216 On the frail of vanishing birds 



ing bird continued to sit as we flew by, circling in a wide arc at 

 1,000 feet. Its size and outline, even its posture, were unmistakable. 

 I could see that it was turning to watch us as we passed, its head 

 up and its yellow eyes doubtless glaring at us with hostility and a 

 total lack of fear. We flew back over a portion of the region to 

 the north and east, where other pairs had been observed four days 

 previously, but we failed to catch sight of them. In that crazy- 

 quilt pattern of lakes and ponds it was not surprising. 



On our way into the area we had taken a long look at the only 

 stream by which we might hope to enter this all but inaccessible 

 wilderness. What we saw was a narrow, twisting creek perhaps 

 twenty to thirty feet wide, fairly deep and swift, and apparently 

 obstructed all along its lower course by log jams. The airline 

 distance from the mouth of the Sass to the vicinity of the nesting 

 area is only about sixteen miles, but there appeared to be some 

 forty or more bends and oxbows in the first mile of actual distance 

 to be covered, and we speculated that in reality the route would 

 total something like sixty or seventy miles. 



The next morning we loaded our gear into two Chipewyan-type 

 river boats, each pushed along by a 10-h.p. outboard, and, towing 

 our eighteen-foot canoe astern, we started off down the mighty 

 Slave River toward the Grand Detour, which would be our first 

 portage. In our party, besides myself, were Ray Stewart, Bob 

 Stewart, and ten Indians and breeds who would assist us in pack- 

 ing our canoe, and more than 500 pounds of equipment over the 

 major part of the first portage. It was a bright day though still 

 quite chilly, especially on the open river. Those who had them 

 sat huddled in parkas with the hoods pulled up around their faces. 

 We made the forty-four miles by two-thirty that afternoon, dodg- 

 ing drift logs all the way. When I went ashore, over silt-encrusted 

 slabs of ice that still littered the banks, I found that the packers 

 had a fire going and were already cooking the buffalo steaks that 

 had been provided for them. In typical Indian fashion they were 

 boiling them in a big pot. With lots of potatoes. 



At four o'clock we were ready to start packing, two natives 

 carrying the canoe and the rest of us with good loads on our backs. 

 It had been some years since I had done any heavy packing, and 



