luncheon one of the men remarked, "Duncan said once that if there are
no flies there, hell can't be as bad as this, and he's pretty near
right."

The river left the lake in a rapid, and while Pete was making his
fire, Richards, Easton and I went down to catch our supper, and in
half an hour had secured forty-five good-sized trout--sufficient for
supper that night and breakfast and dinner the next day.

Since leaving Otter Lake, caribou signs had been plentiful, fresh
trails running in every direction. Pete was anxious to halt a day to
hunt, but I decreed otherwise, to his great disappointment.

The scenery at this point was particularly fine, with a rugged, wild
beauty that could hardly be surpassed. Below us the great, bald snow
hills loomed very close at hand, with patches of snow glinting against
the black rocks of the hills, as the last rays of the setting sun
kissed them good-night. Nearer by was the more hospitable wooded
valley and the shining river, and above us the lake, placid and
beautiful, and beyond it the line of low sand hills of the miniature
desert we had crossed. One of the snow hills to the northwest had two
knobs resembling a camel's back, and was a prominent landmark. We
christened it "The Camel's Hump."

Heretofore the streams had been taking a generally southerly
direction, but this river flowed to the northwest, which was most
encouraging, for running in that direction it could have but one
outlet-the Nascaupee River.

A portage in the morning, then a short run on the river, then another