When Richards and Pete returned an hour later we had camp pitched and
supper cooking. They reported the trail, as far as they had gone,
very rough and hard to find. For some distance it would have to be
cut out with an ax, and nowhere was it bigger than a rabbit run.
Duncan rather favored going as far, as Seal Lake by the trail that he
knew and which followed the Nascaupee. This trail he believed to be
much easier than the long unused Indian trail, which was undoubtedly
in many places entirely obscured and in any case extremely difficult
to follow. I dismissed his suggestion, however, with little
consideration. My, object was to trace the old Indian trail and
explore as much of the country as possible, and not to hide myself in
an enclosed river valley. Therefore, I decided that next day we
should scout ahead to the first water to which the trail led and cut
out the trail where necessary. The work I knew would be hard, but we
were expecting to do hard work. We were not on a summer picnic.

A rabbit which Stanton had shot and a spruce grouse that fell before
Pete's pistol, together with what remained of our porcupine, hot
coffee, and Mrs. Blake's good bread, made a supper that we ate with
zest while we talked over the prospects of the trail. Supper fin-
ished, Pete carefully washed his dishes, then carefully washed his
dishcloth, which latter he hung upon a bough near the fire to dry.
His cleanliness about his cooking was a revelation to me. I had never
before seen a camp man or guide so neat in this respect.

The real work of the trip was now to begin, the hard portaging, the
trail finding and trail making, and we were to break the seal of a
land that had, through the ages, held its secret from all the world,
excepting the red man. This is what we were thinking of when we
gathered around our camp fire that evening, and filled and lighted our