the Manitou,
that he may not interfere with future hunts, and drive
the animals away.</p>
<p align="justify">The Indian religion is not one of
worship, but one of fear and superstition.  They
are constanly in dread of imaginary spirits that haunt
the wilderness and drive away the game or bring sickness
or other disaster upon them.  The conjurer is
employed to work his charms to keep off the evil ones. 
They evidently have some sort of indefinite belief
in a future existence, and hunting implements and
other offerings are left with the dead, who, where
the conditions will permit, are buried in the ground.</p>
<p align="justify">Sometimes the very old people are
abandoned and left to die of starvation unattended. 
Be it said to the honor of the trading companies
that they do their utmost to prevent this when it is
possible, and offer the old and decrepit a haven at
the Post, where they are fed and cared for.</p>
<p align="justify">The marriage relation is held very
lightly and continence and chastity are not in their
sight virtues.  A child born to an unmarried woman
is no impediment to her marriage.  If it is a
male child it is, in fact, an advantage.  Love
does not enter into the Indian’s marriage relationship. 
It is a mating for convenience.  Gifts are made
to the girl’s father or nearest male relative,
and she is turned over, whether she will or no, to
the would-be husband.  There is no ceremony. 
A hunter has as many wives as he is physically able
to control and take care of—­one, two or
even three.  Sometimes it happens that they combine
against him and he receives at their hands what is
doubtless well-merited chastisement.</p>
<p align="justify">The men are the hunters, the women
the slaves.  No one finds fault with this, not
even the women, for it is an Indian custom immemorial
for the woman to do all the hard, physical work.</p>
<p align="justify">The Mountaineer Indians that we met
on the George River, and one Indian who visited Fort
Chimo while we were there, are the only ones of the
Labrador that I have ever seen drive dogs.  This
Fort Chimo Indian, unlike the other hunters of his
people, has spent much time at the Post, and mingled
much with the white traders and the Eskimos, and,
for an Indian, entertains very progressive and broad
views.  He was, with the exception of a humpbacked
post attaché who had an Eskimo wife, the only
Indian I met that would not be insulted when one addressed
him in Eskimo, for the Indians and Eskimos carry on
no social intercourse and the Indians rather despise
the Eskimos.  The Indian referred to, however,
has learned something of the Eskimo language, and
also a little English—­English that you cannot
always understand, but must take for granted. 
He informed me, “Me three man—­Indian,
husky (Eskimo), white man.”  He was very
proud of his accomplishments.</p>
<p align="justify">The Indian hauls his loads in winter
on toboggans, which he manufactures himself with his
ax and crooked knife—­the only woodworking
tools he possesses.  The crooked knives he makes,
too, from old files, shaping and tempering them.</p>
<p align="justify">The snowshoe frames are made by the
men, the babiche is cut and netted by the women, who
display wonderful skill in this work.  The Mountaineers
make much finer netted snowshoes than the Nascaupees,
and have great pride in the really beautiful, light
snowshoes that they make.  No finer ones are
to be found anywhere than those made by the Groswater
Bay Mountaineers.  Three shapes are in vogue—­the
beaver tail, the egg tail and the long tail. 
The beaver-tail snowshoes are much more difficult
to make, and are seldom seen amongst the Nascaupees. 
With them the egg tail is the favorite.</p>
<p align="justify">The Ungava Indians never go to the
open bay in their canoes.  They have a superstition
that it will bring them bad luck, for there they say
the evil spirits dwell.  Of all the Indians that
visit Fort Chimo only two or three have ever ventured
to look upon the waters of Ungava Bay, and these had
their view from a hilltop at a safe distance.</p>
<p align="justify">It is safe to say that there is not
a truthful Indian in Labrador.  In fact it is
considered an accomplishment to lie cheerfully and
well.  They are like the Crees of James Bay and
the westward in this respect, and will lie most plausibly
when it will serve their purpose better than truth,
and I verily believe these Indians sometimes lie for
the mere pleasure of it when it might be to their
advantage to tell the truth.</p>
<p align="justify">One good and crowning characteristic
these children of the Ungava wilderness possess—­that
of honesty.  They will not steal.  You may
have absolute confidence in them in this respect. 
And I may say, too, that they are most hospitable
to the traveler, as our own experience with them exemplified. 
For their faults they must not be condemned. 
They live according to their lights, and their lights
are those of the untutored savage who has never heard
the gospel of Christianity and knows nothing of the
civilization of the great world outside.  Their
life is one of constant struggle for bare existence,
and it is truly wonderful how they survive at all
in the bleak wastes which they inhabit.</p>
<p align="justify">NOTE.—­It must not be supposed
that all of the statements made in this chapter with
reference to the Indian, particularly the Nascaupees,
are the result of my personal observations. 
During our brief stay at Ungava, much of this information
was gleaned from the officers of the two trading companies,
and from natives.  In a number of instances they
were verified by myself, but I have taken the liberty,
when doubt or conflicting statements existed, of referring
to the works of Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological
Society and Mr. Lucien M. Turner of the Bureau of
Ethnology at Washington, to set myself right.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_19"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XIX</h1>
<p><b>THE ESKIMOS OF LABRADOR</b></p>
<a name="eskimo"></a>
<a href="eskimo.jpg">
<img alt="Eskimo Photo Collage" src="eskimoth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">During our stay in Ungava, and the
succeeding weeks while we traveled down the ice-bound
coast, we were brought into constant and intimate
contact with the Eskimos.  We saw them in almost
every phase of their winter life, eating and sleeping
with them in their tupeks and igloos, and meeting
them in their hunting camps and at the Fort, when they
came to barter and to enjoy the festivities of the
Christmas holiday week.</p>
<p align="justify">The Cree Indians used to call these
people “Ashkimai,” which means “raw
meat eaters,” and it is from this appellation
that our word Eskimo is derived.  Here in Ungava
and on the coast of Hudson’s Bay, they are pretty
generally known as “Huskies,” a contraction
of “Huskimos,” the pronunciation given
to the word <i>Eskimos</i> by the English sailors
of the trading vessels, with their well-known penchant
for tacking on the “h” where it does not
belong, and leaving it off when it should be pronounced.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimos call themselves “Innuit,”
[Singular, Innuk; dual, Innuek] which means people—­humans. 
The white visitor is a “Kablunak,” or
outlander, while a breed born in the country is a “Kablunangayok,”
or one partaking of the qualities of both the Innuk
and the Kablunak.  Those who live in the Koksoak
district are called “Koksoagmiut,” * and
those of the George River district are the “Kangerlualuksoagmiut.”
**</p>
<p align="justify">The ethnologists, I believe, have
never agreed upon the origin of the Eskimo, some claiming
it is Mongolian, some otherwise.  In passing I
shall simply remark that in appearance they certainly
resemble the Mongolian race.  If some of the
men that I saw in the North were dressed like Japanese
or Chinese and placed side by side with them, the
one could not be told from the other so long as the
Eskimos kept their mouths closed.</p>
<p align="justify">In our old school geographies we used
to see them pictured as stockily built little fellows. 
In real life they compare well in stature with the
white man of the temperate zone.  With a very
few exceptions the Eskimos of Ungava average over
five feet eight inches in height, with some six-footers.</p>
<p align="justify">* <i>Kok</i>, river; <i>soak</i>,
big; <i>miut</i>, inhabitants; <i>Koksoagmiut</i>,
inhabitants of the big river.</p>
<p align="justify">** Literally, inhabitants of the very
big bay.  The George River mouth widens into
a bay which is known as the Very Big Bay.</p>
<p align="justify">Their legs are shorter and their bodies
longer than the white man’s, and this probably
is one reason why they have such wonderful capacity
for physical endurance.  In this respect they
are the superior of the Indian.  With plenty
of food and a bush to lie under at night the Indian
will doubtless travel farther in a given time than
the Eskimo.  But turn them both loose with only
food enough for one meal a day for a month on the
bare rocks or ice fields of the Arctic North, and your
Indian will soon be dead, while your Eskimo will emerge
from the test practically none the worse for his experience,
for it is a usual experience with him and he has a
wonderful amount of dogged perseverance.  The
Eskimo knows better how to husband his food than the
Indian; and give him a snow bank and he can make himself
comfortable anywhere.  The most gluttonous Indian
would turn green with envy to see the quantities of
meat the Eskimo can stow away within his inner self
at a single sitting; but on the other hand he can
live, and work hard too, on a single scant meal a day,
just as his dogs do.</p>
<p align="justify">The facial characteristics of the
Eskimo are wide cheek bones and round, full face,
with a flat, broad nose.  I used to look at these
flat, comfortable noses on very cold days and wish
that for winter travel I might be able to exchange
the longer face projection that my Scotch-Irish forbears
have handed down to me for one of them, for they are
not so easily frosted in a forty or fifty degrees below
zero temperature.  By the way, if you ever get
your nose frozen do not rub snow on it.  If you
do you will rub all the skin off, and have a pretty
sore member to nurse for some time afterward. 
Grasp it, instead, in your bare hand.  That
is the Eskimo’s way, and he knows.  My advice
is founded upon experience.</p>
<p align="justify">They are not so dark-hued as the Indians—­in
fact, many of them are no darker than the average
white man under like conditions of exposure to wind
and storm and sun would be.  The hair is straight,
black, coarse and abundant.  The men usually
wear it hanging below their ears, cut straight around,
with a forehead bang reaching nearly to the eyebrows. 
The women wear it braided and looped up on the sides
of the head.</p>
<p align="justify">What constitutes beauty is of course
largely a question of individual taste.  My own
judgment of the Eskimos is that they are very ugly,
although I have seen young women among them whom I
thought actually handsome.  This was when they
first arrived at the Post with dogs and komatik and
they were dressed in their native costume of deerskin
trousers and Koolutuk, their cheeks red and glowing
with the exercise of travel and the keen, frosty atmosphere. 
A half hour later I have seen the same women when
stringy, dirty skirts had replaced the neat-fitting
trousers, and Dr. Grenfell’s description of them
when thus clad invariably came to my mind:  “A
bedraggled kind of mop, soaked in oil and filth.” 
This tendency to ape civilization by wearing civilized
garments, is happily confined to their brief sojourns
at the Post.  When they are away at their camps
and igloos their own costume is almost exclusively
worn, and is the best possible costume for the climate
and the country.  The adikey, or koolutuk, of
the women, has a long flap or tail, reaching nearly
to the heels, and a sort of apron in front. 
The hood is so commodious in size that a baby can be
tucked away into it, and that is the way the small
children are carried.  The men wear cloth trousers
except in the very cold weather, when they don their
deer or seal skins.  Their adikey or koolutuk
reaches half way to their knees, and is cut square
around.  The hood of course, in their case, is
only large enough to cover the head.  It might
be of interest to explain that if this garment is
made of cloth it is an <i>adikey</i>; if of deerskin,
a <i>koolutuk</i>, and if made of sealskin, a <i>netsek</i>—­all
cut alike.  If they wear two cloth garments at
the same time, as is usually the case, the inner one
only is an adikey, the outer one a silapak.</p>
<p align="justify">Their language is the same from Greenland
to Alaska.  Of course different localities have
different dialects, but this is the natural result
of a different environment.  Missionary Bohlman,
whom I met at Hebron, told me that before coming to
Labrador he was attached to a Greenland mission. 
When he came to Ms new field he found the language
so similar to that in Greenland that he had very little
difficulty in making himself understood.  When
Missionary Stecker a few years ago went from Labrador
to Alaska he was able to converse with the Alaskan
Eskimos.  It is held by some authorities that
Greenland was peopled by Labrador Eskimos who crossed
Hudson Strait to Baffin Land, and thence made their
way to Greenland, having originally crossed from Siberia
into Alaska, thence eastward, skirting Hudson Bay. 
This is entirely feasible.  I heard of one <i>umiak</i>
(skin boat) only a few years ago having crossed to
Cape Chidley from Baffin Land.  Even in Labrador
there are many different dialects.  The “Northerners,”
the people inhabiting the northwest arm of the peninsula,
have many words that the Koksoagmiut do not understand. 
The intonation of the Ungava Eskimos, particularly
the women, is like a plaint.  At Okak they sing
their words.  Each settlement on the Atlantic
coast has its own dialect.  It is a difficult
language to learn.  Words are compounded until
they reach a great and almost unpronounceable length.*
Naturally the coming of the trader has introduced many
new words, as tobaccomik, teamik, <i>etc</i>., “mik”
being the accusative ending.  The Eskimo in his
language cannot count beyond ten.  If he wishes
to express twelve, for instance, he will say, “as
many fingers as a man has and two more.” 
To express one hundred he would say, “five times
as many fingers and toes as a man has,” and so
on.  It is not a written language, but the Moravians
have adapted the English alphabet to it and are teaching
the Eskimos to read and write.  Mr. Stewart in
his work has adapted the Cree syllabic characters to
the Eskimo, and he is teaching the Ungava people to
write by this method, which is largely phonetic. 
Both the Moravians and Mr. Stewart are instructing
them in the mystery of counting in German.</p>
<p align="justify"><i>The following will illustrate this;
it is part of a sentence quoted from a Moravian missionary
pamphlet:  “Taimailinganiarpok, illagget
Labradormiut namgminek akkilejungnalerkartinaget pijariakartamingnik
tamainik, sakkertitsijungnalerkartinagillo ajokertnijunik.”</i></p>
<p align="justify">** The Eskimo numerals are as follows: 
1, attansek; 2, magguk; 3, pingasut; 4, sittamat;
5, tellimat; 6, pingasoyortut; 7, aggartut; 8, sittamauyortut;
9, sittamartut; 10, tellimauyortut.</p>
<p align="justify">Cleanliness is not one of the Eskimos’
virtues, and they are frequently infested with vermin,
which are wont to transfer their allegiance to visitors,
as we learned in due course, to our discomfiture. 
For many months of the year the only water they have
is obtained by melting snow or ice.  In sections
where there is no wood for fuel this must be done
over stone lamps in which seal oil is burned, and
it is so slow a process that the water thus procured
is held too precious to be wasted in cleansing body
or clothing.  One of the missionaries remarked
that “the children must be very clean little
creatures, for the parents never find it necessary
to wash them.”</p>
<p align="justify">They treat the children with the greatest
kindness and consideration—­ not only their
own, but all children, generally.  I did not once
see an Eskimo punish a child, nor hear a harsh word
spoken to one, and they are the most obedient youngsters
in the world.  A missionary on the Atlantic coast
told me that once when he punished his child an Eskimo
standing near remarked:  “You don’t
love you child or you wouldn’t punish it.” 
And this is the sentiment they hold.</p>
<p align="justify">Love is not essential to a happy marriage
among the Eskimos.  When a man wants a woman
he takes her.  In fact they believe that an unwilling
bride makes a good wife.  Potokomik’s wife
was most unwilling, and he took her, dragging her
by the tail of her adikey from her father’s
igloo across the river on the ice to his own, and
they have “lived happily ever after,” which
seems to prove the correctness of the Eskimo theory
as to unwilling brides.  Of course if Potokomik’s
wife had not liked him after a fair trial, she could
have left him, or if she had not come up to his expectations
he could have sent her back home and tried another. 
It is all quite simple, for there is no marriage
ceremony and resort to South Dakota courts for divorce
is unnecessary.  If a man wants two wives, why
he has them, if there are women enough.  That,
too, is a very agreeable arrangement, for when he
is away hunting the women keep each other company. 
Small families are the rule, and I did not hear of
a case where twins had ever been born to the Eskimos.</p>
<p align="justify">Dancing and football are among their
chief pastimes.  The men enter into the dance
with zest, but the women as though they were performing
some awful penance.  Both sexes play football. 
