greatest care, and portaged around the worst places. The water was so
clear that often we found ourselves dodging rocks, which, when we
passed them, were ten or twelve feet below the surface. It was here
that a peculiar optical illusion occurred. The water appeared to be
running down an incline of about twenty degrees. At the place where
this was noticed, however, the current was not exceptionally swift.
We were in a section now where the Indians never go, owing to the
character of the river--a section that is wholly untraveled and
unhunted.

After leaving Indian House Lake, as we descended from the plateau, the
weather grew milder. There were chilly winds and bleak rains, but the
snow, though remaining on the mountains, disappeared gradually from
the valley, and this was a blessing to us, for it enabled us to make
camp with a little less labor, and the bits of wood were left
uncovered, to be gathered with more ease. Every hour of light we
needed, for with each dawn and twilight the days were becoming
noticeably shorter. The sun now rose in the southeast, crossed a
small segment of the sky, and almost before we were aware of it set in
the southwest.

The wilderness gripped us closer and closer as the days went by.
Remembrances of the outside world were becoming like dreamland
fancies--something hazy, indefinite and unreal. We could hardly bring
ourselves to believe that we had really met the Indians. It seemed to
us that all our lives we had been going on and on through rushing
water, or with packs over rocky portages, and the Post we were aiming
to reach appeared no nearer to us than it did the day we left
Northwest River--long, long ago. We seldom spoke. Sometimes in a
whole day not a dozen words would be exchanged. If we did talk at all