M osquitoes 
The Indians and local white men assert that 
the salmon never return to the sea after spawn- 
ing, which I took leave to doubt. That many 
millions of the fish that go up to the spawning 
beds die is a proven fact, but if they all died, 
then the river would have been nearly choked 
with fish. 
These rivers are, unfortunately, from a sport- 
ing point of view, useless, the water being white 
from the glacial waste. If they were but clean 
—well, I will not enlarge on the theme, but I 
think I should manage to spend a month or 
two there in that case, with my eighteen-foot 
greenheart, in the spring of each year. That 
would be delightful but for one thing, the 
mosquitoes—which make life in these regions a 
perfect curse. Nowhere else in all my wander- 
ings have I seen, or rather felt, anything to 
compare with them for numbers and viciousness. 
It is impossible to live in a room in July unless 
you have an old piece of smouldering tarred 
sacking in the doorway, to make “‘ a smudge,” 
as the locals have it. The moose and bears even 
come out on to the flats to get away from their 
attentions. My three dogs were so badly bitten 
that their noses and eyes were quite sore and 
raw from their attacks, whilst I found it im- 
possible to go to the spring, which was situated 
just outside a belt of timber near my tent, 
without first putting on a veil and gloves to 
221 