They have learned the use of cards and are reckless
gamblers, sometimes staking even the garments on their
backs in play.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimo is a close bargainer, and
after he has agreed to do you a service for a consideration
will as likely as not change his mind at the last
moment and leave you in the lurch.  At the same
time he is in many respects a child.</p>
<p align="justify">The dwellings are of three kinds: 
The <i>tupek</i>—­skin tent; <i>igloowiuk</i>—­
snow house; and permanent igloo, built of driftwood,
stones and turf—­ the larger ones are <i>igloosoaks</i>.</p>
<p align="justify">Flesh and fish, as is the case with
the Indians, form the principal food, but while the
Indians cook everything the Eskimos as often eat their
meat and fish raw, and are not too particular as to
its age or state of decay.  They are very fond
of venison and seal meat, and for variety’s
sake welcome dog meat.  A few years ago a disease
carried off several of the dogs at Fort Chimo and
every carcass was eaten.  One old fellow, in fact,
as Mathewson related to me, ate nothing else during
that time, and when the epidemic was over bemoaned
the fact that no more dog meat could be had.</p>
<p align="justify">On the Atlantic coast where the snow
houses are not used and the Eskimos live more generally
during the winter in the close, vile igloos, there
is more or less tubercular trouble.  Even farther
south, where the natives have learned cleanliness,
and live in comfortable log cabins that are fairly
well aired, this is the prevailing disease.  After
leaving Ramah, the farther south you go the more general
is the adoption of civilized customs, food and habits
of life, and with the increase of civilization so
also comes an increased death rate amongst the Eskimos. 
Formerly there was a considerable number of these
people on the Straits of Belle Isle.  Now there
is not one there.  South of Hamilton Inlet but
two full-blood Eskimos remain.  Below Ramah the
deaths exceed the births, and at one settlement alone
there are fifty less people to-day than three years
ago.</p>
<p align="justify">Civilization is responsible for this. 
At the present time there remains on the Atlantic
coast, between the Straits of Belle Isle and Cape
Chidley, but eleven hundred and twenty-seven full-blood
Eskimos.  Five years hence there will not be a
thousand.  In Ungava district, where they have
as yet accepted practically nothing of civilization,
the births exceed the deaths, and I did not learn of
a single well-authenticated case of tuberculosis
while I was there.  There were a few cases of
rheumatism.  Death comes early, however, owing
to the life of constant hardship and exposure. 
Usually they do not exceed sixty or sixty-five years
of age, though I saw one man that had rounded his
three score years and ten.</p>
<p align="justify">Formerly they encased their dead in
skins and lay them out upon the rocks with the clothing
and things they had used in life.  Now rough
wooden boxes are provided by the traders.  The
dogs in time break the coffins open and pick the bones,
which lie uncared for, to be bleached by the frosts
of winter and suns of summer.  Mr. Stewart has
collected and buried many of these bones, and is endeavoring
now to have all bodies buried.</p>
<p align="justify">Of all the missionaries that I met
in this bleak northern land, devoted as every one
of them is to his life work, none was more devoted
and none was doing a more self-sacrificing work than
the Rev. Samuel Milliken Stewart of Fort Chimo. 
His novitiate as a missionary was begun in one of
the little out-port fishing villages of Newfoundland. 
Finally he was transferred to that fearfully barren
stretch among the heathen Eskimos north of Nachvak. 
Here he and his Eskimo servant gathered together
such loose driftwood as they could find, and with
this and stones and turf erected a single-roomed igloo. 
It was a small affair, not over ten by twelve or fourteen
feet in size, and an imaginary line separated the
missionary’s quarters from his servant’s. 
On his knees, in an old resting place for the dead,
with the bleaching bones of heathen Eskimos strewn
over the rocks about him, he consecrated his life
efforts to the conversion of this people to Christianity. 
Then he went to work to accomplish this purpose in
a businesslike way.  He set himself the infinite
task of mastering the difficult language.  He
lived their life with them, visiting and sleeping
with them in their filthy igloos—­so filthy
and so filled with stench from the putrid meat and
fish scraps that they permit to lie about and decay
that frequently at first, until he became accustomed
to it, he was forced to seek the open air and relieve
the resulting nausea.  But Stewart is a man of
iron will, and he never wavered.  He studied
his people, administered medicines to the sick, and
taught the doctrines of Christianity—­Love,
Faith and Charity—­at every opportunity. 
That first winter was a trying one.  All his
little stock of fuel was exhausted early.  The
few articles of furniture that be had brought with
him he burned to help keep out the frost demon, and
before spring suffered greatly with the cold. 
The winter before our arrival he transferred his
efforts to the Fort Chimo district, where his field
would be larger and he could reach a greater number
of the heathens.  During the journey to Fort Chimo,
which was across the upper peninsula, with dogs, he
was lost in storms that prevailed at the time, his
provisions were exhausted, and one dog had been killed
to feed the others, before he finally met Eskimos who
guided him in safety to George River.  At Fort
Chimo the Hudson’s Bay Company set aside two
small buildings to his use, one for a chapel, the
other a little cabin in which he lives.  Here
we found him one day with a pot of high-smelling seal
meat cooking for his dogs and a pan of dough cakes
frying for himself.  With Stewart in this cabin
I spent many delightful hours.  His constant
flow of well-told stories, flavored with native Irish
wit, was a sure panacea for despondency.  I believe
Stewart, with his sunny temperament, is really enjoying
his life amongst the heathen, and he has made an obvious
impression upon them, for every one of them turns
out to his chapel meetings, where the services are
conducted in Eskimo, and takes part with a will.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimo religion, like that of
the Indian, is one of fear.  Numerous are the
spirits that people the land and depths of the sea,
but the chief of them all is Torngak, the spirit of
Death, who from his cavern dwelling in the heights
of the mighty Torngaeks (the mountains north of the
George River toward Cape Chidley) watches them always
and rules their fortunes with an iron hand, dealing
out misfortune, or withholding it, at his will. 
It is only through the medium of the Angakok, or
conjurer, that the people can learn what to do to
keep Torngak and the lesser spirits of evil, with their
varying moods, in good humor.  Stewart has led
some of the Eskimos to at least outwardly renounce
their heathenism and profess Christianity.  In
a few instances I believe they are sincere. 
If he remains upon the field, as I know he wishes
to do, he will have them all professing Christianity
within the next few years, for they like him. 
But he has no more regard for danger, when he believes
duty calls him, than Dr. Grenfell has, and it is predicted
on the coast that some day Dr. Grenfell will take
one chance too many with the elements.</p>
<p align="justify">Of course, coming among the Eskimos
as we did in winter, we did not see them using their
kayaks or their umiaks,* but our experience with dogs
and komatik was pretty complete.  These dogs are
big wolfish creatures, which resemble wolves so closely
in fact that when the dogs and wolves are together
the one can scarcely be told from the other. 
It sometimes happens that a stray wolf will hobnob
with the dogs, and litters of half wolf, half dog
have been born at the posts.</p>
<p align="justify">* A large open boat with wooden frame
and sealskin covering.  The women row the umiaks
while the men sit idle.  It is beneath the dignity
of the latter to handle the oars when women are present
to do it.</p>
<p align="justify">There are no better Eskimo dogs to
be found anywhere in the far north than the husky
dogs of Ungava.  Wonderful tales are told of long
distances covered by them in a single day, the record
trip of which I heard being one hundred and twelve
miles.  But this was in the spring, when the
days were long and the snow hard and firm.  The
farthest I ever traveled myself in a single day with
dogs and komatik was sixty miles.  When the snow
is loose and the days are short, twenty to thirty
miles constitute a day’s work.</p>
<p align="justify">From five to twelve dogs are usually
driven in one team, though sometimes a man is seen
plodding along with a two-dog team, and occasionally
as many as sixteen or eighteen are harnessed to a
komatik, but these very large teams are unwieldy.</p>
<p align="justify">The komatiks in the Ungava district
vary from ten to eighteen feet in length.  The
runners are about two and one-half inches thick at
the bottom, tapering slightly toward the top to reduce
friction where they sink into the snow.  They
are usually placed sixteen inches apart, and crossbars
extending about an inch over the outer runner on either
side are lashed across the runners by means of thongs
of sealskin or heavy twine, which is passed through
holes bored into the crossbars and the runners. 
The use of lashings instead of nails or screws permits
the komatik to yield readily in passing over rough
places, where metal fastenings would be pulled out,
or be snapped off by the frost.  On either side
of each end of the overlapping ends of the crossbars
notches are cut, around which sealskin thongs are passed
in lashing on the load.  The bottoms of the komatik
runners are “mudded.”  During the
summer the Eskimos store up turf for this purpose,
testing bits of it by chewing it to be sure that it
contains no grit.  When the cold weather comes
the turf is mixed with warm water until it reaches
the consistency of mud.  Then with the hands
it is molded over the bottom of the runners. 
The mud quickly freezes, after which it is carefully
planed smooth and round.  Then it is iced by applying
warm water with a bit of hairy deerskin.  These
mudded runners slip very smoothly over the soft snow,
but are liable to chip off on rough ice or when they
strike rocks, as frequently happens, for the frozen
mud is as brittle as glass.  On the Atlantic
coast from Nachvak south, mud is never used, and there
the komatiks are wider and shorter with runners of
not much more than half the thickness, and as you
go south the komatiks continue to grow wider and shorter. 
In the south, too, hoop iron or whalebone is used
for runner shoeing.</p>
<p align="justify">A sealskin thong called a bridle,
of a varying length of from twenty to forty feet,
is attached to the front of the komatik, and to the
end of this the dogs’ traces are fastened. 
Each dog has an individual trace which may be from
eight to thirty feet in length, depending upon the
size of the team, so arranged that not more than two
dogs are abreast, the “leader” having,
of course, the longest trace of the pack.  This
long bridle and the long traces are made necessary
by the rough country.  They permit the animals
to swerve well to one side clear of the komatik when
coasting down a hillside.  In the length of bridle
and trace there is also a wide variation in different
sections, those used in the south being very much
shorter than those in the north.  The dog harness
is made usually of polar bear or sealskin.  There
are no reins.  The driver controls his team by
shouting directions, and with a walrus hide whip,
which is from twenty-five to thirty-five feet in length. 
An expert with this whip, running after the dogs,
can hit any dog he chooses at will, and sometimes he
is cruel to excess.</p>
<p align="justify">To start his team the driver calls
“oo-isht,” (in the south this becomes
“hoo-eet”) to turn to the right “ouk,”
to the left “ra-der, ra-der” and to stop
“aw-aw.”  The leader responds to the
shouted directions and the pack follow.</p>
<p align="justify">The Ungava Eskimo never upon any account
travels with komatik and dogs without a snow knife. 
With this implement he can in a little while make
himself a comfortable snow igloo, where he may spend
the night or wait for a storm to pass.</p>
<p align="justify">In winter it is practically impossible
to buy a dog in Ungava.  The people have only
enough for their own use, and will not part with them,
and if they have plenty to eat it is difficult to employ
them for any purpose.  This I discovered very
promptly when I endeavored to induce some of them
to take us a stage on our journey homeward.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_20"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XX</h1>
<p><b>THE SLEDGE JOURNEY BEGUN</b></p>
<p align="justify">Tighter and tighter grew the grip
of winter.  Rarely the temperature rose above
twenty-five degrees below zero, even at midday, and
oftener it crept well down into the thirties. 
The air was filled with rime, which clung to everything,
and the sun, only venturing now a little way above
the southern horizon, shone cold and cheerless, weakly
penetrating the ever-present frost veil.  The
tide, still defying the shackles of the mighty power
that had bound all the rest of the world, surged up
and down, piling ponderous ice cakes in mountainous
heaps along the river banks.  Occasionally an
Eskimo or two would suddenly appear out of the snow
fields, remain for a day perhaps, and then as suddenly
disappear into the bleak wastes whence he had come.</p>
<p align="justify">Slowly the days dragged along. 
We occupied the short hours of light in reading old
newspapers and magazines, or walking out over the
hills, and in the evenings called upon the Post officers
or entertained them in our cabin, where Mathewson
often came to smoke his after-supper pipe and relate
to us stories of his forty-odd years’ service
as a fur trader in the northern wilderness.</p>
<p align="justify">One bitter cold morning, long before
the first light of day began to filter through the
rimy atmosphere, we heard the crunch of feet pass
our door, and a komatik slipped by.  It was Dr.
Milne, away to George River and the coast on his tour
of Post inspection, and our little group of white
men was one less in number.</p>
<a name="silence"></a>
<a href="silence.jpg">
<img alt="Silence of the North" src="silencth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">We envied him his early leaving. 
We could not ourselves start for home until after
New Year’s, for there were no dogs to be had
for love or money until the Eskimos came in from their
hunting camps to spend the holidays.  Everything,
however, was made ready for that longed-for time. 
Through the kindness of Thévenet, who put his
Post folk to work for us, the deerskins I had brought
from Whale River were dressed and made up into sleeping
bags and skin clothing, and other neces-saries were
got ready for the long dog journey out.</p>
<p align="justify">Christmas eve came finally, and with
it komatik loads of Eskimos, who roused the place
from its repose into comparative wakefulness. 
The newcomers called upon us in twos or threes, never
troubling to knock before they entered our cabin,
looked us and our things over with much interest,
a proceeding which occupied usually a full half hour,
then went away, sometimes to bring back newly arriving
friends, to introduce them.  A multitude of dogs
skulked around by day and made night hideous with
howling and fighting, and it was hardly safe to walk
abroad without a stick, of which they have a wholesome
fear, as, like their progenitors, the wolves, they
are great cowards and will rarely attack a man when
he has any visible means of defense at hand.</p>
<p align="justify">Christmas afternoon was given over
to shooting matches, and the evening to dancing. 
We spent the day with Thévenet.  Mathewson
was not in position to entertain, as the Indian woman
that presided in his kitchen partook so freely of
liquor of her own manufacture that she became hilariously
drunk early in the morning, and for the peace of the
household and safety of the dishes, which she playfully
shied at whoever came within reach, she was ejected,
and Mathewson prepared his own meals.  At Thévenet’s,
however, everything went smoothly, and the sumptuous
meal of baked whitefish, venison, with canned vegetables,
plum pudding, cheese and coffee—­delicacies
held in reserve for the occasion—­made us
forget the bleak wilderness and ice-bound land in
which we were.</p>
<p align="justify">It seemed for a time even now as though
we should not be able to secure dogs and drivers. 
No one knew the way to Ramah, and on no account would
one of these Eskimos undertake even a part of the
journey without permission from the Hudson’s
Bay Company.  As a last resort Thévenet
promised me his dogs and driver to take us at least
as far as George River, but finally Emuk arrived and
an arrangement was made with him to carry us from
Whale River to George River, and two other Eskimos
agreed to go with us to Whale River.  The great
problem that confronted me now was how to get over
the one hundred and sixty miles of barrens from George
River to Ramah, and it was necessary to arrange for
this before leaving Fort Chimo, as dogs to the eastward
were even scarcer than here.  Mathewson finally
solved it for me with his promise to instruct Ford
at George River to put his team and drivers at my
disposal.  Thus, after much bickering, our relays
were arranged as far as the Moravian mission station
at Ramah, and I trusted in Providence and the coast
Eskimos to see us on from there.  The third of
January was fixed as the day of our departure.</p>
<p align="justify">Our going in winter was an event. 
It gave the Post folk an opportunity to send out
a winter mail, which I volunteered to carry to Quebec.</p>
<p align="justify">Straggling bands of Indians, hauling
fur-laden toboggans, began to arrive during the week,
and the bartering in the stores was brisk, and to
me exceedingly interesting.  Money at Fort Chimo
is unknown.  Values are reckoned in “skins”—­that
is, a “skin” is the unit of value. 
There is no token of exchange to represent this unit,
however, and if a hunter brings in more pelts than
sufficient to pay for his purchases, the trader simply
gives him credit on his books for the balance due,
to be drawn upon at some future time.  As a matter
of fact, the hunter is almost invariably in debt to
the store.  A “skin” will buy a pint
of molasses, a quarter pound of tea or a quarter pound
of black stick tobacco.  A white arctic fox pelt
is valued at seven skins, a blue fox pelt at twelve,
and a black or silver fox at eighty to ninety skins. 
