and northwesterly direction, and rested upon the summit of a sub-
sidiary divide that we had been gradually ascending. A creek ran out
of its northwesterly end, flowing in that direction.

Until now we had found the trail with little difficulty, but here we
were baffled. A search in the afternoon failed to uncover it, and we
were forced to halt, perplexed again as to our course. Camp was
pitched in a grove of spruces at the lower end of the lake. Not far
from us was an old hunting camp which Pete said was "most hundred
years old," and he was not far wrong in his estimate, for the frames
upon which the Indians had stretched skins and the tepee poles
crumbled to pieces when we touched them.

Strange to say, not a fish of any description had been seen for
several days and not one could be induced to rise to fly or bait, and
our net was always empty now. Game, too, was scarce. There were no
fresh caribou tracks this side of the Nascaupee River, and but one
duck and one spruce partridge had been killed. The last bit of our
venison was eaten the day before. It was pretty badly spoiled and
turning a little green in color, but Pete washed it well several times
and we all avoided the lee side of the kettle while it was cooking.
It was pronounced "not so bad."

Another day was lost on Lake Bibiquasin in an ineffectual hunt for the
trail. I scouted alone all day and in my wanderings came upon the
first ptarmigans of the trip and shot one of them with my rifle. The
others flew away. They wore their mottled summer coat, as it was
still too early for them to don their pure white dress of winter.

During my scouting trip I also discovered the first ripe bake-apple