SEAL LAKE AT LAST
A thick, impenetrable mist, such as is seldom seen in the interior of
Labrador, hung over the water and the land when we struck camp and
began our advance. For two days we traveled through numerous small
lakes, making several short portages, before we came to a lake which we
found to be the headwaters of a river flowing to the northwest. This
lake was two miles long, and we camped at its lower end, where the
river left it. Portage Lake we shall call it, and the river that
flowed out of it Babewendigash.
The portage into the lake crossed a sand desert, upon which not a drop
of water was seen, and instead of the usual rocks there were uncovered
sand and gravel knolls and valleys, where grew only occasional bunches
of very stunted brush; the surface of the sand was otherwise quite bare
and sustained not even the customary moss and lichens. The heat of the
sun reflected from the sand was powerful. The day was one of the most
trying ones of the trip, and the men, with faces and hands swollen and
bleeding from the attacks of not only the small black flies, which were
particularly bad, but also the swarms of "bulldogs," complained
bitterly of the hardships. When we halted to eat our 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
portage, around a shallow rapid, and we were afloat again on one of the
prettiest little rivers I have ever seen. The current was strong
enough to hurry us along. Down we shot past the great white hills,
which towered in majestic grandeur high above our heads, in some places
rising almost perpendicularly from the water, with immense heaps of
debris which the frost had detached from their sides lying at their
base. The river was about fifty yards wide, and in its windings in and
out among the hills almost doubled upon itself sometimes. The scenery
was fascinating. One or two small lake expansions were passed, but
generally there was a steady current and a good depth of water. "This
is glorious!" some one exclaimed, as we shot onward, and we all
appreciated the relief from the constant portaging that had been the
feature of our journey since leaving the Nascaupee River.
The first camp on this river was pitched upon the site of an old Indian
camp, above a shallow rapid. The many wigwam poles, in varying states
of decay, together with paddles, old snowshoes, broken sled runners,
and other articles of Indian traveling paraphernalia, indicated that it
had been a regular stopping place of the Indians, both in winter and in
summer, in the days when they had made their pilgrimages to Northwest
River Post. Near this point we found some beaver cuttings, the first
that we had seen since leaving the Crooked River.
Babewendigash soon carried us into a large lake expansion, and six
hours were consumed paddling about the lake before the outlet was
discovered. At first we thought it possible we were in Seal Lake, but
I soon decided that it was not large enough, and its shape did not
agree with the description of Seal Lake that Donald Blake and Duncan
McLean had given me.
During the morning I dropped a troll and landed the first namaycush of
the trip--a seven-pound fish. The Labrador lakes generally have a
great depth of water, and it is in the deeper water that the very large
namaycush, which grow to an immense size, are to be caught. Our outfit
did not contain the heavy sinkers and larger trolling spoons necessary
in trolling for these, and we therefore had to content ourselves with
the smaller fish caught in the shallower parts of the lakes. We had
two more portages before we shot the first rapid of the trip, and then
camped on the shores of a small expansion just above a wide, shallow
rapid where the river swung around a ridge of sand hills. This ridge
was about two hundred feet in elevation, and followed the river for
some distance below. In the morning we climbed it, and walked along
its top for a mile or so, to view the rapid, and suddenly, to the
westward, beheld Seal Lake. It was a great moment, and we took off our
hats and cheered. The first part of our fight up the long trail was
almost ended.
The upper part of the rapid was too shallow to risk a full load in the
canoes, so we carried a part of our outfit over the ridge to a point
where the river narrowed and deepened, then ran the rapid and picked up
our stuff below. Not far from here we passed a hill whose head took
the form of a sphinx and we noted it as a remarkable landmark. Stopping
but once to climb a mountain for specimens, at twelve o'clock we landed
on a sandy beach where Babewendigash River emptied its waters into Seal
Lake. We could hardly believe our good fortune, and while Pete cooked
dinner I climbed a hill to satisfy myself that it was really Seal Lake.
There was no doubt of it. It had been very minutely described and
sketched for me by Donald and Duncan. We had halted at what they
called on their maps "The Narrows," where the lake narrowed down to a
mere strait, and that portion of it below the canoes was hidden from my
view. It stretched out far to the northwest, with some distance up a
long arm reaching to the west. A point which I recognized from
Duncan's description as the place where the winter tilt used by him and
Donald was situated extended for some distance out into the water. The
entire length of Seal Lake is about forty miles, but only about thirty
miles of it could be seen from the elevation upon which I stood. Its
shores are generally well wooded with a growth of young spruce. High
hills surround it.
We visited the tilt as we passed the point and, in accordance with an
arrangement made with Duncan, added to our stores about twenty-five
pounds of flour that he had left there during the previous winter. Five
miles above the point where Babewendigash River empties into Seal Lake
we entered the Nascaupee, up which we paddled two miles to the first
short rapid. This we tracked, and then made camp on an island where
the river lay placid and the wind blew cool and refreshing.
Long we sat about our camp fire watching the glories of the northern
sunset, and the new moon drop behind the spruce-clad hills, and the
aurora in all its magnificence light our silent world with its wondrous
fire. Finally the others left me to go to their blankets.
When I was alone I pushed in the ends of the burning logs and sat down
to watch the blaze as it took on new life. Gradually, as I gazed into
its depths, fantasy brought before my eyes the picture of another camp
fire. Hubbard was sitting by it. It was one of those nights in the
hated Susan Valley. We had been toiling up the trail for days, and
were ill and almost disheartened; but our camp fire and the relaxation
from the day's work were giving us the renewed hope and cheer that they
always brought, and rekindled the fire of our half-lost enthusiasm.
"Seal Lake can't be far off now," Hubbard was saying. "We're sure to
reach it in a day or two. Then it'll be easy work to Michikamau, and
we 'll soon be with the Indians after that, and forget all about this
hard work. We'll be glad of it all when we get home, for we're going
to have a bully trip." How much lighter my pack felt the next day, when
I recalled his words of encouragement! How we looked and looked for
Seal Lake, but never found it. It lay hidden among those hills that
were away to the northward of us, with its waters as placid and
beautiful as they were to-day when we passed through it. I had never
seen Michikamau. Was I destined to see it now?
The fire burned low. Only a few glowing coals remained, and as they
blackened my picture dissolved. The aurora, like a hundred
searchlights, was whipping across the sky. The forest with its hidden
mysteries lay dark beneath. A deep, impenetrable silence brooded over
all. The vast, indescribable loneliness of the wilderness possessed my
soul. I tried to shake off the feeling of desolation as I went to my
bed of boughs.
To-morrow a new stage of our journey would begin. It was ho for
Michikamau!