MOUNT HUBBARD AND WINDBOUND LAKE
The day following no one was astir early. I think no one slept
much. I could hear from the other tent the low hum of the men's
voices far into the night. Mosquitoes kept me awake. About 2 A.M.
I got up, lighted my candle, and killed all I could find, and after
that I had a little peace, but did not sleep much. It was then
growing light.
There was a general limpness to be observed in camp that morning,
aggravated by a steady downpour of rain; but before noon it
cleared, and the men took all but the camp stuff forward. We had
supper late to avoid the flies, the still night gathering round us
as we ate. Rising close above was the dark mass of Lookout
Mountain, the lake at its foot stretching away into the gloom,
reflecting dimly the tinge of sunset light in the sky above. By
the camp fire, after our meal, the men sat telling each other
stories till Job and Joe broke the little circle and went to their
tent. Then floating out on the solemn, evening silence came the
sound of hymns sung in Indian to old, familiar tunes, and last the
"Paddling Song." With what an intense love the one who was "gone
away" had loved it all. I could not help wondering if sometimes he
wished to be with me. It seemed as if he must.
On Sunday morning it rained, but cleared before noon, and at 11.30
A.M. we were on the river. That afternoon and the day following we
passed the most picturesque part of the river. There were Maid
Marion Falls, where the river drops fifty feet into a narrow gorge
cut out of the gneiss and schists of the Laurentian rock over which
it flows; Gertrude Falls, a direct drop of sixty feet, which for
dignity and beauty is unsurpassed by any feature of the Nascaupee;
and Isabella Falls, a system of falls and rapids and chutes
extending for more than a mile, where the water poured over ledges,
flowed in a foaming, roaring torrent round little rocky islands, or
rushed madly down a chute. About half-way up there was an abrupt,
right angle bend in the river, and, standing at the bend looking
northward, you could see through the screen of spruce on the
islands, high above you and half a mile away, the beginning of the
river's wild mile race, as it took the first flying leap out over a
wall of rocks.
The rock colouring was a deep red brown, and in some places almost
purple. The perpendicular surfaces were patched with close lying
grey-green moss, and in places with a variety almost the colour of
vermilion. The country was not burned over, and everywhere the
beautiful reindeer moss grew luxuriantly, setting off in fine
contrast the tall spruces, with occasional balsams growing among
them.
A mile and a half of very rough portaging brought us at 3 P.M. to
the head of the falls, and there we found ourselves on a lake at
last. Perhaps few will understand how fine the long stretch of
smooth water seemed to us. That day the portaging had been very
rough, the way lying over a bed of great, moss-covered boulders
that were terribly slippery. The perspiration dripped from the
men's faces as they carried, for it was very hot. The big Labrador
bulldogs (flies as large as wasps) were out in force that day, as
well as the tiny sandflies. One thing we had to be thankful for,
was that there were no mosquitoes. The men told me that there are
never many where the bulldogs are plentiful, as these big fellows
eat the mosquitoes. I did not see them doing it, but certain it is
that when they were about in large numbers there were very few
mosquitoes. They bit hard, and made the blood run. They were so
big and such noisy creatures that their horrible buzzing sent the
cold chills chasing over me whenever they made an attack. Still
they were not so bad as mosquitoes.
And now we were afloat again on beautiful smooth water. The lake
stretched away to the southwest six and a half miles. We camped
that evening on a rocky ridge stretching out in serpent-like form
from the west shore of the lake above. The ridge was not more than
fifty feet wide, but it was one mile long. The rocks were grown
over with moss, and the willows and a few evergreens added their
touch of beauty. These long narrow points were a characteristic
feature of the lakes of the upper plateau. In this and the lakes
above, through which we passed the day following, there were many
small, rocky islands, some of them willow covered, some wooded.
The shores everywhere were wooded, but the difference in size in
the trees was now quite marked. They were much smaller than on the
river below. The water was clear, and we could see the lake beds
strewn with huge boulders, some of them reaching to very near the
surface. Here we began to see signs of the Indians again,
occasional standing wigwam poles showing among the green woods.
