XVI 

 IN THE " LAND OF LITTLE STICKS " 



WE left all hopes of a warming fire on the south side 

 of King Lake when we lashed the newly cut lodge-poles 

 to our sledges and took up our northward way through 

 the outlying relics of timber-land, which the Indians 

 aptly call the " Land of Little Sticks." There is no 

 abrupt ending of the timber-line. For a day or two be- 

 fore reaching King Lake the trees are growing smaller 

 and more scarce; as you draw nearer they stretch away 

 like irregular lines of skirmishers deployed along the fron- 

 tier to intercept further encroachment on the Barren 

 Grounds. 



And now you pass beyond these sentries and travel 

 along a ridge which makes out into the white desert a 

 long, wooded peninsula or mayhap you cross a lake to 

 find a wooded island on the other side. Gradually im- 

 perceptibly almost the peninsulas grow shorter and the 

 islands smaller, until finally you stand on the shore of 

 King Lake and look north into desolation. 



Probably the roughest country in all the Northland is 

 that going down to the Barrens. Nature appears to have 

 made an effort to stay the footsteps of the wanderer while 

 yet there is opportunity to turn from the trials that await 

 him beyond. Isolated hills, sharp little ridges, and narrow, 

 shallow valleys, running hither and thither, all rock-cov- 

 ered, and every now and again a lake, go to make up a 