South of Hamilton Inlet, where competition is keen
with the fur traders, they pay in cash six dollars
for white, eight dollars for blue (which, by the way,
are very scarce there) and not infrequently as high
as three hundred and fifty dollars or even more for
black and silver fox pelts.  The cost of maintaining
posts at Fort Chimo, however, is somewhat greater
than at these southern points.</p>
<p align="justify">Here at Ungava the Eskimos’
hunt is confined almost wholly to foxes, polar bears,
an occasional wolf and wolverine, and, of course, during
the season, seals, walrus, and white whales. 
An average hunter will trap from sixty to seventy
foxes in a season, though one or two exceptional ones
I knew have captured as many as two hundred. 
The Indians, who penetrate far into the interior,
bring out marten, mink and otter principally, with
a few foxes, an occasional beaver, black bear, lynx
and some wolf and wolverine skins.  There is a
story of a very large and ferocious brown bear that
tradition says inhabits the barrens to the eastward
toward George River.  Mr. Peter McKenzie told
me that many years ago, when he was stationed at Fort
Chimo, the Indians brought him one of the skins of
this animal, and Ford at George River said that, some
twenty years since, he saw a piece of one of the skins. 
Both agreed that the hair was very long, light brown
in color, silver tipped and of a decidedly different
species from either the polar or black bear. 
This is the only definite information as to it that
I was able to gather.  The Indians speak of it
with dread, and insist that it is still to be found,
though none of them can say positively that he has
seen one in a decade.  I am inclined to believe
that the brown bear, so far as Labrador is concerned,
has been exterminated.</p>
<p align="justify">New Year’s is the great day
at Fort Chimo.  All morning there were shooting
matches and foot races, and in the afternoon football
games in progress, in which the Eskimo men and women
alike joined.  The Indians, who were recovering
from an all-night drunk on their vile beer, and a
revel in the “Queen’s” cabin, condescended
to take part in the shooting matches, but held majestically
aloof from the other games.  Some of them came
into the French store in the evening to squat around
the room and watch the dancing while they puffed in
silence on their pipes and drank tea when it was passed. 
That was their only show of interest in the festivities. 
Early on the morning of the second they all disappeared. 
But these were only a fragment of those that visit
the Post in summer.  It is then that they have
their powwow.</p>
<p align="justify">At last the day of our departure arrived,
with a dull leaden sky and that penetrating cold that
eats to one’s very marrow.  Thévenet
and Belfleur came early and brought us a box of cigars
to ease the tedium of the long evenings in the snow
houses.  All the little colony of white men were
on hand to see us off, and I believe were genuinely
sorry to have us go, for we had become a part of the
little coterie and our coming had made a break in
the lives of these lonely exiles.  Men brought
together under such conditions become very much attached
to each other in a short time.  “It’s
going to be lonesome now,” said Stewart. 
“I’m sorry you have to leave us. 
May God speed you on your way, and carry you through
your long journey in safety.”</p>
<p align="justify">Finally our baggage was lashed on
the komatik; the dogs, leaping and straining at their
traces, howled their eagerness to be gone; we shook
hands warmly with everybody, even the Eskimos, who
came forward won-dering at what seemed to them our
stupendous undertaking, the komatik was “broken”
loose, and we were away at a gallop.</p>
<p align="justify">Traveling was good, and the nine dogs
made such excellent time that we had to ride in level
places or we could not have kept pace with them. 
When there was a hill to climb we pushed on the komatik
or hauled with the dogs on the long bridle to help
them along.  When we had a descent to make, the
drag—­a hoop of walrus hide—­was
thrown over the front end of one of the komatik runners
at the top, and if the place was steep the Eskimos,
one on either side of the komatik, would cling on
with their arms and brace their feet into the snow
ahead, doing their utmost to hold back and reduce
the momentum of the heavy sledge.  To the uninitiated
they would appear to be in imminent danger of having
their legs broken, for the speed down some of the grades
when the crust was hard and icy was terrific. 
When descending the gentler slopes we all rode, depending
upon the drag alone to keep our speed within reason. 
This coasting down hill was always an exciting experi-ence,
and where the going was rough it was not easy to keep
a seat on the narrow komatik.  Occasionally the
komatik would turn over.  When we saw this was
likely to happen we discreetly dropped off, a feat
that demanded agility and practice to be performed
successfully and gracefully.</p>
<p align="justify">It was a relief beyond measure to
feel that we were at length, after seven long months,
actually headed toward home and civilization. 
Words cannot express the feeling of exhilaration that
comes to one at such a time.</p>
<p align="justify">We did not have to go so far up Whale
River to find a crossing as on our trip to Fort Chimo,
and reached the eastern side before dark.  Sometimes
the ice hills are piled so high here by the tide that
it takes a day or even two to cut a komatik path through
them and cross the river, but fortunately we had very
little cutting to do.  Not long after dark we
coasted down the hill above the Post, and the cheerful
lights of Edmunds’ cabin were at hand.</p>
<p align="justify">Here we had to wait two days for Emuk,
and in the interim Mrs. Edmunds and Mary went carefully
over our clothes, sewed sealskin legs to deerskin
moccasins, made more duffel socks, and with kind solicitation
put all our things into the best of shape and gave
us extra moccasins and mittens.  “It is
well to have plenty of everything before you start,”
said Mrs. Edmunds, “for if the huskies are hunting
deer the women will do no sewing on sealskin, and
if they’re hunting seals they’ll not touch
a needle to your deerskins, though you are freezing.”</p>
<p>“Why is that?” I asked.</p>
<p align="justify">“Oh, some of their heathen beliefs,”
she answered.  “They think it would bring
bad luck to the hunters.  They believe all kinds
of foolishness.”</p>
<p align="justify">Emuk had never been so far away as
George River, and Sam Ford was to be our pilot to
that point, and to return with Emuk.  The Eskimos
do not consider it safe for a man to travel alone
with dogs, and they never do it when there is the
least probability that they will have to remain out
over night.  Two men are always required to build
a snow igloo, which is one reason for this. 
It was therefore necessary for me at each point, when
employing the Eskimo driver for a new stage of our
journey, also to engage a companion for him, that he
might have company when returning home.</p>
<p align="justify">Our coming to Whale River two months
before had made a welcome innovation in the even tenor
of the cheerless, lonely existence of our good friends
at the Post—­an event in their confined life,
and they were really sorry to part from us.</p>
<p align="justify">“It will be a long time before
any one comes to see us again—­a long time,”
said Mrs. Edmunds, sadly adding:  “I suppose
no one will ever come again.”</p>
<p align="justify">When we said our farewells the women
cried.  In their Godspeed the note of friendship
rang true and honest and sincere.  These people
had proved themselves in a hundred ways.  In
civilization, where the selfish instinct governs so
generally, there are too many Judases.  On the
frontier, in spite of the rough exterior of the people,
you find real men and women.  That is one reason
why I like the North so well.</p>
<p align="justify">We left Whale River on Saturday, the
sixth of January, with one hundred and twenty miles
of barrens to cross before reaching George River Post,
the nearest human habitation to the eastward. 
Our fresh team of nine dogs was in splendid trim
and worked well, but a three or four inch covering
of light snow upon the harder under crust made the
going hard and wearisome for the animals.  The
frost flakes that filled the air covered everything. 
Clinging to the eyelashes and faces of the men it
gave them a ghostly appearance, our skin clothing
was white with it, long icicles weighted our beards,
and the sharp atmosphere made it necessary to grasp
one’s nose frequently to make certain that the
member was not freezing.</p>
<p align="justify">When we stopped for the night our
snow house which Emuk and Sam soon had ready seemed
really cheerful.  Our halt was made purposely
near a cluster of small spruce where enough firewood
was found to cook our supper of boiled venison, hard-tack
and tea, water being procured by melting ice. 
Spruce boughs were scattered upon the igloo floor
and deerskins spread over these.</p>
<p align="justify">After everything was made snug, and
whatever the dogs might eat or destroy put safely
out of their reach, the animals were unharnessed and
fed the one meal that was allowed them each day after
their work was done.  Feeding the dogs was always
an interesting function.  While one man cut the
frozen food into chunks, the rest of us armed with
cudgels beat back the animals.  When the word
was given we stepped to one side to avoid the onrush
as they came upon the food, which was bolted with
little or no chewing.  They will eat anything
that is fed them—­seal meat, deer’s
meat, fish, or even old hides.  There was always
a fight or two to settle after the feeding and then
the dogs made holes for themselves in the snow and
lay down for the drift to cover them.</p>
<p align="justify">The dogs fed, we crawled with our
hot supper into the igloo, put a block of snow against
the entrance and stopped the chinks around it with
loose snow.  Then the kettle covers were lifted
and the place was filled at once with steam so thick
that one could hardly see his elbow neighbor. 
By the time the meal was eaten the temperature had
risen to such a point that the place was quite warm
and comfortable—­so warm that the snow in
the top of the igloo was soft enough to pack but not
quite soft enough to drip water.  Then we smoked
some of Thévenet’s cigars and blessed
him for his thoughtfulness in providing them.</p>
<p align="justify">Usually our snow igloos allowed each
man from eighteen to twenty inches space in which
to lie down, and just room enough to stretch his legs
well.  With our sleeping bags they were entirely
comfortable, no matter what the weather outside. 
The snow is porous enough to admit of air circulation,
but even a gale of wind without would not affect the
temperature within.  It is claimed by the natives
that when the wind blows, a snow house is warmer than
in a period of still cold.  I could see no difference. 
A new snow igloo is, however, more comfortable than
one that has been used, for newly cut snow blocks are
more porous.  In one that has been used there
is always a crust of ice on the interior which prevents
a proper circulation of air.</p>
<p align="justify">On the second day we passed the shack
where Easton and I had held our five-day fast, and
shortly after came out upon the plains—­a
wide stretch of flat, treeless country where no hills
rise as guiding landmarks for the voyageur. 
This was beyond the zone of Emuk’s wanderings,
and Sam went several miles astray in his calculations,
which, in view of the character of the country, was
not to be wondered at, piloting as he did without
a compass.  However, we were soon set right and
passed again into the rolling barrens, with ever higher
hills with each eastern mile we traveled.</p>
<p align="justify">At two o’clock on the afternoon
of Tuesday, January ninth, we dropped over the bank
upon the ice of George River just above the Post, and
at three o’clock were under Mr. Ford’s
hospitable roof again.</p>
<p align="justify">Here we had to encounter another vexatious
delay of a week.  Ford’s dogs had been
working hard and were in no condition to travel and
not an Eskimo team was there within reach of the Post
that could be had.  There was nothing to do but
wait for Ford’s team to rest and get into condition
before taking them upon the trying journey across the
barren grounds that lay between us and the Atlantic.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_21"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XXI</h1>
<p><b>CROSSING THE BARRENS</b></p>
<p align="justify">On Tuesday morning, January sixteenth,
we swung out upon the river ice with a powerful team
of twelve dogs.  Will Ford and an Eskimo named
Etuksoak, called by the Post folk “Peter,”
for short, were our drivers.</p>
<p align="justify">The dogs began the day with a misunderstanding
amongst themselves, and stopped to fight it out. 
When they were finally beaten into docility one of
them, apparently the outcast of the pack, was limping
on three legs and leaving a trail of blood behind
him.  Every team has its bully, and sometimes
its outcast.  The bully is master of them all. 
He fights his way to his position of supremacy, and
holds it by punishing upon the slightest provocation,
real or fancied, any encroachment upon his autocratic
prerogatives.  Likewise he dis-ciplines the
pack when he thinks they need it or when he feels like
it, and he is always the ringleader in mischief. 
When there is an outcast he is a doomed dog. 
The others harass and fight him at every opportunity. 
They are pitiless.  They do not associate with
him, and sooner or later a morning will come when
they are noticed licking their chops contentedly,
as dogs do when they have had a good meal—­
and after that no more is seen of the outcast. 
The bully is not always, or, in fact, often the leader
in harness.  The dog that the driver finds most
intelligent in following a trail and in answering
his commands is chosen for this important position,
regardless of his fighting prowess.</p>
<p align="justify">This morning as we started the weather
was perfect—­thirty-odd degrees below zero
and a bright sun that made the hoar frost sparkle like
flakes of silver.  For ten miles our course lay
down the river to a point just below the “Narrows.” 
Then we left the ice and hit the overland trail
in an almost due northerly direction.  It was
a rough country and there was much pulling and hauling
and pushing to be done crossing the hills.  Before
noon the wind began to rise, and by the time we stopped
to prepare our snow igloo for the night a northwest
gale had developed and the air was filled with drifting
snow.</p>
<p align="justify">Early in the afternoon I began to
have cramps in the calves of my legs, and finally
it seemed to me that the muscles were tied into knots. 
Sharp, intense pains in the groin made it torture
to lift in feet above the level of the snow, and I
was never more thankful for rest in my life than when
that day’s work was finished.  Easton confessed
to me that he had an attack similar to my own. 
This was the result of our inactivity at Fort Chimo. 
We were suffering with what among the Canadian voyageurs
is known as <i>mal de roquette</i>.  There was
nothing to do but endure it without complaint, for
there is no relief until in time it gradually passes
away of its own accord.</p>
<p align="justify">This first night from George River
was spent upon the shores of a lake which, hidden
by drifted snow, appeared to be about two miles wide
and seven or eight miles long.  It lay amongst
low, barren hills, where a few small bunches of gnarled
black spruce relieved the otherwise unbroken field
of white.</p>
<p align="justify">The following morning it was snowing
and drifting, and as the day grew the storm increased. 
An hour’s traveling carried us to the Koroksoak
River—­River of the Great Gulch—­which
flows from the northeast, following the lower Torngaek
mountains and emptying into Ungava Bay near the mouth
of the George.  The Koroksoak is apparently a
shallow stream, with a width of from fifty to two
hundred yards.  Its bed forms the chief part
of the komatik route to Nachvak, and therefore our
route.  For several miles the banks are low and
sandy, but farther up the sand disappears and the
hills crowd close upon the river.  The gales
that sweep down the valley with every storm had blown
away the snow and drifted the bank sand in a layer
over the river ice.  This made the going exceedingly
hard and ground the mud from the komatik runners.</p>
<p align="justify">The snowstorm, directly in our teeth,
increased in force with every mile we traveled, and
with the continued cramps and pains in my legs it
seemed to me that the misery of it all was about as
refined and complete as it could be.  It may
be imagined, therefore, the relief I felt when at
noon Will and Peter stopped the komatik with the announcement
that we must camp, as further progress could not be
made against the blinding snow and head wind.</p>
<p align="justify">Advantage was taken of the daylight
hours to mend the komatik mud.  This was done
by mixing caribou moss with water, applying the mixture
to the mud where most needed, and permitting it to
freeze, which it did instantly.  Then the surface
was planed smooth with a little jack plane carried
for the purpose.</p>
<p align="justify">That night the storm blew itself out,
and before daylight, after a breakfast of coffee and
hard-tack, we were off.  The half day’s
rest had done wonders for me, and the pains in my
legs were not nearly so severe as on the previous
day.</p>
<p align="justify">January and February see the lowest
temperatures of the Labrador winter.  Now the
cold was bitter, rasping—­so intensely cold
was the atmosphere that it was almost stifling as
it entered the lungs.  The vapor from our nostrils
froze in masses of ice upon our beards.  The
dogs, straining in the harness, were white with hoar
frost, and our deerskin clothing was also thickly
coated with it.  For long weeks these were to
be the prevailing conditions in our homeward march.</p>
<p align="justify">Dark and ominous were the spruce-lined
river banks on either side that morning as we toiled
onward, and grim and repellent indeed were the rocky
hills outlined against the sky beyond.  Everything
seemed frozen stiff and dead except ourselves. 
No sound broke the absolute silence save the crunch,
crunch, crunch of our feet, the squeak of the komatik
runners complaining as they slid reluctantly over the
snow, and the “oo-isht-oo-isht, oksuit, oksuit”
of the drivers, constantly urging the dogs to greater
effort.  Shimmering frost flakes, suspended in
the air like a veil of thinnest gauze, half hid the
sun when very timidly he raised his head above the
southeastern horizon, as though afraid to venture
into the domain of the indomitable ice king who had
wrested the world from his last summer’s power
and ruled it now so absolutely.</p>
<p align="justify">With every mile the spruce on the
river banks became thinner and thinner, and the hills
grew higher and higher, until finally there was scarcely
a stick to be seen and the lower eminences had given
way to lofty mountains which raised their jagged,
irregular peaks from two to four thousand feet in
solemn and majestic grandeur above our heads. 