Passing four of these lakes, we came to where the river flows in
from the south down three heavy rapids. On the west side of its
entrance to the lake we found the old trail. The blazing was
weather worn and old, but the trail was a good one, and had been
much used in the days long ago. The portage was little more than a
quarter of a mile long, and we put our canoes into the water again
in a tiny bay above the islands.
While the men took their loads forward I set up my fishing-rod for
the first time. Every day I had felt ashamed that it had not been
done before, but every day I put it off. I never cared greatly for
fishing, much as I had loved to be with my husband on the lakes and
streams. Mr. Hubbard could never understand it, for more than any
other inanimate thing on earth he loved a fishing-rod, and to whip
a trout stream was to him pure delight. As I made a few casts near
the foot of the rapid, my heart grew heavier every minute. I
almost hated the rod, and soon I took it down feeling that I could
never touch it again.
In the bay above the falls we saw a mother duck and her flock of
little ones, the first we had seen so far on our trip. In the
afternoon we passed up the short reach of river into another lake,
the largest we had yet seen, stretching miles away to east and
west, we could not tell how far. We could see, the men thought,
about ten miles to the east, and twelve to fifteen west. The lake
seemed to average about four miles in width. The narrowest part
was where we entered it, and on the opposite shore, three miles
away, rose a high hill. It seemed as if we might even now be on
Michikamau, perhaps shut from the main body of the lake only by the
islands. From the hill we should be able to see we thought, and so
paddled towards it.
The hill was wooded almost to the top, and above the woods was the
barren moss-covered summit. The walking was very rough. It seemed
to me as we climbed that I should be stifled with the heat, and the
flies, and the effort, but most of all with the thoughts that were
crowding my mind. Instead of being only glad that we were nearing
Michikamau I had been growing more and more to dread the moment
when I should first look out over its broad waters. Sometimes I
felt that I could never go on to the top--but I did.
The panorama of mountain, and lake, and island was very impressive.
For miles in every direction were the lakes. Countless wooded
islands, large and small, dotted their surfaces, and westward,
beyond the confusion of islands and water around us, lay the great
shining Michikamau. Still we could see no open way to reach it.
Lying along its eastern shore a low ridge stretched away northward,
and east of this again the lakes. We thought this might perhaps be
the Indian inland route to George River, which Mr. Low speaks of in
his report on the survey of Michikamau. Far away in the north were
the hills with their snow patches, which we had seen from Lookout
Mountain. Turning to the east we could trace the course of the
Nascaupee to where we had entered it on Sunday. We could see
Lookout Mountain, and away beyond it the irregular tops of the
hills we had come through from a little west of Seal Lake. In the
south, great rugged hills stood out west towards Michikamau. North
and south of the hill we were on were big waters. The one to the
south we hoped would lead us out to Michikamau. It emptied into
the lake we had just crossed in a broad shallow rapid at the foot
of our hill, one and a half miles to the west.
George showed me, only a few miles from where we were standing,
Mount Hubbard, from which Mr. Hubbard and he had seen Michikamau;
Windbound Lake and the lakes through which they had hoped to find
their way to the great lake; the dip in the hills to the east
through which they had passed on their long portage. He pointed
out to me a little dark line on the brow of the hill where the
bushes were in which they had shot the rabbit, and on the eastern
slope another dark shadow showing where they had shot the
ptarmigan.
So much of life and its pain can crowd into a few minutes. The
whole desperate picture stood out with dread vividness. Yet I had
wished very much to see what he had shown me.
At the rapid we were but a few minutes poling up to the big water
south. Then after two miles of paddling, still southward, we
rounded a point and looked westward straight into Michikamau and
the sun. It was 5.52 P.M.
When the exclamations of delight had subsided Gilbert asked: "Do we
have rice pudding for supper to-night, Mrs. Hubbard?"
That evening we camped in an island flower-garden.