WHEN THE INDIAN PASSES 



35 



portages was : First, John with the 

 canoe, next, the enthusiast with the 

 weary pack, and last the Chaperon 

 with the camera over her shoulder, the 

 butter pail tied to her belt, one bag 

 full of clothing and frequently another 

 with the bread supply on her back. 



Only once during our trip did we 

 meet a party of tourists. 



The Chaperon was waiting at the 

 end of a long and rock portage while 

 John and the enthusiast went back for 

 the rest of our outfit. While she 

 waited it began to rain, gently at first; 

 then the lightning flashed and the 

 peals of thunder grew nearer and 

 nearer. She turned the canoe over 

 the packs to keep them dry. Then as 

 the rain came down in torrents she 

 crawled under it for shelter. Scarcely 

 had she done so when she heard foot- 

 steps and looking out from her 

 cramped quarters saw a man in low 

 shoes and raglan, picking his way 

 daintily along through the wet leaves 

 and moss, and carrying a fishing pole 

 under his arm. Behind him came a 

 guide carrying a heavy pack on his 

 back and a pair of long rubber boots 

 in his hand. 



The young man in the raglan looked 

 around, hesitated a moment and then 

 dived under the canoe beside the Chap- 

 eron. 



"I really cannot help it, you know, 

 my feet are getting horribly wet," he 

 apologized from his position on the 

 other side of the pack, where he could 

 not see the Chaperon's face nor she 

 his. 



She glanced at the rubber boots 

 which the guide had deposited under a 

 tree and suggested that they were 

 meant for just such an emergency. 



"I know," he blurted, "but that is 

 where I carry my clothes it's beastly 

 luck this sort of thing, don't you 

 know." 



The Chaperon laughed, and asked 

 him rather irrelevantly if he had seen 

 the enthusiast anywhere on the way 

 with her pack, 



"You don't mean to say thai you 

 two women are here alone in this con- 

 founded wilderness?" he enjoined, as- 

 tonished. 



"Not alone, we have John," the 

 Chaperon answered simply, as that 

 worthy appeared through the trees with 

 our groceries and cooking utensils on 

 his back and the axe in his hand. 



The rain soon ceased and the young 

 man with his companions and guides 

 paddled away, but we are still in doubt 

 as to whether they ever reached their 

 native Pittsburg in safety. 



At the head of Lady Evelyn Lake 

 where we camped we found a fire 

 ranger's cabin. 



The two rangers, who were cooking 

 their supper over a fire on the rocks, re- 

 ceived us with much courtesy. One of 

 them, a brother of Bishop Rowe, of 

 Alaska, was a splendid specimen of the 

 woodsman and an interesting talker. 



Here there were signs of big game 

 everywhere. The rangers had shot two 

 wolves a mile from our camp the day 

 before and had seen a bear but were 

 not in position to tackle it. Near our 

 camp we found a dead wolf. There 

 were moose tracks in abundance, show- 

 ing that it would be a good place to 

 visit in the hunting season. 



We invited the rangers to sit at our 

 camp fire that night, an invitation 

 which they gladly accepted. We were 

 disappointed not to hear some good 

 hunting stories. We found them in- 

 stead hungry to hear news from the 

 outside world, and we were questioned 

 closely as to all we knew about the con- 

 clusion of peace between Japan and 

 Russia and to tell of our life in New 

 York. One of them told us in a very 

 pathetic way how people often went in- 

 sane from loneliness, citing a number 

 of cases of which he knew. We were 

 the first women they had seen since 

 coming to the station a month before, 

 and they were forty miles from the 

 nearest post office. 



From this camp we had a view of 

 Maple Mountain, known to the In- 



