The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
the boat nearest the bank we were ascending. 
Then I pulled with all my weight to turn the 
bow across stream, and at the same moment the 
boys on the bank hauled for all they were worth, 
which strain broke out the rope from the tree 
it had fouled. This accomplished, I slackened 
up my short rope in the boat, thus allowing her 
head to turn once more to the bank, when she 
was again hauled along until held up once more 
by some other obstacle. 
Under such conditions the journey took us 
five and a half days; we had rocks and rapids 
innumerable to negotiate, and very often anxious, 
exciting work. At last the lake and the Indian 
house. The tow-rope showed the hard usage to 
which it had been subjected: it was worn out, — 
and useless. But without it the ascent of the 
river would have been impossible. My ribs also 
showed signs of wear and tear, many bruises in 
blue showing where the short rope had caught 
me when hauling on it, for I had constantly 
taken a turn round my body and then round the 
thwarts in order to get more purchase. 
Early next morning we started to row across — 
the lake to a shack that Dawson had built a 
year before. The scenery was magnificent, 
mountains and glaciers coming right down to 
the lake. The distance we had to go was about 
three miles, a stiff pull, for there was a strong head 
wind blowing, and, in consequence, quite a big 
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