The gray basaltic rocks at their base shut in the tortuous
river bed, and we knew now why the Koroksoak was called
the “River of the Great Gulch.” 
These were the mighty Torngaeks, which farther north
attain an altitude above the sea of full seven thousand
feet.  We passed the place where Torngak dwells
in his mountain cavern and sends forth his decrees
to the spirits of Storm and Starvation and Death to
do destruction, or restrains them, at his will.</p>
<a name="hills"></a>
<a href="dogs.jpg">
<img alt="The Hills Grew Higher and Higher" src="dogsth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">In the forenoon of the third day after
leaving George River we stopped to lash a few sticks
on top of our komatik load.  “No more wood,”
said Will.  “This’ll have to see
us through to Nachvak.”  That afternoon
we turned out of the Koroksoak River into a pass leading
to the northward, and that night’s igloo was
at the headwaters of a stream that they said ran into
Nachvak Bay.</p>
<a name="pass"></a>
<a href="pass.jpg">
<img alt="We Turned Into a Pass Leading to the Northwest" src="passth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">The upper part of this new gulch was
strewn with bowlders, and much hard work and ingenuity
were necessary the following morning to get the komatik
through them at all.  Farther down the stream
widened.  Here the wind had swept the snow clear
of the ice, and it was as smooth as a piece of glass,
broken only by an occasional bowlder sticking above
the surface.  A heavy wind blew in our backs and
carried the komatik before it at a terrific pace, with
the dogs racing to keep out of the way.  Sometimes
we were carried sidewise, sometimes stern first, but
seldom right end foremost.  Lively work was necessary
to prevent being wrecked upon the rocks, and occasionally
we did turn over, when a bowlder was struck side on.</p>
<p align="justify">There were several steep down grades. 
Before descending one of the first of these a line
was attached to the rear end of the komatik and Will
asked Easton to hang on to it and hold back, to keep
the komatik straight.  There was no foothold
for him, however, on the smooth surface of the ice,
and Easton found that he could not hold back as directed. 
The momentum was considerable, and he was afraid to
let go for fear of losing his balance on the slippery
ice, and so, wild-eyed and erect, he slid along, clinging
for dear life to the line.  Pretty soon he managed
to attain a sitting posture, and with his legs spread
before him, but still holding desperately on, he skimmed
along after the komatik.  The next and last evolution
was a “belly-gutter” position.  This
became too strenuous for him, however, and the line
was jerked out of his hands.  I was afraid he
might have been injured on a rock, but my anxiety
was soon relieved when I saw him running along the
shore to overtake the komatik where it had been stopped
to wait for him below.</p>
<p align="justify">This gulch was exceedingly narrow,
with mountains, lofty, rugged and grand rising directly
from the stream’s bank, some of them attaining
an altitude of five thousand feet or more.  At
one point they squeezed the brook through a pass only
ten feet in width, with perpendicular walls towering
high above our heads on either side.  This place
is known to the Hudson’s Bay Company people
as “The Porch.”</p>
<p align="justify">In the afternoon Peter caught his
foot in a crevice, and the komatik jammed him with
such force that he narrowly escaped a broken leg and
was crippled for the rest of the journey.  Early
in the afternoon we were on salt water ice, and at
two o’clock sighted Nachvak Post of the Hudson’s
Bay Company, and at half past four were hospitably
welcomed by Mrs. Ford, the wife of George Ford, the
agent.</p>
<a name="nachvak"></a>
<a href="nachvak.jpg">
<img alt="Nachvak Post of the Hudson's Bay Company" src="nachvath.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">This was Saturday, January twentieth. 
Since the previous Tuesday morning we had had no
fire to warm ourselves by and had been living chiefly
on hard-tack, and the comfort and luxury of the Post
sitting room, with the hot supper of arctic hare that
came in due course, were appreciated.  Mr. Ford
had gone south with Dr. Milne to Davis Inlet Post
and was not expected back for a week, but Mrs. Ford
and her son Solomon Ford, who was in charge during
his father’s absence, did everything possible
for our comfort.</p>
<p align="justify">The injury to Peter’s leg made
it out of the question for him to go on with us, and
we therefore found it necessary to engage another team
to carry us to Ramah, the first of the Moravian missionary
stations on our route of travel, and this required
a day’s delay at Nachvak, as no Eskimos could
be seen that night.  The Fords offered us every
assistance in securing drivers, and went to much trouble
on our behalf.  Solomon personally took it upon
himself to find dogs and drivers for us, and through
his kindness arrangements were made with two Eskimos,
Taikrauk and Nikartok by name, who agreed to furnish
a team of ten dogs and be on hand early on Monday
morning.  I considered myself fortunate in securing
so large a team, for the seal hunt had been bad the
previous fall and the Eskimos had therefore fallen
short of dog food and had killed a good many of their
dogs.  I should not have been so ready with my
self-congratulation had I seen the dogs that we were
to have.</p>
<a name="mission"></a>
<a href="mission.jpg">
<img alt="The Moravian Mission at Ramah" src="missioth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">Nachvak is the most God-forsaken place
for a trading post that I have ever seen.  Wherever
you look bare rocks and towering mountains stare you
in the face; nowhere is there a tree or shrub of any
kind to relieve the rock-bound desolation, and every
bit of fuel has to be brought in during the summer
by steamer.  They have coal, but even the wood
to kindle the coal is imported.  The Eskimos necessarily
use stone lamps in which seal oil is burned to heat
their igloos.  The Fords have lived here for
a quarter of a century, but now the Company is abandoning
the Post as unprofitable and they are to be transferred
to some other quarter.</p>
<p align="justify">“God knows how lonely it is
sometimes,” Mrs. Ford said to me, “and
how glad I’ll be if we go where there’s
some one besides just greasy heathen Eskimos to see.”</p>
<p align="justify">The Moravian mission at Killenek,
a station three days’ travel to the northward,
on Cape Chidley, has deflected some of the former trade
from Nachvak and the Ramah station more of it, until
but twenty-seven Eskimos now remain at Nachvak.</p>
<p align="justify">Early on Monday morning not only our
two Eskimos appeared, but the entire Eskimo population,
even the women with babies in their hoods, to see
us off.  The ten-dog team that I had congratulated
myself so proudly upon securing proved to be the most
miserable aggregation of dogskin and bones I had ever
seen, and in so horribly emaciated a condition that
had there been any possible way of doing without them
I should have declined to permit them to haul our
komatik.  However I had no choice, as no other
dogs were to be had, and at six o’clock—­
more than two hours before daybreak—­we said
farewell to good Mrs. Ford and her family and started
forward with our caravan of followers.</p>
<p align="justify">We took what is known as the “outside”
route, turning right out toward the mouth of the bay. 
By this route it is fully forty miles to Ramah. 
By a short cut overland, which is not so level, the
distance is only about thirty miles, but our Eskimos
chose the level course, as it is doubtful whether
their excuses for dogs could have hauled the komatik
over the hills on the short cut.  An hour after
our start we passed a collection of snow igloos, and
all our following, after shaking hands and repeating,
“Okusi,” left us—­all but one
man, Korganuk by name, who decided to honor us with
his society to Ramah; so we had three Eskimos instead
of the more than sufficient two.</p>
<p align="justify">Though the traveling was fairly good
the poor starved dogs crawled along so slowly that
with a jog trot we easily kept in advance of them,
and not even the extreme cruelty of the heathen drivers,
who beat them sometimes unmercifully, could induce
them to do better.  I remonstrated with the human
brutes on several occasions, but they pretended not
to understand me, smiling blandly in return, and making
unintelligible responses in Eskimo.</p>
<p align="justify">Before dawn the sky clouded, and by
the time we reached the end of the bay and turned
southward across the neck, toward noon, it began to
snow heavily.  This capped the climax of our troubles
and I questioned whether our team would ever reach
our destination with this added impediment of soft,
new snow to plow through.</p>
<p align="justify">From the first the snow fell thick
and fast.  Then the wind rose, and with every
moment grew in velocity.  I soon realized that
we were caught under the worst possible conditions
in the throes of a Labrador winter storm—­the
kind of storm that has cost so many native travelers
on that bleak coast their lives.</p>
<p align="justify">We were now on the ice again beyond
the neck.  Perpendicular, clifflike walls shut
us off from retreat to the land and there was not
a possibility of shelter anywhere.  Previous snows
had found no lodgment into banks, and an igloo could
not be built.  Our throats were parched with
thirst, but there was no water to drink and nowhere
a stick of wood with which to build a fire to melt
snow.  The dogs were lying down in harness and
crying with distress, and the Eskimos had continually
to kick them into renewed efforts.  On we trudged,
on and endlessly on.  We were still far from
our goal.</p>
<p align="justify">All of us, even the Eskimos, were
utterly weary.  Finally frequent stops were necessary
to rest the poor toiling brutes, and we were glad
to take advantage of each opportunity to throw ourselves
at full length on the snow-covered ice for a moment’s
repose.  Sometimes we would walk ahead of the
komatik and lie down until it overtook us, frequently
falling asleep in the brief interim.  Now and
again an Eskimo would look into my face and repeat,
“Oksunae” (be strong), and I would encourage
him in the same way.</p>
<p align="justify">Darkness fell thick and black. 
No signs of land were visible—­nothing
but the whirling, driving, pitiless snow around us
and the ice under our feet.  Sometimes one of
us would stumble on a hummock and fall, then rise
again to resume the mechanical plodding.  I wondered
sometimes whether we were not going right out to sea
and how long it would be before we should drop into
open water and be swallowed up.  My faculties
were too benumbed to care much, and it was just a
calculation in which I had no particular but only a
passive interest.</p>
<a name="snow"></a>
<a href="dogs2.jpg">
<img alt="Plodding Southward Over Endless Snow" src="dogs2th.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">The thirst of the snow fields is most
agonizing, and can only be likened to the thirst of
the desert.  The snow around you is tantalizing,
for to eat it does not quench the thirst in the slightest;
it aggravates it.  If I ever longed for water
it was then.</p>
<p align="justify">Hour after hour passed and the night
seemed interminable.  But somehow we kept going,
and the poor crying brutes kept going.  All misery
has its ending, however, and ours ended when I least
looked for it.  Un-expectedly the dogs’
pitiful cries changed to gleeful howls and they visibly
increased their efforts.  Then Korganuk put his
face close to mine and said:  “Ramah! 
Ramah!” and quite suddenly we stopped before
the big mission house at Ramah.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_22"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XXII</h1>
<p><b>ON THE ATLANTIC ICE</b></p>
<p align="justify">The dogs had stopped within a dozen
feet of the building, but it was barely distinguishable
through the thick clouds of smothering snow which
the wind, risen to a terrific gale, swirled around
us as it swept down in staggering gusts from the invisible
hills above.  A light filtered dimly through
one of the frost-encrusted windows, and I tapped loudly
upon the glass.</p>
<p align="justify">At first there was no response, but
after repeated rappings some one moved within, and
in a moment the door opened and a voice called to
us, “Come, come out of the snow.  It is
a nasty night.”  Without further preliminaries
we stepped into the shelter of the broad, com-fortable
hall.  Holding a candle above his head, and peering
at us through the dim light that it cast, was a short,
stockily built, bearded man in his shirt sleeves and
wearing hairy sealskin trousers and boots.  To
him I introduced myself and Easton, and he, in turn,
told us that he was the Reverend Paul Schmidt, the
missionary in charge of the station.</p>
<p align="justify">Mr. Schmidt’s astonishment at
our unexpected appearance at midnight and in such
a storm was only equaled by his hospitable welcome. 
His broken English sounded sweet indeed, inviting
us to throw off our snow-covered garments.  He
ushered us to a neat room on the floor above, struck
a match to a stove already charged with kindling wood
and coal, and in five minutes after our entrance we
were listening to the music of a crackling fire and
warming our chilled selves by its increasing heat.</p>
<p align="justify">Our host was most solicitous for our
every comfort.  He hurried in and out, and by
the time we were thoroughly warmed told us supper was
ready and asked us to his living room below, where
Mrs. Schmidt had spread the table for a hot meal. 
Each mission house has a common kitchen and a common
dining room, and besides having the use of these the
separate families are each provided with a private
living room and a sleeping room.</p>
<p align="justify">It is not pleasant to be routed out
of bed in the middle of the night, but these good
missionaries assured us that it was really a pleasure
to them, and treated us like old friends whom they
were overjoyed to see.  “Well, well,”
said Mr. Schmidt, again and again, “it is very
good for you to come.  I am very glad that you
came tonight, for now we shall have company, and you
shall stay with us until the weather is fine again
for traveling, and we will talk English together, which
is a pleasure for me, for I have almost forgotten
my English, with no one to talk it to.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was after two o’clock when
we went to bed, and I verily believe that Mr. Schmidt
would have talked all night had it not been for our
hard day’s work and evident need of rest.</p>
<p align="justify">When we arose in the morning the storm
was still blowing with unabated fury.  We had
breakfast with Mr. Schmidt in his private apartment
and were later introduced to Mr. Karl Filsehke, the
storekeeper, and his wife, who, like the Schmidts,
were most hospitable and kind.  At all of the
Moravian missions, with the exception of Killinek “down
to Chidley,” and Makkovik, the farthest station
“up south,” there is, besides the missionary,
who devotes himself more particularly to the spiritual
needs of his people, a storekeeper who looks after
their material welfare and assists in conducting the
meetings.</p>
<p align="justify">In Labrador these missions are largely,
though by no means wholly, self-supporting. 
Furs and blubber are taken from the Eskimos in exchange
for goods, and the proflts resulting from their sale
in Europe are applied toward the expense of maintaining
the stations.  They own a small steamer, which
brings the supplies from London every summer and takes
away the year’s accumulation of fur and oil. 
Since the first permanent establishment was erected
at Nain, over one hundred and fifty years ago, they
have followed this trade.</p>
<p align="justify">During the day I visited the store
and blubber house, where Eskimo men and women were
engaged in cutting seal blubber into small slices and
pounding these with heavy wooden mallets.  The
pounded blubber is placed in zinc vats, and, when
the summer comes, exposed in the vats to the sun’s
heat, which renders out a fine white oil.  This
oil is put into casks and shipped to the trade.</p>
<p align="justify">In the depth of winter seal hunting
is impossible, and during that season the Eskimo families
gather in huts, or igloosoaks, at the mission stations. 
There are sixty-nine of these people connected with
the Ramah station and I visited them all with Mr. Schmidt. 
Their huts were heated with stone lamps and seal
oil, for the country is bare of wood.  The fuel
for the mission house is brought from the South by
the steamer.</p>
<p align="justify">The Eskimos at Ramah and at the stations
south are all supposed to be Christians, but naturally
they still retain many of the traditional beliefs
and superstitions of their people.  They will
not live in a house where a death has occurred, believing
that the spirit of the departed will haunt the place. 
If the building is worth it, they take it down and
set it up again somewhere else.</p>
<p align="justify">Not long ago the wife of one of the
Eskimos was taken seriously ill, and became delirious. 
