Three years have passed since Hubbard and I began that fateful journey
into Labrador of which this volume is a record. A little more than a
year has elapsed since the first edition of our record made its
appearance from the press. Meanwhile I have looked behind the ranges.
Grand Lake has again borne me upon the bosom of her broad, deep waters
into the great lonely wilderness that lured Hubbard to his death.
It was a day in June last year that found me again at the point where
some inexplicable fate had led Hubbard and me to pass unexplored the
bay that here extends northward to receive the Nascaupee River, along
which lay the trail for which we were searching, and induced us to
take, instead, that other course that carried us into the dreadful
Susan Valley. How vividly I saw it all again--Hubbard resting on his
paddle, and then rising up for a better view, as he said, "Oh, that's
just a bay and it isn't worth while to take time to explore it. The
river comes in up here at the end of the lake. They all said it was at
the end of the lake." And we said, "Yes, it is at the end of the lake;
they all said so," and went on, for that was before we knew--Hubbard
never knew. A perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a
paddle would have set us right. No current was noticed, no word was
spoken, and the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder,
where Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for
us. How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then. That
July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before. I
believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment. I never felt
his loss so keenly as then. An almost irresistible impulse seized me
to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where we had left him
that stormy October day and find if he were not after all still there
and waiting for me to come back to him.
Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside. Armed with the experience
gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the
Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of the
Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred miles to
the storm-swept shores of Ungava Bay, and two thousand miles with dog
sledge over endless reaches of ice and snow.
While I struggled northward with new companions, Hubbard was always
with me to inspire and urge me on. Often and often at night as I sat,
disheartened and alone, by the camp-fire while the rain beat down and
the wind soughed drearily through the firtops, he would come and sit by
me as of old, and as of old I would hear his gentle voice and his words
of encouragement. Then I would go to my blankets with new courage,
resolved to fight the battle to the end.
One day our camp was pitched upon the shores of Lake Michikamau, and as
I looked for the first time upon the waters of the lake which Hubbard
had so longed to reach, I lived over again that day when he returned
from his climb to the summit of the great grey mountain which now bears
his name, with the joyful news that there just behind the ridge lay
Michikamau; then the weary wind-bound days that followed and the race
down the trail with all its horrors; our kiss and embrace; and my final
glimpse of the little white tent in which he lay.
And so with the remembrance of his example as an inspiration the work
was finished by me, the survivor, but to Hubbard and to his memory
belong the credit and the honour, for it was only through my training
with him and this inspiration received from him that I was able to
carry to successful completion what he had so well planned.
My publishers inform me that five editions of our story have found
their way into the hearts and homes of those who cannot visit the great
northern wilds, but who love to hear about them. I shall avail myself
of this opportunity to thank these readers for the kindly manner in
which they have received the book. This reception of it has been
especially gratifying to me because of the lack of confidence I had in
my ability to tell the story of Hubbard's life and glorious death as I
felt it should be told.
The writing of the story was a work of love. I wished not only to
fulfil my last promise to my friend to write the narrative of his
expedition, but I wished also to create a sort of memorial to him. I
wanted the world to know Hubbard as he was, his noble character, his
devotion to duty, and his faith, so strong that not even the severe
hardships he endured in the desolate north, ending only with death,
could make him for a moment forget the simple truths that he learned
from his mother on the farm in old Michigan. I wanted the young men to
know these things, for they could not fail to be the better for having
learned them; and I wanted the mothers to know what men mothers can
make of their sons.
An unknown friend writes me, "To dare and die so divinely and leave
such a record is to be transfigured on a mountain top, a master symbol
to all men of cloud-robed human victory, angel-attended by reverence
and peace...a gospel of nobleness and faith." And another, "How truly
'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.' Mr. Hubbard
went to find Lake Michikamau; he failed, but God spelled 'Success' of
'Failure,' and you brought back a message which should be an
inspiration to every soul to whom it comes. The life given up in the
wilds of Labrador was not in vain." Space will not permit me to quote
further from the many letters of this kind that have come to me from
all over the United States and Canada, but they tell me that others
have learned to know Hubbard as he was and as his friends knew him, and
that our book has not failed of its purpose.
The storms of two winters have held in their icy grasp the bleak land
in which he yielded up his life for a principle, and the flowers of two
summers have blossomed upon his grave, overlooking the Hudson. But it
was only his body that we buried there. His spirit still lives, for
his was a spirit too big and noble to be bound by the narrow confines
of a grave. His life is an example of religious faith, strong
principle, and daring bravery that will not be forgotten by the young
men of our land.
New York, June 1, 1906. D. W.