we were scarcely knee deep in the water, and at other times we
would sink up to our armpits. Frequently we were swept off our
feet. Once or twice we forced the canoe and outfit through the
thick willows and alders that lined the river, and dragged them up
the steep bank and attempted to portage; but the country here had
been burned and fallen trees were piled high in every direction, so
that we were compelled to return to the river and resume our
efforts in the raging torrent.

The work was awful, it was heartrending; and though we exerted
ourselves to the utmost from six o'clock in the morning until eight
at night, we advanced our camp only two miles that day. And when
we gathered around the fire at night, how we did "cuss" that river!
None of us, however, was discouraged, nor flinched at the prospect.
Our oil-tanned, cowhide moccasins and woollen trousers were
beginning to show the result of the attacks of bush, rock, and
water, but our blue flannel shirts and soft felt hats were still
quite respectable. Our coats we had left behind us as an
unnecessary encumbrance.

While George was cooking breakfast on Saturday morning (July 18), a
red squirrel barked at us from a near-by tree. Drawing his pistol
from its holster, Hubbard said:

"Wallace, let's see who shall have the honour of bringing to George
the first game of the trip."

I acquiesced, and walking around the tree, caught the first glimpse
of the squirrel. At it I carefully aimed my pistol, and down it
came. It made a tiny morsel for three men, but as the "first game