Her husband and his neighbors, deciding that she
was possessed of an evil spirit, tied her down and
left her, until finally she died, uncared for and
alone, from cold and lack of nourishment.  This
occurred at a distance from the station, and the missionaries
did not learn of it until the woman was dead and beyond
their aid.  They are most kind in their ministrations
to the sick and needy.</p>
<p align="justify">Once Dr. Grenfell visited Ramah and
exhibited to the astonished Eskimos some stereopticon
views—­photographs that he had taken there
in a previous year.  It so happened that one of
the pictures was that of an old woman who had died
since the photograph was made, and when it appeared
upon the screen terror struck the hearts of the simple-minded
people.  They believed it was her spirit returned
to earth, and for a long time afterward imagined that
they saw it floating about at night, visiting the
woman’s old haunts.</p>
<p align="justify">The daily routine of the mission station
is most methodical.  At seven o’clock in
the morning a bell calls the servants to their duties;
at nine o’clock it rings again, granting a half
hour’s rest; at a quarter to twelve a third
ringing sends them to dinner; they return at one o’clock
to work until dark.  Every night at five o’clock
the bell summons them to religious service in the
chapel, where worship is conducted in Eskimo by either
the missionary or the storekeeper.  The women
sit on one side, the men on the other, and are always
in their seats before the last tone of the bell dies
out.  I used to enjoy these services exceedingly—­watching
the eager, expectant faces of the people as they heard
the lesson taught, and their hearty singing of the
hymns in Eskimo made the evening hour a most interesting
one to me.</p>
<p align="justify">It is a busy life the missionary leads. 
From morning until night he is kept constantly at
work, and in the night his rest is often broken by
calls to minister to the sick.  He is the father
of his flock, and his people never hesitate to call
for his help and advice; to him all their troubles
and disagreements are referred for a wise adjustment.</p>
<p align="justify">I am free to say that previous to
meeting them upon their field of labor I looked upon
the work of these missionaries with indifference,
if not disfavor, for I had been led to believe that
they were accomplishing little or nothing.  But
now I have seen, and I know of what incalculable value
the services are that they are rendering to the poor,
benighted people of this coast.</p>
<p align="justify">They practically renounce the world
and their home ties to spend their lives, until they
are too old for further service or their health breaks
down, in their Heaven-inspired calling, surrounded
by people of a different race and language, in the
most barren, God-cursed land in the world.</p>
<p align="justify">When their children reach the age
of seven years they must send them to the church school
at home to be educated.  Very often parent and
child never meet again.  This is, as many of them
told me, the greatest sacrifice they are called upon
to make, but they realize that it is for the best
good of the child and their work, and they do not
murmur.  What heroes and heroines these men and
women are!  One <i>must</i> admire and honor
them.</p>
<p align="justify">There were some little ones here at
Ramah who used to climb upon my knees and call me
“Uncle,” and kiss me good morning and good
night, and I learned to love them.  My recollections
of these days at Ramah are pleasant ones.</p>
<p align="justify">Philippus Inglavina and Ludwig Alasua,
two Eskimos, were engaged to hold themselves in readiness
with their team of twelve dogs for a bright and early
start for Hebron on the first clear morning. 
On the fourth morning after our arrival they announced
that the weather was sufficiently clear for them to
find their way over the hills.  Mrs. Schmidt
and Mrs. Filsehke filled an earthen jug with hot coffee
and wrapped it, with some sandwiches, in a bearskin
to keep from freezing for a few hours; sufficient
wood to boil the kettle that night and the next morning
was lashed with our baggage on the komatik; the Eskimos
each received the daily ration of a plug of tobacco
and a box of matches, which they demand when traveling,
and then we said good-by and started.  The komatik
was loaded with Eskimos, and the rest of the native
population trailed after us on foot.  It is the
custom on the coast for the people to accompany a
komatik starting on a journey for some distance from
the station.</p>
<p align="justify">The wind, which had died nearly out
in the night, was rising again.  It was directly
in our teeth and shifting the loose snow unpleasantly. 
We had not gone far when one of the trailing Eskimos
came running after us and shouting to our driver to
stop.  We halted, and when he overtook us he
called the attention of Philippus to a high mountain
known as Attanuek (the King), whose peak was nearly
hidden by drifting snow.  A consultation decided
them that it would be dangerous to attempt the passes
that day, and to our chagrin the Eskimos turned the
dogs back to the station.</p>
<p align="justify">The next morning Attanuek’s
head was clear, the wind was light, the atmosphere
bitter cold, and we were off in good season. 
We soon reached “Lamson’s Hill,”
rising three thousand feet across our path, and shortly
after daylight began the wearisome ascent, helping
the dogs haul the komatik up steep places and wallowing
through deep snow banks.  Before noon one of
our dogs gave out, and we had to cut him loose. 
An hour later we met George Ford on his way home to
Nachvak from Davis Inlet, and some Eskimos with a
team from the Hebron Mission, and from this latter
team we borrowed a dog to take the place of the one
that we had lost.  Ford told us that his leader
had gone mad that morning and he had been compelled
to shoot it.  He also in-formed me that wolves
had followed him all the way from Okak to Hebron,
mingling with his dogs at night, but at Hebron had
left his trail.</p>
<p align="justify">At three o’clock we reached
the summit of Lamson’s Hill and began the perilous
descent, where only the most expert maneuvering on
the part of the Eskimos saved our komatik from being
smashed.  In many places we had to let the sledge
down over steep places, after first removing the dogs,
and it was a good while after dark when we reached
the bottom.  Then, after working the komatik
over a mile of rough bowlders from which the wind
had swept the snow, we at length came upon the sea
ice of Saglak Bay, and at eight o’clock drew
up at an igloosoak on an island several miles from
the mainland.</p>
<p align="justify">This igloosoak was practically an
underground dwelling, and the entrance was through
a snow tunnel.  From a single seal-gut window
a dim light shone, but there was no other sign of
human life.  I groped my way into the tunnel,
bent half double, stepping upon and stumbling over
numerous dogs that blocked the way, and at the farther
end bumped into a door.  Upon pushing this open
I found myself in a room perhaps twelve by fourteen
feet in size.  Three stone lamps shed a gloomy
half light over the place, and revealed a low bunk,
covered with sealskins, extending along two sides
of the room, upon which nine Eskimos—­men,
women and children—­were lying.  A half
inch of soft slush covered the floor.  The whole
place was reeking in filth, infested with vermin,
and the stench was sickening.</p>
<p align="justify">The people arose and welcomed us as
Eskimos always do, most cordially.  Our two drivers,
who followed me with the wood we had brought, made
a fire in a small sheet-iron tent stove kept in the
shack by the missionaries for their use when traveling,
and on it we placed our kettle full of ice for tea,
and our sandwiches to thaw, for they were frozen as
hard as bullets.  One of the old women was half
dead with consumption, and constantly spitting, and
when we saw her turning our sandwiches on the stove
our appetite appreciably diminished.</p>
<p align="justify">At Ramah I had purchased some dried
caplin for dog food for the night.  The caplin
is a small fish, about the size of a smelt or a little
larger, and is caught in the neighborhood of Hamilton
Inlet and south.  They are brought north by the
missionaries to use for dog food when traveling in
the winter, as they are more easily packed on the
komatik than seal meat.  The Eskimos are exceedingly
fond of these dried fish, and they appealed to our
men as too great a delicacy to waste upon the dogs. 
Therefore when feeding time came, seal blubber, of
which there was an abundant supply in the igloo, fell
to the lot of the animals, while our drivers and hosts
appropriated the caplin to themselves.  The bag
of fish was placed in the center, with a dish of raw
seal fat alongside, with the men, women and children
surrounding it, and they were still banqueting upon
the fish and fat when I, weary with traveling, fell
asleep in my bag.</p>
<p align="justify">It was not yet dark the next evening
when we came in sight of the Eskimo village at the
Hebron mission, and the whole population of one hundred
and eighty people and two hundred dogs, the former
shouting, the latter howling, turned out to greet
us.  Several of the young men, fleeter of foot
than the others, ran out on the ice, and when they
had come near enough to see who we were, turned and
ran back again ahead of our dogs, shouting “Kablunot! 
Kablunot!” (outlanders), and so, in the midst
of pandemonium, we drew into the station, and received
from the missionaries a most cordial welcome.</p>
<p align="justify">Here I was fortunate in securing for
the next eighty miles of our journey an Eskimo with
an exceptionally fine team of fourteen dogs. 
This new driver—­Cornelius was his name—­made
my heart glad by consenting to travel without an attendant. 
I was pleased at this be-cause experience had taught
me that each additional man meant just so much slower
progress.</p>
<p align="justify">No time was lost at Hebron, for the
weather was fine, and early morning found us on our
way.  At Napartok we reached the “first
wood,” and the sight of a grove of green spruce
tops above the snow seemed almost like a glimpse of
home.</p>
<p align="justify">It was dreary, tiresome work, this
daily plodding southward over the endless snow, sometimes
upon the wide ice field, sometimes crossing necks
of land with tedious ascents and dangerous descents
of hills, making no halt while daylight lasted, save
to clear the dogs’ entangled traces and snatch
a piece of hard-tack for a cheerless luncheon.</p>
<p align="justify">Okak, two days’ travel south
of Hebron, with a population of three hundred and
twenty-nine, is the largest Eskimo village in Labrador
and an important station of the Moravian missionaries. 
Besides the chapel, living apartments and store of
the mission a neat, well-organized little hospital
has just been opened by them and placed in charge
of Dr. S. Hutton, an English physician.  Young,
capable and with every prospect of success at home,
he and his charming wife have resigned all to come
to the dreary Labrador and give their lives and efforts
to the uplifting of this bit of benighted humanity.</p>
<p align="justify">We were entertained by the doctor
and Mrs. Hutton and found them most delightful people. 
The only other member of the hospital corps was Miss
S. Francis, a young woman who has prepared herself
as a trained nurse to give her life to the service. 
I had an opportunity to visit with Dr. Hutton several
of the Eskimo dwellings, and was struck by their cleanliness
and the great advance toward civilization these people
have made over their northern kinsmen.  We had
now reached a section where timber grows, and some
of the houses were quite pretentious for the frontier—­well
furnished, of two or three rooms, and far superior
to many of the homes of the outer coast breeds to the
south.  This, of course, is the visible result
of the century of Moravian labors.  Here I engaged,
with the aid of the missionaries, Paulus Avalar and
Boas Anton with twelve dogs to go with us to Nain,
and after one day at Okak our march was resumed.</p>
<p align="justify">It is a hundred miles from Okak to
Nain and on the way the Kiglapait Mountain must be
crossed, as the Atlantic ice outside is liable to be
shattered at any time should an easterly gale blow,
and there is no possible retreat and no opportunity
to escape should one be caught upon it at such a time,
as perpendicular cliffs rise sheer from the sea ice
here.</p>
<p align="justify">We had not reached the summit of the
Kiglapait when night drove us into camp in a snow
igloo.  The Eskimos here are losing the art of
snow-house building, and this one was very poorly constructed,
and, with a temperature of thirty or forty degrees
below zero, very cold and uncomfortable.</p>
<p align="justify">When we turned into our sleeping bags
Paulus, who could talk a few words of English, remarked
to me:  “Clouds say big snow maybe. 
Here very bad.  No dog feed.  We go early,”
and pointing to my watch face indicated that we should
start at midnight.  At eleven o’clock I
heard him and Boas get up and go out.  Half an
hour later they came back with a kettle of hot tea
and we had breakfast.  Then the two Eskimos,
by candlelight read aloud in their language a form
of worship and sang a hymn.  All along the coast
between Hebron and Makkovik I found morning and evening
worship and grace before and after meals a regular
institution with the Eskimos, whose religious training
is carefully looked after by the Moravians.</p>
<p align="justify">By midnight our komatik was packed. 
“Ooisht! ooisht!” started the dogs forward
as the first feathery flakes of the threatened storm
fell lazily down.  Not a breath of wind was stirring
and no sound broke the ominous silence of the night
save the crunch of our feet on the snow and the voice
of the driver urging on the dogs.</p>
<p align="justify">Boas went ahead, leading the team
on the trail.  Presently he halted and shouted
back that he could not make out the landmarks in the
now thickening snow.  Then we circled about until
an old track was found and went on again.  Time
and again this maneuver was repeated.  The snow
now began to fall heavily and the wind rose.</p>
<p align="justify">No further sign of the track could
be discovered and short halts were made while Paulus
examined my compass to get his bearings.</p>
<p align="justify">Finally the summit of the Kiglapait
was reached, and the descent was more rapid. 
At one place on a sharp down grade the dogs started
on a run and we jumped upon the komatik to ride. 
Moving at a rapid pace the team, dimly visible ahead,
suddenly disappeared.  Paulus rolled off the
komatik to avoid going over the ledge ahead, but the
rest of us had no time to jump, and a moment later
the bottom fell out of our track and we felt ourselves
dropping through space.  It was a fall of only
fifteen feet, but in the night it seemed a hundred. 
Fortunately we landed on soft snow and no harm was
done, but we had a good shaking up.</p>
<p align="justify">The storm grew in force with the coming
of daylight.  Forging on through the driving
snow we reached the ocean ice early in the forenoon
and at four o’clock in the afternoon the shelter
of an Eskimo hut.</p>
<p align="justify">The storm was so severe the next morning
our Eskimos said to venture out in it would probably
mean to get lost, but before noon the wind so far
abated that we started.</p>
<p align="justify">The snow fell thickly all day, the
wind began to rise again, and a little after four
o’clock the real force of the gale struck us
in one continued, terrific sweep, and the snow blew
so thick that we nearly smothered.  The temperature
was thirty degrees below zero.  We could not
see the length of the komatik.  We did not dare
let go of it, for had we separated ourselves a half
dozen yards we should certainly have been lost.</p>
<p align="justify">Somehow the instincts of drivers and
dogs, guided by the hand of a good Providence, led
us to the mission house at Nain, which we reached
at five o’clock and were overwhelmed by the kindness
of the Moravians.  This is the Moravian headquarters
in Labrador, and the Bishop, Right Reverend A. Martin,
with his aids, is in charge.</p>
<a name="nain"></a>
<a href="nain.jpg">
<img alt="Nain, the Moravian Headquarters in Labrador" src="nainth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">It was Saturday night when we reached
Nain, and Sunday was spent here while we secured new
drivers and dogs and waited for the storm to blow
over.</p>
<p align="justify">Every one was so cordial and hospitable
that I almost regretted the necessity of leaving on
Monday morning.  The day was excessively cold
and a head wind froze cheeks and noses and required
an almost constant application of the hand to thaw
them out and prevent them from freezing permanently. 
Easton even frosted his elbow through his heavy clothing
of reindeer skin.</p>
<p align="justify">During the second day from Nain we
met Missionary Christian Schmitt returning from a
visit to the natives farther south, and on the ice
had a half hour’s chat.</p>
<p align="justify">That evening we reached Davis Inlet
Post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and spent
the night with Mr. Guy, the agent, and the following
morning headed southward again, passed Cape Harrigan,
and in another two days reached Hopedale Mission,
where we arrived just ahead of one of the fierce storms*
so frequent here at this season of the year, which
held us prisoners from Thursday night until Monday
morning.  Two days later we pulled in at Makkovik,
the last station of the Moravians on our southern
trail.</p>
<p align="justify">* Since writing the above I have learned
that a half-breed whom I met at Davis Inlet, his wife
and a young native left that point for Hope-dale
just after us, were overtaken by this storm, lost their
way, and were probably overcome by the elements. 
Their dogs ate the bodies and a week later returned,
well fed, to Davis Inlet.  Dr. Grenfell found
the bones in the spring.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_23"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XXIII</h1>
<p><b>BACK TO NORTHWEST RIVER</b></p>
<p align="justify">We had now reached an English-speaking
country; that is, a section where every one talked
understandable English, though at the same time nearly
every one was conversant with the Eskimo language.</p>
<p align="justify">All down the coast we had been fortunate
in securing dogs and drivers with little trouble through
the intervention of the missionaries; but at Makkovik
dogs were scarce, and it seemed for a time as though
we were stranded here, but finally, with missionary
Townley’s aid I engaged an old Eskimo named
Martin Tuktusini to go with us to Rigolet.  When
I looked at Martin’s dogs, however, I saw at
once that they were not equal to the journey, unaided. 
