As the eleventh edition of this book goes to press, the opportunity is
given for a brief prefatory description of a pilgrimage to Hubbard's
death-place in the Labrador Wilderness from which I have just returned.
For many years it had been my wish to re-visit the scene of those
tragic experiences, and to permanently and appropriately mark the spot
where Hubbard so heroically gave up his life a decade ago. Judge
William J. Malone, of Bristol, Connecticut, one of the many men who
have received inspiration from Hubbard's noble example, was my
companion, and at Northwest River we were joined by Gilbert Blake, who
was a member of the party of four trappers who rescued me in 1903. We
carried with us a beautiful bronze tablet, which was designed to be
placed upon the boulder before which Hubbard's tent was pitched when he
died. Wrapped with the tablet was a little silk flag and Hubbard's
college pennant, lovingly contributed by his sister, Mrs. Arthur C.
Williams, of Detroit, Michigan. These were to be draped upon the
tablet when erected and left with it in the wilderness. Our plan was
to ascend and explore the lower Beaver River to the point where Hubbard
discovered it, and where, in 1903, we abandoned our canoe to re-cross
to the Susan River Valley a few days before his death. Here it was our
expectation to follow the old Hubbard portage trail to Goose Creek and
thence down Goose Creek to the Susan River.
Of our journey up the Beaver River suffice it to say that we met with
many adventures, but proceeded without serious accident until one day
our canoe was submerged in heavy rapids, the lashings gave way, and to
our consternation the precious tablet, together with the flag and
pennant, was lost in the flood. After two days' vain effort to recover
the tablet and flags we continued on the river until at length further
ascent seemed unpractical. From this point, with packs on our backs,
we made a difficult foot journey of several days to the Susan River
valley.
I shall not attempt to describe my feelings when at last we came into
the valley where Hubbard died and where we had suffered so much. Man
changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world changes, but the
untrod wilderness never changes. Before us lay the same rushing river
I remembered so well, the same starved forest of spruce with its
pungent odor, and there was the clump of spruce trees in which our last
camp was pitched just as I had seen it last. Malone and Blake remained
by the river bank while I approached alone what to me was sacred
ground. Time fell away, and I believe that I expected, when I stepped
beside the boulder before which his tent was pitched when we said our
last farewell on that dismal October morning ten years ago, to hear
Hubbard's voice welcome me as of old. The charred wood of his camp
fire might, from all appearances, have but just grown cold. The
boughs, which I had broken and arranged for his couch, and upon which
he slept and died, were withered but undisturbed, and I could identify
exactly the spot where he lay. There were his worn old moccasins, and
one of the leather mittens, which, in his last entry in his diary he
said he might eat if need be. Near the dead fire were some spoons and
other small articles, as we had left them, and scattered about were
remnants of our tent.
Lovingly we put ourselves to our task. Judge Malone, with a brush
improvised from Blake's stiff hair, and with white lead intended for
canoe repairs, lettered upon the boulder this inscription:
Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.,
Intrepid Explorer
And
Practical Christian
Died Here
Oct. 18, 1903.
"Whither I go ye know,
and the way ye know."
John XIV.--4.
Then with hammer and chisel I cut the inscription deep into the rock,
and we filled the letters with white lead to counteract the effect of
the elements.
It was dark when the work was finished, and by candlelight, beneath the
stars, I read, from the same Testament I used in 1903, the fourteenth
of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians, the chapters which I
read to Hubbard on the morning of our parting. Judge Malone read the
Fiftieth Psalm. We sang some hymns and then knelt about the withered
couch of boughs, each of us three with the feeling that Hubbard was
very close to us.
In early morning we shouldered our packs again, and with a final look
at Hubbard's last camp, turned back to the valley of the Beaver and new
adventures.