But we were mistaken. We had passed the Nascaupee five miles
below, where it empties, together with the Crooked River, into a
deep bay extending northward from Grand Lake. At its mouth the
Nascaupee is divided by an island into two streams, and this island
is so thickly covered with trees, and the streams on either side of
it are so narrow, that when we crossed along in front of the bay no
break in the line of woods at the mouth of the river was
perceptible. Perhaps it will be said we should have explored the
bay. I know now myself that should have been done, but in justice
to Hubbard it must be remembered that none of us then had any
reason to suppose we should find a river at any place other than
the extreme upper end of the lake. Time and time again Hubbard had
asked the few natives who had been there if the Nascaupee entered
Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer invariably had
been: "Yes, sir; he do." Furthermore, it will have to be taken
into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear that
the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and by
the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed.

The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the
Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking
hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic
memories.

On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its
spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water. Proceeding up
the Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low
ridges covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and
aspen trees. For the most part the banks of the river were steep
and high; where they were low the river formed little pond