Neither had I much faith in Martin, for he was an
old man who had nearly reached the end of his usefulness.</p>
<p align="justify">A day was lost in vainly looking around
for additional dogs, and then Mr. Townley generously
loaned us his team and driver to help us on to Big
Bight, fifteen miles away, where he thought we might
get dogs to supplement Martin’s.</p>
<p align="justify">At Big Bight we found a miserable
hut, where the people were indescribably poor and
dirty.  A team was engaged after some delay to
carry us to Tishialuk, thirty miles farther on our
journey, which place we reached the following day
at eleven o’clock.</p>
<p align="justify">There is a single hovel at Tishialuk,
occupied by two brothers—­John and Sam Cove—­and
their sister.  Their only food was flour, and
a limited quantity of that.  Even tea and molasses,
usually found amongst the “livyeres” (live-heres)
of the coast, were lacking.  Sam was only too
glad of the opportunity to earn a few dollars, and
was engaged with his team to join forces with Martin
as far as Rigolet.</p>
<p align="justify">There are two routes from Tishialuk
to Rigolet.  One is the “Big Neck”
route over the hills, and much shorter than the other,
which is known as the outside route, though it also
crosses a wide neck of land inside of Cape Harrison,
ending at Pottle’s Bay on Hamilton Inlet. 
It was my intention to take the Big Neck trail, but
Martin strenuously opposed it on the ground that it
passed over high hills, was much more difficult, and
the probabilities of getting lost should a storm occur
were much greater by that route than by the other. 
His objections prevailed, and upon the afternoon
of the day after our arrival Sam was ready, and in
a gale of wind we ran down on the ice to Tom Bromfield’s
cabin at Tilt Cove, that we might be ready to make
an early start for Pottle’s Bay the following
morning, as the whole day would be needed to cross
the neck of land to Pottle’s Bay and the neatest
shelter beyond.</p>
<p align="justify">Tom is a prosperous and ambitious
hunter, and is fairly well-to-do as it goes on the
Labrador.  His one-room cabin was very comfortable,
and he treated us to unwonted luxuries, such as butter,
marmalade, and sugar for our tea.</p>
<p align="justify">During the evening he displayed to
me the skin of a large wolf which he had killed a
few days before, and told us the story of the killing.</p>
<p align="justify">“I were away, sir,” related
he, “wi’ th’ dogs, savin’ one
which I leaves to home, ‘tendin’ my fox
traps.  The woman (meaning his wife) were alone
wi’ the young ones.  In the evenin’
(afternoon) her hears a fightin’ of dogs outside,
an’ thinkin’ one of the team was broke
loose an’ run home, she starts to go out to
beat the beasts an’ put a stop to the fightin’. 
But lookin’ out first before she goes, what
does she see but the wolf that owned that skin, and
right handy to the door he were, too.  He were
a big divil, as you sees, sir.  She were scared. 
Her tries to take down the rifle—­the one
as is there on the pegs, sir.  The wolf and the
dog be now fightin’ agin’ the door, and
she thinks they’s handy to breakin’ in,
and it makes her a bit shaky in the hands, and she
makes a slip and the rifle he goes off bang! makin’
that hole there marrin’ the timber above the
windy.  Then the wolf he goes off too; he be
scared at the shootin’.  When I comes home
she tells me, and I lays fur the beast.  ’Twere
the next day and I were in the house when I hears
the dogs fightin’ and I peers out the windy,
and there I sees the wolf fightin’ wi’
the dogs, quite handy by the house.  Well, sir,
I just gits the rifle down and goes out, and when
the dogs sees me they runs and leaves the wolf, and
I up and knocks he over wi’ a bullet, and there’s
his skin, worth a good four dollars, for he be an
extra fine one, sir.”</p>
<p>We sat up late that night listening to Tom’s
stories.</p>
<p align="justify">The next morning was leaden gray,
and promised snow.  With the hope of reaching
Pottle’s Bay before dark we started forward early,
and at one o’clock in the afternoon were in
the soft snow of the spruce-covered neck.  Traveling
was very bad and progress so slow that darkness found
us still amongst the scrubby firs.  Martin and
I walked ahead of the dogs, making a path and cutting
away the growth where it was too thick to permit the
passage of the teams.</p>
<p align="justify">Martin was guiding us by so circuitous
a path that finally I began to suspect he had lost
his way, and, calling a halt, suggested that we had
better make a shelter and stop until daylight, particularly
as the snow was now falling.  When you are lost
in the bush it is a good rule to stop where you are
until you make certain of your course.  Martin
in this instance, however, seemed very positive that
we were going in the right direction, though off the
usual trail, and he said that in another hour or so
we would certainly come out and find the salt-water
ice of Hamilton Inlet.  So after an argument I
agreed to proceed and trust in his assurances.</p>
<p align="justify">Easton, who was driving the rear team,
was completely tired out with the exertion of steering
the komatik through the brush and untangling the dogs,
which seemed to take a delight in spreading out and
getting their traces fast around the numerous small
trees, and I went to the rear to relieve him for a
time from the exhausting work.</p>
<p align="justify">It was nearly two o’clock in
the morning when we at length came upon the ice of
a brook which Martin admitted he had never seen before
and confessed that he was completely lost.  I
ordered a halt at once until daylight.  We drank
some cold water, ate some hard-tack and then stretched
our sleeping bags upon the snow and, all of us weary,
lay down to let the drift cover us while we slept.</p>
<p align="justify">At dawn we were up, and with a bit
of jerked venison in my hand to serve for breakfast,
I left the others to lash the load on the komatiks
and follow me and started on ahead.  I had walked
but half a mile when I came upon the rough hummocks
of the Inlet ice.  Before noon we found shelter
from the now heavily driving snowstorm in a livyere’s
hut and here remained until the following morning.</p>
<p align="justify">Just beyond this point, in crossing
a neck of land, we came upon a small hut and, as is
usual on the Labrador, stopped for a moment. 
The people of the coast always expect travelers to
stop and have a cup of tea with them, and feel that
they have been slighted if this is not done. 
Here I found a widow named Newell, whom I knew, and
her two or three small children.  It was a miserable
hut, without even the ordinary comforts of the poorer
coast cabins, only one side of the earthen floor partially
covered with rough boards, and the people destitute
of food.  Mrs. Newell told me that the other livyeres
were giving her what little they had to eat, and had
saved them during the winter from actual starvation. 
I had some hardtack and tea in my “grub bag,”
and these I left with her.</p>
<p align="justify">Two days later we pulled in at Rigolet
and were greeted by my friend Fraser.  It was
almost like getting home again, for now I was on old,
familiar ground.  A good budget of letters that
had come during the previous summer awaited us and
how eagerly we read them!  This was the first
communication we had received from our home folks since
the previous June and it was now February twenty-first.</p>
<p align="justify">We rested with Fraser until the twenty-third,
and then with Mark Pallesser, a Groswater Bay Eskimo,
turned in to Northwest River where Stanton, upon coming
from the interior, had remained to wait for our return
that he might join us for the balance of the journey
out.  The going was fearful and snowshoeing in
the heavy snow tiresome.  It required two days
to reach Mulligan, where we spent the night with skipper
Tom Blake, one of my good old friends, and at Tom’s
we feasted on the first fresh venison we had had since
leaving the Ungava district.  In the whole distance
from Whale River not a caribou had been killed during
the winter by any one, while in the previous winter
a single hunter at Davis Inlet shot in one day a hundred
and fifty, and only ceased then because he had no
more ammunition.  Tom had killed three or four,
and south of this point I learned of a hunter now
and then getting one.</p>
<p align="justify">Northwest River was reached on Monday,
February twenty-sixth, and we took Cotter by complete
surprise, for he had not expected us for another month.</p>
<p align="justify">The day after our arrival Stanton
came to the Post from a cabin three miles above, where
he had been living alone, and he was delighted to
see us.</p>
<p align="justify">The lumbermen at Muddy Lake, twenty
miles away, heard of our arrival and sent down a special
messenger with a large addition to the mail which
I was carrying out and which had been growing steadily
in bulk with its accumulations at every station.</p>
<p align="justify">This is the stormiest season of the
year in Labrador, and weather conditions were such
that it was not until March sixth that we were permitted
to resume our journey homeward.</p>
<a NAME="chapter_24"></a>
<h1>CHAPTER XXIV</h1>
<p><b>THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL</b></p>
<p align="justify">The storm left the ice covered with
a depth of soft snow into which the dogs sank deep
and hauled the komatik with difficulty.  Snowshoeing,
too, was unusually hard.  The day we left Northwest
River (Tuesday, March sixth) the temperature rose
above the freezing point, and when it froze that night
a thin crust formed, through which our snowshoes broke,
adding very materially to the labor of walking—­and
of course it was all walking.</p>
<p align="justify">As the days lengthened and the sun
asserting his power, pushed higher and higher above
the horizon, the glare upon the white expanse of snow
dazzled our eyes, and we had to put on smoked glasses
to protect ourselves from snow-blindness.  Even
with the glasses our driver, Mark, became partially
snow-blind, and when, on the evening of the third
day after leaving Northwest River, we reached his home
at Karwalla, an Eskimo settlement a few miles west
of Rigolet, it became necessary for us to halt until
he was sufficiently recovered to enable him to travel
again.</p>
<p align="justify">Here we met some of the Eskimos that
had been connected with the Eskimo village at the
World’s Fair at Chicago, in 1893.  Mary,
Mark’s wife, was one of the number.  She
told me of having been exhibited as far west as Portland,
Oregon, and I asked: </p>
<p align="justify">“Mary, aren’t you discontented
here, after seeing so much of the world?  Wouldn’t
you like to go back?”</p>
<p align="justify">“No, sir,” she answered.
“’Tis fine here, where I has plenty of
company.  ’Tis too lonesome in the States,
sir.”</p>
<p align="justify">“But you can’t get the
good things to eat here—­the fruits and other
things,” I insisted.</p>
<p align="justify">“I likes the oranges and apples
fine, sir—­but they has no seal meat or
deer’s meat in the States.”</p>
<p align="justify">It was not until Tuesday, March thirteenth,
three days after our arrival at Karwalla, that Mark
thought himself quite able to proceed.  The brief
“mild” gave place to intense cold and blustery,
snowy weather.  We pushed on toward West Bay,
on the outer coast again, by the “Backway,”
an arm of Hamilton Inlet that extends almost due east
from Karwalla.</p>
<p align="justify">At West Bay I secured fresh dogs to
carry us on to Cartwright, which I hoped to reach
in one day more.  But the going was fearfully
poor, soft snow was drifted deep in the trail over
Cape Porcupine, the ice in Traymore was broken up
by the gales, and this necessitated a long detour,
so it was nearly dark and snowing hard when we at last
reached the house of James Williams, at North River,
just across Sandwich Bay from Cartwright Post. 
The greeting I received was so kindly that I was
not altogether disappointed at having to spend the
night here.</p>
<p align="justify">“We’ve been expectin’
you all winter, sir,” said Mrs. Williams. 
“When you stopped two years ago you said you’d
come some other time, and we knew you would. 
’Tis fine to see you again, sir.”</p>
<p align="justify">On the afternoon of March seventeenth
we reached Cartwright Post of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, and my friend Mr. Ernest Swaffield, the agent,
and Mrs. Swaffield, who had been so kind to me on my
former trip, gave us a cordial welcome.  Here
also I met Dr. Mumford, the resident physician at
Dr. Grenfell’s mission hospital at Battle Harbor,
who was on a trip along the coast visiting the sick.</p>
<p align="justify">Another four days’ delay was
necessary at Cartwright before dogs could be found
to carry us on, but with Swaffield’s aid I finally
secured teams and we resumed our journey, stopping
at night at the native cabins along the route. 
Much bad weather was encountered to retard us and
I had difficulty now and again in securing dogs and
drivers.  Many of the men that I had on my previous
trip, when I brought Hubbard’s body out to Battle
Harbor, were absent hunting, but whenever I could
find them they invariably engaged with me again to
help me a stage upon the journey.</p>
<p align="justify">From Long Pond, near Seal Islands,
neither I nor the men I had knew the way (when I traveled
down the coast on the former occasion my drivers took
a route outside of Long Pond), and that afternoon we
went astray, and with no one to set us right wandered
about upon the ice until long after dark, looking
for a hut at Whale Bight, which was finally located
by the dogs smelling smoke and going to it.</p>
<p align="justify">A little beyond Whale Bight we came
upon a bay that I recognized, and from that point
I knew the trail and headed directly to Williams’
Harbor, where I found John and James Russell, two of
my old drivers, ready to take us on to Battle Harbor.</p>
<p align="justify">At last, on the afternoon of March
twenty-sixth we reached the hospital, and how good
it seemed to be back almost within touch of civilization. 
It was here that I ended that long and dreary sledge
journey with the last remains of dear old Hubbard,
in the spring of 1904, and what a flood of recollections
came to me as I stood in front of the hospital and
looked again across the ice of St. Lewis Inlet! 
How well I remembered those weary days over there at
Fox Harbor, watching the broken, heaving ice that
separated me from Battle Island; the little boat that
one day came into the ice and worked its way slowly
through it until it reached us and took us to the hospital
and the ship; and how thankful I felt that I had reached
here with my precious burden safe.</p>
<p align="justify">Mrs. Mumford made us most welcome,
and entertained me in the doctor’s house, and
was as good and kind as she could be.</p>
<p align="justify">I must again express my appreciation
of the truly wonderful work that Dr. Grenfell and
his brave associates are carrying on amongst the people
of this dreary coast.  Year after year, they brave
the hardships and dangers of sea and fog and winter
storms that they may minister to the lowly and needy
in the Master’s name.  It is a saying on
the coast that “even the dogs know Dr. Grenfell,”
and it is literally true, for his activities carry
him everywhere and God knows what would become of
some of the people if he were not there to look after
them.  His practice extends over a larger territory
than that of any other physician in the world, but
the only fee he ever collects is the pleasure that
comes with the knowledge of work well done.</p>
<p align="justify">At Battle Harbor I was told by a trader
that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to
procure dogs to carry us up the Straits toward Quebec,
and I was strongly advised to end my snowshoe and dog
journey here and wait for a steamer that was expected
to come in April to the whaling station at Cape Charles,
twelve miles away.  This seemed good advice,
for if we could get a steamer here within three weeks
or so that would take us to St. Johns we should reach
home probably earlier than we possibly could by going
to Quebec.</p>
<p align="justify">There is a government coast telegraph
line that follows the north shore of the St. Lawrence
from Quebec to Château Bay, but the nearest office
open at this time was at Red Bay, sixty-five miles
from Battle Harbor, and I determined to go there and
get into communication with home and at the same time
telegraph to Bowring Brothers in St. Johns and ascertain
from them exactly when I might expect the whaling
steamer.</p>
<p align="justify">William Murphy offered to carry me
over with his team, and, leaving Stanton and Easton
comfortably housed at Battle Harbor and both of them
quite content to end their dog traveling here, on the
morning after my arrival Murphy and I made an early
start for Red Bay.</p>
<p align="justify">Except in the more sheltered places
the bay ice had broken away along the Straits and
we had to follow the rough ice barricades, sometimes
working inland up and down the rocky hills and steep
grades.  Before noon we passed Henley Harbor
and the Devil’s Dining Table—­a basaltic
rock formation—­and a little later reached
Château Bay and had dinner in a native house. 
Beyond this point there are cabins built at intervals
of a few miles as shelter for the linemen when making
repairs to the wire.  We passed one of these at
Wreck Cove toward evening, but as a storm was threatening,
pushed on to the next one at Green Bay, fifty-five
miles from Battle Harbor.  It was dark before
we got there, and to reach the Bay we had to descend
a steep hill.  I shall never forget the ride
down that hill.  It is very well to go over places
like that when you know the way and what you are likely
to bring up against, but I did not know the way and
had to pin my faith blindly on Murphy, who had taken
me over rotten ice during the day—–­
ice that waved up and down with our weight and sometimes
broke behind us.  My opinion of him was that
he was a reckless devil, and when we began to descend
that hill, five hundred feet to the bay ice, this
opinion was strengthened.  I would have said uncomplimentary
things to him had time permitted.  I expected
anything to happen.  It looked in the night as
though a sheer precipice with a bottomless pit below
was in front of us.  Two drags were thrown over
the komatik runners to hold us back, but in spite
of them we went like a shot out of a gun, he on one
side, I on the other, sticking our heels into the hard
snow as we extended our legs ahead, trying our best
to hold back and stop our wild progress.  But,
much to my surprise, when we got there, and I verily
believe to Murphy’s surprise also, we landed
right side up at the bottom, with no bones broken. 
