G THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



whose waters were to bear us onward for so many 

 weeks. 



Athabaska Landing is a typical frontier town. 

 These are hard words, but justified. We put up at 

 the principal hotel; the other lodgers told me it was 

 considered the worst hotel in the world. I thought I 

 knew of two worse, but next morning accepted the 

 prevailing view. 



Our canoe and provisions arrived, but the great con- 

 voy of scows that were to take the annual supplies of 

 trade stuff for the far north was not ready, and we 

 needed the help and guidance of its men, so must 

 needs wait for four days. 



This gave us the opportunity to study the local 

 natural history and do a little collecting, the results of 

 which appear later. 



The great size of the timber here impressed me. I 

 measured a typical black poplar (P. balsamifera), 100 

 feet to the top, 8 feet 2 inches in circumference, at 18 

 inches from the ground, and I saw many thicker, but 

 none taller. 



At the hotel, also awaiting the scows, was a body of 

 four (dis-)Mounted Police, bound like ourselves for the 

 far north. The officer in charge turned out to be an 

 old friend from Toronto, Major A. M. Jarvis. I also 

 met John Schott, the gigantic half-breed, who went 

 to the Barren Grounds with Caspar Whitney in 1895. 

 He seemed to have great respect for Whitney as a 

 tramper, and talked much of the trip, evidently having 

 forgotten his own shortcomings of the time. While I 

 sketched his portrait, he regaled me with memories of 



