My absence on Friday did not delay our progress any; for Hubbard
was still unable to travel. On Saturday (July 25) he had not yet
fully recovered, but he decided to push forward. A drizzling rain
was falling as we started. Each of us carried a load some four
miles up the valley and returned; and then Hubbard, with a second
load, went ahead to make camp, while George and I, with the
remainder of the baggage, endeavoured to drag the canoe upstream.
Darkness came on when we were two miles below camp. While fording
the river, I was carried off my feet by the current and nearly
swept over the fall with a pack around my neck.

Then George and I left the canoe on the bank for the night, and
each with his pack proceeded to push his way through the thick
willows and alders and over the rocks. It was so dark we could not
see each other. Falling down constantly and struggling to our feet
again, we stumbled on through the pitchy blackness and down-pouring
rain, until suddenly we discerned the glowing light of our campfire
and came upon Hubbard frying bacon. George and I were too tired to
eat; we were glad to lie down in our wet clothes on the bed of
spruce boughs that was ready for us and forget our troubles in
sleep.

We rested on Sunday--and ate. A partridge I had shot the day
before was served stewed with rice and bacon for dinner, while for
supper we had twenty-two trout that Hubbard caught in the morning,
served with apple sauce and hot bread. This high living fully
recompensed us for our hard fight against nature and the elements,
and once more full of hope we lay down to sleep.