There were three men camped in the shack here, and
we spent the night with them.</p>
<p align="justify">Early the next day we reached Red
Bay and the telegraph office.  There are no words
in the English language adequate to express my feelings
of gratification when I heard the instruments clicking
off the messages.  It had been seventeen years
since I had handled a telegraph key—­when
I was a railroad telegrapher down in New England—­and
how I fondled that key, and what music the click of
the sounder was to my ears!</p>
<p align="justify">My messages were soon sent, and then
I sat down to wait for the replies.</p>
<p align="justify">The office was in the house of Thomas
Moors, and he was good enough to invite me to stop
with him while in Red Bay.  His daughter was the
telegraph operator.</p>
<p align="justify">The next day the answers to my telegrams
came, and many messages from friends, and one from
Bowring & Company stating that no steamer would be
sent to Cape Charles.  I had been making inquiries
here, however, in the meantime, and learned that it
was quite possible to secure dogs and continue the
journey up the north shore, so I was not greatly disappointed. 
I dispatched Murphy at once to Battle Harbor to bring
on the other men, waiting myself at Red Bay for their
coming, and holding teams in readiness for an immediate
departure when they should arrive.</p>
<p align="justify">They drove in at two o’clock
on April fourth, and we left at once.  On the
morning of the sixth we passed through Blanc Sablon,
the boundary line between Newfoundland and Canadian
territory, and here I left the Newfoundland letters
from my mail bag.  From this point the majority
of the natives are Acadians, and speak only French.</p>
<p align="justify">At Brador Bay I stopped to telegraph. 
No operator was there, so I sent the message myself,
left the money on the desk and proceeded.</p>
<p align="justify">Three days more took us to St. Augustine
Post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, where we arrived
in the morning and accepted the hospitality of Burgess,
the Agent.</p>
<p align="justify">Our old friends the Indians whom we
met on our inland trip at Northwest River were here,
and John, who had eaten supper with us at our camp
on the hill on the first portage, expressed great pleasure
at meeting us, and had many questions to ask about
the country.  They had failed in their deer hunt,
and had come out half starved a week or so before,
from the interior.</p>
<a name="indians"></a>
<a href="indians.jpg">
<img alt="The Indians Were Here" src="indianth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">We did fifty miles on the eleventh,
changing dogs at Harrington at noon and running on
to Sealnet Cove that night.  Here we found more
Indians who had just emerged from the interior, driven
to the coast for food like those at St. Augustine
as the result of their failure to find caribou.</p>
<p align="justify">Two days later we reached the Post
at Romain, and on the afternoon of April seventeenth
reached Natashquan and open water.  Here I engaged
passage on a small schooner—­the first afloat
in the St. Lawrence—­to take us on to Eskimo
Point, seventy miles farther, where the Quebec steamer,
<i>King Edward</i>, was expected to arrive in a week
or so.  That night we boarded the schooner and
sailed at once.  Into the sea I threw the clothes
I had been wearing, and donned fresh ones.  What
a relief it was to be clear of the innumerable horde
“o’ wee sma’ beasties” that
had been my close companions all the way down from
the Eskimo igloos in the North.  I have wondered
many times since whether those clothes swam ashore,
and if they did what happened to them.</p>
<p align="justify">It was a great pleasure to be upon
the water again, and see the shore slip past, and
feel that no more snowstorms, no more bitter northern
blasts, no more hungry days and nights were to be faced.</p>
<p align="justify">Since June twenty-fifth, the day we
dipped our paddles into the water of Northwest River
and turned northward into the wastes of the great
unknown wilderness, eight hundred miles had been traversed
in reaching Fort Chimo, and on our return journey
with dogs and komatik and snowshoes, two thousand
more.</p>
<p align="justify">We reached Eskimo Point on April twentieth,
and that very day a rain began that turned the world
into a sea of slush.  I was glad indeed that
our komatik work was finished, for it would now have
been very difficult, if not impossible, to travel
farther with dogs.</p>
<p align="justify">I at once deposited in the post office
the bag of letters that I had carried all the way
from far-off Ungava.  This was the first mail
that any single messenger had ever carried by dog
train from that distant point, and I felt quite puffed
up with the honor of it.</p>
<p align="justify">The week that we waited here for the
<i>King Edward</i> was a dismal one, and when the
ship finally arrived we lost no time in getting ourselves
and our belongings aboard.  It was a mighty satisfaction
to feel the pulse of the engines that with every revolution
took us nearer home, and when at last we tied up at
the steamer’s wharf in Quebec, I heaved a sigh
of relief.</p>
<p align="justify">On April thirtieth, after an absence
of just eleven months, we found ourselves again in
the whirl and racket of New York.  The portages
and rapids and camp fires, the Indian wigwams and
Eskimo igloos and the great, silent white world of
the North that we had so recently left were now only
memories.  We had reached the end of The Long
Trail.  The work of exploration begun by Hubbard
was finished.</p>
<a NAME="appendix"></a>
<h1>APPENDIX</h1>
<p><b>LABRADOR PLANTS</b></p>
<p align="justify">Specimens collected along the route
of the expedition between Northwest River and Lake
Michikamau.  Determined at the New York<br>
Botanical Gardens: </p>
<p>Ledum groonlandicum, Oeder. <br>
Comarum palustre L.<br>
Rubus arcticus L.<br>
Solidago multiradiata.  Ait. <br>
Sanguisorba Canadensis L.<br>
Linnaea Americana, Forbes. <br>
Dasiphora fruticosa (L), Rydb. <br>
Chamnaerion latifolium (L), Sweet. <br>
Viburnum pancifloram, Pylaim. <br>
Viscaxia alpina (L), Roehl. <br>
Menyanthes trifoliata L.<br>
Vaznera trifolia (L), Morong. <br>
Ledum prostratum, Rotlb. <br>
Betula glandulosa, Michx. <br>
Kalmia angustifolia. <br>
Aronia nigra (Willd), Britt. <br>
Comus Canadensis L.<br>
Arenaria groenlandica (Retz), Spreng. <br>
Barbarea stricta, Audry. <br>
Eriophorum russeolum, Fries. <br>
Eriophorum polystachyon L.<br>
Phegopteris Phegopt@ (L), Fee.</p>
<p><b>LICHENS</b></p>
<p>Cladonia deformis (L), Hoffen. <br>
Alectoria dehrolenea (Ehrh.), Nyl. <br>
Umbilicaria Neuhlenbergii (Ac L.), Tuck.</p>
<p><b>GEOLOGICAL NOTES</b></p>
By G. M. Richards<br>
<p>All bearings given, refer to the true meridian.</p>
<p>My sincere thanks are due Prof.  J.F.  Kemp
and Dr.<br>
C.P.  Berkey, whose generous assistance has made
this work possible.</p>
<p><b>ROUTE FOLLOWED</b></p>
<p align="justify">The route was by steamer to the head
of Hamilton Inlet, Labrador—­ thence by
canoes up Grand Lake and the Nascaupee River. 
Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, a portage route was
followed which makes a long detour through a series
of lakes to avoid rapids in the river.  This
trail again returns to the Nascaupee River at Seal
Lake and for some fifty miles above Seal Lake, follows
the river.  It then leaves the Nascaupee, making
a second long detour through lakes to the north. 
On one of these lakes (Bibiquasin Lake) the trail
was lost, and thereafter we traveled in a westerly
direction until reaching Lake Michikamau.</p>
<p align="justify">Our food supply was then in so depleted
a condition the party was obliged to separate, three
of us returning to Northwest River.</p>
<p align="justify">It will be understood that the circumstances
would allow of but a very limited examination of the
geological features of the country.  Only typical
rock specimens, or those whose character was at all
doubtful were brought back.</p>
<p><b>PREVIOUS EXPLORATION</b></p>
<p align="justify">Mr. A.P.  Low penetrated to Lake
Michikamau, by way of the Grand River.  He has
thoroughly described the lake in his report to the
Canadian Geological Survey, 1895, and it is not touched
upon in the following paper.  In the summer of
1903, an expedition led by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.,
attempted to reach Lake Michikamau by ascending the
Nascaupee River; they, however, missed the mouth of
that stream on Grand Lake and followed the Susan River
instead, pursuing a northwesterly course for two months
without reaching the lake.  On the return journey,
Mr. Hubbard died of starvation, his two companions,
Mr. Wallace and a half-breed Indian, barely escaping
a similar fate.</p>
<p><b>GEOGRAPHICAL RESULTS OF THE EXPEDITION</b></p>
<p align="justify">The Northwest River represented on
the map of the Canadian Geological Survey (made from
information obtained from the Indians) as draining
Lake Michikamau, is but three and one-half miles long,
and connects Grand Lake with Hamilton Inlet. 
There are six streams flowing into Grand Lake, instead
of only one.  It is the Nascaupee River that flows
from Lake Michikamau to Grand Lake; and Seal Lake instead
of being the source of the Nascaupee River is merely
an expansion of it.</p>
<p align="justify">The source of the Crooked River was
also discovered and mapped, as well as a great number
of smaller lakes.</p>
<p align="justify">On the Northern Slope the George and
Koroksoak Rivers and several lakes were mapped, and
some smaller rivers located.</p>
<p><b>DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF ROUTE EXPLORED</b></p>
<p align="justify">Northwest River which flows into a
small sandy bay at the head of Hamilton Inlet is only
three and one-half miles long and drains Grand Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">For one-quarter of a mile above its
mouth the river maintains an average width of one
hundred and fifty yards, and a depth of two and one-half
fathoms.  It then expands into a shallow sheet
of water two miles wide and three miles long, known
locally as “The Little Lake.”  At
the head of this small expansion the river again contracts
where it flows out of Grand Lake.  This point
is known as “The Rapids,” and although
there is a strong current, the stream may be ascended
in canoes without tracking.</p>
<p align="justify">At the foot of “The Rapids”
the effect of the spring tides is barely perceptible. 
Between Grand Lake and the head of Hamilton Inlet,
Northwest River flows through a deposit of sand marked
by several distinct marine terraces.</p>
<p align="justify">Grand Lake is a body of fresh water
forty miles long and from two to six miles in width,
having a direction N. 75 degrees W. It lies in a
deep valley between rocky hills that rise to a height
of about four hundred feet above the lake, and was
doubtless at one time an extension of Hamilton Inlet. 
At Cape Corbeau and Berry Head the rocks rise almost
perpendicularly from the water; at the former place,
to a height of three hundred feet.  Except in
a few places the hills are covered to their summits
by a thick growth of small spruce and fir.</p>
<p align="justify">At the head of the lake there are
two bays, one extending slightly to the southwest,
the other nearly due north.  Into the former flow
the Susan and Beaver Rivers, while into the latter
empties the water of the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers. 
Besides these there are two small streams, the Cape
Corbeau River on the south, and Watty’s Brook
on the north shore.</p>
<p align="justify">At the point where the Nascaupee and
Crooked Rivers enter the lake there are two low islands
of sand, and a great deal of sand is being carried
down by the two streams and deposited in the lake,
which is very shallow for some distance from the shore.</p>
<p align="justify">Three miles above the mouth of the
Nascaupee River it is separated from the Crooked River
by a plain of stratified sand and gravel, three-quarters
of a mile wide, with two well-defined terraces. 
The first is twenty feet above the river and extends
back some three hundred yards to a second terrace,
rising seventy-five feet above the first.</p>
<p align="justify">Half way between this terrace and
the Crooked River is, the old bed of the Nascaupee
River, nearly parallel to its present course. 
A similar abandoned channel curve was found, making
a small arc to the south of the Crooked River.</p>
<p align="justify">Above Grand Lake the Nascaupee River
flows through an ancient valley, which is from a few
hundred yards to a mile wide and cut deep into the
old Archaean rocks, affording an excellent example
of river erosion.  The banks are of sand, and
in some places clay, extending back to the foot of
the precipitous hills.  Apparently the ancient
river valley has been partly filled with drift, down
through which the river has cut its way; the present
bed of the stream being of post glacial formation. 
The general direction of the river is N. 83 degrees
W.</p>
<p align="justify">Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, the
Red River joins the main stream, coming from N. 87
degrees W. Below its junction with the latter stream,
the Nascaupee River has a width varying between two
and three hundred yards, and an average depth of about
ten feet.</p>
<p align="justify">The Red River is two hundred feet
wide, and its water, unlike that of the main stream,
has a red brown color, like that of many of the streams
of Ontario which have their source in swamp or Muskeg
lands.</p>
<p align="justify">The first rapids in the Red River
are said to be eight miles above its mouth. 
Directly opposite the junction of the two streams the
portage leaves the Nascaupee River.  The direction
is N. 24 degrees E. and the distance five and one-half
miles, with an elevation of 1050 feet above the river
at the end of the second mile.</p>
<p align="justify">The last three and one-half miles
lead across a level tableland, to a small lake, from
which the trail descends through two lakes into a
shallow valley.</p>
<p align="justify">The entire country from the head of
Grand Lake to this point has been devastated by fire,
only a few trees near the water having escaped destruction,
and the ground, except in a few places, is destitute
even of its usual covering of reindeer moss.</p>
<p align="justify">The underlying rock is gneiss, and
the country from the Nascaupee River is thickly strewn
with huge glacial bowlders.</p>
<p align="justify">The majority of these bowlders have
been derived from the immediate vicinity, but many
consisting of a coarse pegmatite carrying considerable
quantities of ilmenite were observed.  None of
this rock was seen in place.</p>
<p align="justify">The valley last mentioned is separated
from the Crooked River by Caribou Ridge, a broad,
flat-topped elevation, three hundred and fifty feet
high, dotted by small lakes, which fill almost every
appreciable depression in the rock.</p>
<p align="justify">The general course to the Crooked
River is northeast; at the point where the portage
reaches it the stream is fifty yards wide and very
shallow; flowing over a bed of coarse drift, which
obstructs the river, forming a series of small lake
expansions with rapids at the outlet of each. 
Between Grand Lake and the point where we reached
the river, the Indians say it is not navigable in canoes,
owing to rapids.</p>
<p align="justify">The Crooked River has its source in
Lake Nipishish, which is about twenty-two miles long,
with an average width of three miles, and a course
due north.  Six miles above the outlet of the
lake is a bay, five miles long, extending N. 80 degrees
W.</p>
<p align="justify">Along the north shore of the lake
and in the bay are several small islands of drift,
and many huge angular bowlders projecting above the
water.  The country in the vicinity of the lake
and in the valley of the Crooked River is covered
with mounds and ridges of drift and many small moraines.</p>
<p align="justify">These moraines consisting of bowlders
for the most part from the immediate vicinity, seemed
to have no given direction, but were usually found
at the ends of, and in a transverse direction to the
ridges.</p>
<p align="justify">The trail leaves Lake Nipishish near
the head of the large bay, continuing in a direction
between north and northwest, through several insignificant
lakes, all drained indirectly by the Crooked River,
until it reached Otter Lake, which is eight miles long,
running nearly north and south, and is five hundred
and fifty feet below the summits of the surrounding
hills.</p>
<p align="justify">From Otter Lake, the course is west
through five diminutive lakes, and across a series
of sandy ridges to a small shallow lake, which is the
source of Babewendigash River.  Between this lake
and Seal Lake intervene a high range of mountains—­the
highest seen on the journey to Lake Michikamau—­rising
fully one thousand feet above the level of Seal Lake. 
They are visible for miles in any direction, and were
seen from Caribou Ridge nearly a month before we reached
them.</p>
<p align="justify">They are glaciated to their summits,
which are entirely destitute of vegetation and in
August were still, in places, covered with snow. 
