1903.

"When we reach the George River, we'll meet the Indians and all will
be well," he used to say, and how anxiously we looked forward for that
day, which never came.

At the time when he made the suggestion to turn back from Windbound
Lake I at first opposed it on the ground that we could probably reach
the George River, where game would be found and the Indians would be
met with, in much less time than it would take to make the retreat to
Northwest River. Finally I agreed that it was best to return. On the
twenty-first of September the retreat was begun and Hubbard died on
the eighteenth of October. Now, two years later, I realized that from
Windbound Lake we could have reached Michikamau in five or six days at
the very outside, and less than two weeks, allowing for delays through
bad weather and our weakened condition, would have brought us to the
George River, where, at that time of the year, ducks and ptarmigans
are always plentiful. All these things I pondered as I sat by this
camp fire, and I asked myself, "Why is it that when Fate closes our
eyes she does not lead us aright?" Of course it is all conjecture,
but I feel assured that if Hubbard and I had gone on then instead of
turning back, Hubbard would still be with us.

Below the expansion on which our first camp on the river was pitched
the stream trickled through the thickly strewn rocks in a wide bed,
where it took a sharp turn to the northward and emptied into another
expansion several miles in length, with probably a stream joining it
from the northeast, though we were unable to investigate this, as high
winds prevailed which made canoeing difficult, and we had to content
ourselves with keeping a direct course.