With these and other conceits we whiled away the beautiful evening
hours. What a difference there was in the morning! We awoke--it
was Saturday, August 8--to find that the east wind had increased in
force and was accompanied by a driving, chilling rain. Reluctantly
we broke camp, and began a day of back-breaking, disheartening
work. The wind soughed dismally through the forests, and it was as
though late autumn had overtaken us in a night. The spruce boughs,
watersoaked, seemed to hang low for no other purpose than to strike
us in the face at every step, and the willows and alders along the
river that now and again obstructed our way appeared to be thicker
and wetter than ever.

Under these conditions we had made six portages, the longest of
which was about three-quarters of a mile, and covered in all about
four and a half miles, when one o'clock came and we gave up the
fight for the day, to make our Sunday camp and try to get fish. We
were ravenously hungry, and ate even the heads of the dried trout
we had for luncheon, these being the last of those we caught and
smoked on Lake Elson. During the afternoon we put out for the
first time the old gill net Mackenzie had given us, and by hard
work with the rod caught a few more trout for supper.

It still poured on Sunday morning. Hubbard fished all day, and I
the greater part of the forenoon. The net product of our labor was
forty-five trout, most of them little fellows. The gill net
yielded us nothing. In the afternoon George and I took the rifles
and started out in different directions to look for caribou.
Neither of us found any fresh tracks. I returned at dusk, to find
George already in camp and our supper of boiled fish ready to be