Babewendigash River winds to and fro between the mountains,
its course being determined to a great extent by esker
ridges that follow it on either side and which are
often more than one hundred feet high.  Throughout
its length of twenty-five miles there are five rapids
and three small lake expansions.</p>
<p align="justify">Seal Lake, into which the river flows,
is in part an expansion of the Nascaupee River and
fills a basin surrounded on every side by mountains,
rising several hundred feet above the water. 
The lake is comparatively shallow, and has a perceptible
current.  There are several small islands of
drift, covered by a scanty growth of spruce and willow. 
The main lake has direction N. 45 degrees W., and
is ten miles long and two and one-half miles wide. 
The northwestern arm is fifteen miles long, with
the same width, and a course N. 80 degrees W.</p>
<p align="justify">The steep rocky shores have precluded
the formation of terraces.  Above Seal Lake the
course of the Nascaupee River varies between N. 40
degrees W. and N. 80 degrees W.</p>
<p align="justify">Five miles above the lake there is
an expansion of the river, called Wuchusk Nipi, or
Muskrat Lake, which is eight miles long and a mile
and a half wide, with a course N. 40 degrees W. Except
for a channel along the western shore, the lake is
very shallow, being nearly filled with sand carried
down by the river.  There is a small stream flowing
into this lake expansion near its head, called Wuchusk
Nipishish.</p>
<p align="justify">For fifty miles above Muskrat Lake,
the river flows between sandy banks, marked on either
side by two well-defined terraces.  The river
valley gradually becomes more narrow and the current
stronger and with the exception of a few small expansions,
progress is only possible by means of tracking. 
There are, however, in this distance but two rapids
necessitating portages.</p>
<p align="justify">Opposite the point where the portage
leaves the Nascaupee to make a second long detour
around rapids, a small river flows in from the southwest,
having a sheer fall of almost fifty feet, just above
its junction with the main stream.</p>
<p align="justify">The trail, after leaving the river,
has a course N. 35 degrees W. for two miles; it then
turns N. 85 degrees W. six miles, and again N. 55
degrees W. four miles.</p>
<p align="justify">In its course are four small lakes,
but there is an unbroken portage of eight miles between
the last two.  Nearly the whole country has been
denuded by fire, and the prospect is desolate in the
extreme.  The end of the portage is on the high
rolling plateau of the interior, timbered by a sparse
and stunted second growth of spruce, covered everywhere
with white reindeer moss, and strewn with lakes innumerable.</p>
<p align="justify">The trail which runs N. 50 degrees
W. and has not been used for eight years, gradually
became more and more indistinct, until on Bibiquasin
Lake it disappeared entirely.  Thereafter the
course was N. 70 degrees W., and finally due west,
through a series of lakes which at last brought us
to Lake Michikamau.  The largest of this series
is Kasheshebogamog Lake, a sheet of water twenty-three
miles long, but broken by numerous bays and countless
islands of drift, with a direction S. 75 degrees W.
The lake is confined between long bowlder-covered
ridges, and is fed at its western end by a small stream.</p>
<p align="justify">Although its outlet was not discovered,
it doubtless drains into the Nascaupee River.</p>
<p align="justify">On the return journey an attempt was
made to descend the Nascaupee River below Seal Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">The river leaves the lake at its southeastern
extremity, flowing between hills that rise almost
straight from the waters edge, and is one long continuation
of heavy rapids.  After following the stream for
two days we were obliged to retrace our steps to Seal
Lake, thereafter keeping to the course pursued on
the inland journey.</p>
<p><b>DETAILS OF ROCK EXPOSURE</b></p>
<p align="justify">The numbers following the names of
rocks refer to corresponding numbers in appendix.</p>
<p align="justify">Of the rocks observed, by far the
greater number are foliated basic eruptives,—­schists
and gneisses.  There are, however, some that are
of undoubted sedimentary origin, but highly metamorphosed.</p>
<p align="justify">The general direction of foliation
is a few degrees south of east, subject, of course,
to many local changes.</p>
<p align="justify">Along Grand Lake the rock is a compact
amphibolite [3] with a strike S. 78 degrees E. cut
by numerous pegmatite dikes, having a strike N. 30
degrees W. and a dip 79 degrees W..  These dikes
vary in width from three to twenty feet.  Half
way to the head of the lake is a dike [1] having a
total width of eight feet, consisting of a central
band of segregated quartz, six feet wide, cut by numerous
thin sheets of biotite, which probably mark the planes
of shearing.  The quartz is bordered on either
side by a band of orthoclase,’ one foot in width. 
Between these bands of orthoclase and the neighboring
amphibolite are narrow bands of schist [2]</p>
<p align="justify">One hundred feet south of the above
point is a second dike having a similar strike and
dip and a width of eighteen feet.  A third narrow
dike, containing small pockets of magnetite, is twenty-five
feet south of the second.  Only the first is
distinguished by the segregation of the quartz.</p>
<p align="justify">The next outcrop observed was on the
portage from the Nascaupee River.  The rock, a
biotite granite gneiss [4] having a strike N. 82 degrees
E. is much weathered and split by the action of the
frost, and marked by pockets of quartz, usually four
or five inches in width.</p>
<p align="justify">Between this point and Lake Nipishish
the underlying rock differs only in being more extremely
crushed and foliated.  The one exception is on
Caribou Ridge, which is capped by a much altered gabbro.
[6]</p>
<p align="justify">The first noticeable change in the
character of the country rock is a Washkagama Lake,
where a fine grained epidotic schist [7] was observed,
having a dip 82 degrees W. and a strike S. 78 degrees
E.</p>
<p align="justify">At Otter Lake a much foliated and
weathered phyllite [8] was found.  Strike N. 73
degrees E. and a dip of 16 degrees.</p>
<p align="justify">On the Babewendigash River seven miles
east of Seal Lake is an exposure of highly metamorphosed
ancient sedimentary rocks.  The outcrop occurs
at a height of four hundred feet above the river; and
there is a well-marked stratification.</p>
<p align="justify">The lowest bed of a calcarous sericitic
schist [9] is four feet thick and underlies a bed
of schistose lime stone [10] six feet in thickness,
which is in turn covered by a finely laminated phyllite,
[11] ten feet thick.  The whole is capped by thirty
feet of quartzite, [12] which forms the top of a long
ridge.</p>
<p align="justify">Owing to the strong weathering action
this thickness of quartzite is doubtless much less
than it was originally.</p>
<p align="justify">Forty-six miles above Seal Lake an
exposure of phyllite was seen, the same in every respect
as the one east of Seal Lake, just mentioned.</p>
<p align="justify">The general direction of foliation
is S. 70 degrees E. and the dip 70 degrees. 
The higher hills west of Seal Lake are capped by a
much altered gabbro [13] that has undergone considerable
weathering.</p>
<p align="justify">Between the Nascaupee River and a
few miles beyond Bibiquasin Lake the rock is quartzite,
[14] considerably weathered and covered by drift. 
Bowlders of this quartzite were seen along the Nascaupee
River long before the first outcrop was reached, showing
the general direction of the glacial movement to have
been to the southeast.  From Bibiquasin Lake
to Lake Kasheshebogamog the country is covered with
much drift; the only exposures are on the steep hillsides. 
The rock being a coarse hornblende granite.</p>
<p align="justify">The western end of Kasheshebogamog
Lake lies within the limit of the anorthosite [15]
area, which extends from that point to Lake Michikamau,
a direct distance of twenty miles and was the only
anorthosite observed on the journey.</p>
<p><b>GLACIAL STRIAE</b></p>
<table>
<tr><td>First portage opposite Red River</td><td>S. 45 degrees E.</td></tr>
<tr><td>On Caribou Ridge</td> <td>E.</td></tr>
<tr><td>At Washkagama Lake</td> <td>S. 70 degrees E.</td></tr>
<tr><td>Near Seal Lake</td> <td>N. 85 degrees E.</td></tr>
<tr><td>At Wuchusk Nipi</td> <td>S. 75 degrees E.</td></tr>
<tr><td>Thirty-two miles above Wuchusk Nipi</td> <td>S. 70 degrees E.</td></tr>
</table>
<p><b>MICROSCOPICAL FEATURES OF THE ROCK SPECIMENS</b></p>
<a name="geology"></a>
<a href="geology.jpg">
<img alt="Geological Specimens" src="geologth.jpg">
</a>
<p align="justify">By G. M. Richards, Columbia University<br><br>
1—­Pegmatite-Grand Lake.  The specimen
was taken from a pegmatite dike at its contact with
an amphibolite.  In the hand specimen it is an
apparently pure orthoclase but in the thin section
small scattered quartz grains are observed; as well
as the alteration products, Kaolin and sericite.</p>
<p align="justify">The minerals at contact are quartz,
biotite, magnetite and hornblende.</p>
<p align="justify">Both the quartz and orthoclase contain
dust inclusions and crystallites, while the evidences
of shearing and crushing are abundant.</p>
<p>2-Quartz Biotite Schist.</p>
<p align="justify">Contact between above dike and amphibolite. 
A coarse black rock carrying magnetite and pyrites
in considerable quantities.</p>
<p align="justify">Under the microscope some of the biotite
has a green coloration from decomposition and is surrounded
by strong pleochroic halos.</p>
<p>Small grains of secondary pyroxene are numerous.</p>
<h1>AMPHIBOLITE</h1>
<p>3-Grand Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">A dark, compact rock, having a mottled
appearance due to grains of plagioclase, and a green
color in section.</p>
<p align="justify">Minerals present are hornblende, biotite,
plagioclase, pyroxene, quartz and the alteration products
from the feldspar.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has been subjected to a strong
crushing action, which has been resisted by only small
portions of it.  The spaces between the grains,
which are intact, are filled with a confused mass of
peripherally granulated minerals, in which strain shadows
are very prominent.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has been derived by dynamic
metamorphism from a basic igneous rock.</p>
<p>4-Biotite Granite Gneiss.</p>
<p align="justify">Eighteen miles above mouth of Nascaupee
River.  A fine-grained rock of gneissic structure
having a faint pink color.</p>
<p align="justify">Plagioclase, microcline and quartz
are the predominating minerals, while biotite, titanite,
epidote, apatite, zircon and garnet are present in
smaller quantities.</p>
<p align="justify">There is also a small amount of hematite,
pyroxene and sericite.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock, which is of a granitic composition,
contains numerous crystallites and has been subjected
to considerable strain and crushing, which has resulted
in foliation.</p>
<p align="justify">5-Mica Granite Gneiss—­Country
Rock—­near Caribou Ridge.</p>
<p align="justify">In the hand specimen the rock has
the same appearance as No. 4, if anything, it is somewhat
more compact.</p>
<p align="justify">The principal minerals are, plagioclase,
biotite and microcline, with smaller quantities of
quartz, iron oxide, pyroxene and garnet.</p>
<p align="justify">The feldspar is decomposed with the
resulting formation of epidote, which is quite prominent. 
There are also numerous included crystals.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has been greatly crushed
and sheared, and is much finer than No. 4.</p>
<p>6—­Cap of Caribou Ridge.</p>
<p align="justify">A hard compact rock of dark green
color, having a mottled appearance, due to the presence
of a white mineral.</p>
<p align="justify">Pyroxene, quartz and augite form the
groundmass, as seen in section.  There are a few
small grains of magnetite,</p>
<p align="justify">The severe crushing to which the rock
has been subjected has resulted in the conversion
of the plagioclase into scapolite and also in the
formation of zoisite by the characteristic alteration
of the lime bearing silicate of the feldspar in conjunction
with other constituents of the rock.</p>
<p align="justify">The light mineral is finely granulated
and the whole is marked by uneven extinction.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has probably been derived
by dynamic metamorphism, from a coarse igneous rock
like a gabbro.</p>
<p>7—­Epidotic Sericitic Schist.  Washkagama
Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">A fine grained compact gray rock,
of aggregate structure, consisting chiefly of quartz,
plagioclase and biotite, and the alteration products
epidote and sericite.</p>
<p align="justify">Under the microscope it is a confused
mass of finely granulated minerals, with numerous
included crystals.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has undergone complete metamorphism
and its origin is unknown.</p>
<p>8—­Phyllite-Near Otter Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">A soft extremely fine grained gray
rock, with a well developed schistose structure, carrying
much magnetite, plagioclase, orthoclase and their
alteration products.</p>
<p align="justify">The strain to which the rock has been
subjected has resulted in a very fine lamination,
and it is <i>considerably weathered</i>.</p>
<p align="justify">9—­Calcarous Sericite Schist.—­Seven
Miles East of Seal Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">A dark compact rock, in which calcite
and sericite predominate.  Quartz is less plentiful. 
The results of shearing and pressure are very prominent
and bring out the foliation, even in the calcite.</p>
<p>10—­Schistose Limestone—­Same
location as No. 9.</p>
<p align="justify">A white rock having a peculiar mottled
appearance due to the inclusions of decomposing biotite
which project from the surrounding mass of calcite. 
There is some sericite present, also magnetite, resulting
from the decomposition of the biotite.</p>
<p align="justify">The bent and metamorphosed condition
of the calcite shows the shearing and crushing which
the rock has undergone.</p>
<p>11—­Phyllite—­same location as
No. 9.</p>
<p align="justify">A dark red, finely laminated rock
consisting chiefly of decomposed biotite and feldspar,
occasional quartz grains and sericite and much iron
oxide.</p>
<p align="justify">The rock has been subjected to strong
shearing force, producing a good example of schistose
structure.</p>
<p>12—­Quartzite—­Same location as
No. 9.</p>
<p align="justify">A compact rock of light red color,
made up of uniformly rounded grains of quartz, and
the feldspar with occasional grain of magnetite.</p>
<p align="justify">A fine siliceous material discolored
by iron oxide, acts as a cement between the grains.</p>
<p align="justify">The quartz grains show secondary growth.
13—­Altered Gabbro—­Thirty-two
Miles Above Wuchusk Nipi on Nascaupee River.</p>
<p align="justify">A coarse dark green rock whose principal
constituents are pyroxene plagioclase and magnetite.</p>
<p align="justify">There is a slightly developed diabasic
structure and the rock is much altered by weathering;
the resultant product being chlorite.</p>
<p>14—­Quartizite—­Bibiquagin Lake.</p>
<p align="justify">Hard compact rock of light red color,
cut in all directions by narrow veins of quartz, from
microscope size to one-half an inch in width.</p>
<p align="justify">The grains of the constituent minerals,
quartz, feldspar and magnetite have an angular brecciated
appearance; showing uneven extinction and strong crushing
effects.</p>
<p align="justify">The magnetite is somewhat decomposed,
the resulting hematite filling the spaces between
the quartz grains.</p>
<p>15—­Anorthosite—­Shore of Lake
Michikamau.</p>
<p align="justify">A coarse grained rock of dark gray
color, in which labradorite is the chief mineral. 
Magnetite and Kaolin are present in small quantities.</p>
<p align="justify">The labradorite contains inclusions
of rutile and biotite and has a well-developed wedge
structure and cross fracture due to the pressure and
shearing which it has undergone.</p>
<p align="justify">It is also somewhat stained by the
decomposition of the magnetite.</p>
<h1>SOURCES OF INFORMATION</h1>
<p align="justify">On the map of the portage route to
Lake Michikamau; that lake, the Grand River and Groswater
Bay are taken from the map accompanying the report
of Mr. A. P. Low.</p>
<p align="justify">The location of the Susan and Beaver
Rivers with their tributaries was obtained from Dillon
Wallace’s map in “The Lure of the Labrador
Wild.”</p>
<p align="justify">The instruments used were a Brunton
Pocket Transit, a small taffrail log and an Aneroid
Barometer.  Distances on land were approximated
by means of a pedometer and by rough triangulation.</p>
<a name="maps"></a>
<a href="map2smal.jpg">
<img alt="Map of Canoe Route from Lake Michikamau to Ungava Bay and Sledge Route from Fort Chimo to Nachvak Bay" src="map2th.jpg">
</a>
<a name="ptgmap"></a>
<a href="ptgmapsm.jpg">
<img alt="Map of Portage Route from Hamilton Inlet to Lake Michikamau Labrador" src="ptgmapth.jpg">
</a>
<br>
<br>
<hr>
<br>
<br>
<pre>
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