Our camp on Tuesday night was rather a dreary one; but before noon
on Wednesday (August 12) the clouds broke, big patches of blue sky
began to appear, and with a bit of sunshine now and again, our
hearts lightened as we proceeded on our journey.

At the foot of a half-mile portage Hubbard caught fourteen trout,
and our luncheon was secure. Three more portages we made, covering
in all about three miles, and then we shouted for joy, for there
ahead of us lay open water. Along it for five miles we gaily
canoed before stopping for luncheon. Hungry? Yes, we were hungry
even after devouring the fourteen trout and drinking the water they
were boiled in--I could have eaten fifty like them myself--but our
spirits were high, and we made merry. For the first time since
leaving Grand Lake there was good water behind us and good water
before us.

At the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out. Wide
marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and
then a low hill of drift. The north side was followed by a low
ridge of drift, well wooded. We landed for luncheon on the south
bank, at the foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an
interesting discovery, namely, the remains of an old Indian camp
and the ruins of two large birch-bark canoes. In November, at
Northwest River Post, I heard the story of those canoes.

Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had
camped there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon
its canoes and make a dash for the Post. Game was scarce, and the
fish had gone to deeper waters. The Indians pushed desperately on