I 
February, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
65 
A quiet stretch on Deer Bay Creek 
‘ sharp turn to the right brought us to 
another short stretch. There I looked 
down and under the bow I could see in 
the water a just perceptible down- 
stream movement- of the river grasses. 
Old Albert had without hesitation found 
the one right passage of several wrong 
ones to be taken by the uninitiated. 
A few turns brought us to the little 
river itself and right at the mouth 
proper, across the stream from granite 
wall to granite wall lay the most perfect 
: obstacle portage I have ever seen. For 
a distance of fifty yards the stream was 
covered with round boulders, huge in 
size and completely crossing the fissure 
in the rock. The water of ages had 
broken through this granite wall, no 
doubt finding a softer rock strata but 
these tremendous disintegrated masses 
of granite had been left. No rapids 
were formed but just a quiet pool run- 
ning around the jagged rocks. A pas- 
sage to paddle through could not be 
found, nor did Old Albert look for one 
■ but running the canoe ashore in the 
break in the swamp close to the rocks, 
he motioned for me to step ashore. He 
followed with the axe and in a few min- 
utes called me to help bring a dozen 
small saplings to the canoe. These he 
laid across and between the stories of the 
portage and in a short time a “roll way” 
was rudely constructed over which we 
dragged the canoe, dunnage and all to 
the little lake above but only at the risk 
of breaking our limbs as the water- 
worn round surface of the rocks made 
the foot-hold precarious. 
Over the obstacle, we came to a lake 
of some three acres extent, called Dinner 
Lake, completely rock-bound and wind- 
ing. I could not forego the temptation of 
a turn across the portage end of the lake 
and my success justified the attempt for 
it netted two good sized bass. Next we 
wound our way up the little stream and 
winding it certainly was, one sharp turn 
after another around huge rocky cliffs 
until the faint rumble of the water over 
the dam could be heard. A little further 
on the walls widened and before us lay 
the old dam of Lac Loup-Cervier (Lynx 
Lake) as the old voyageurs called it. 
The portage is just a short carry over 
the dam into a bay or arm of the lake. 
Leaving the dam we paddled out of 
the bay. — How shall I describe the view 
I beheld as the lake flashed before me! 
I have seen many, many lakes in my 
wanderings but this Lynx Lake is the 
“gem without price”. The shores slop- 
ing gradually to a great height are cov- 
ered with dense verdure to the very sum- 
mit and completely encircle the lake. 
The size of Lynx Lake is perfect, — 
shaped like an hour-glass, the two ex- 
tremes divided by gently sloping “nar- 
rows” in the middle, fifty feet wide and 
running from the far hills gradually 
down to the water. These two points 
and the two extremes of the lake they 
divide, are almost perfect replicas of 
each other, one and a half miles long and 
one and a half miles wide. The beauty 
of Lynx Lake is beyond my powers of 
description, but it impressed me to such 
an extent that I have purchased a cabin 
site there and the reader may accept 
this as proof of its desirability and 
beauty. 
W E camped on the western point of 
the narrows in an ideal spot and 
after lunch we paddled the en- 
tire shore line of the lake. At the 
northwest corner of the extreme upper 
end, a stream tumbles in from a small 
lake called Fairy Lake. This little 
stream rushes down a ravine hewn out 
of the great hills and in a quarter of a 
mile drops two hundred feet over im- 
mense jagged rocks. At the mouth the 
trout were to be caught by merely 
dropping over the spinner and a turn of 
the paddle across the little bay where 
the stream plunged into the lake. It 
was an ideal afternoon of rare sport 
and sundown found us loath to leave. 
After the camp was snug for the 
night, Old Albert and I sat at the 
water’s edge on a flat ledge of rock. 
The moon just peeping over the top of 
the eastern tree-capped hills threw a 
silver thread across the still lake to our 
feet. It was the evening of evenings 
of our journey. 
Old Albert seemed greatly impressed 
with the stillness and beauty of the 
night and looking away at the path of 
light to the moon said: “On such a 
night the Great Spirit seems very near. 
It is strange that man of every race 
should lose his faith and reverence for 
the maker of all things good. Your 
legend of evil things has a parallel in 
an ancient Indian story: — There was a 
time ages ago when it was always sum- 
mer. The Indian lived continually in 
the smile of the Great Spirit and was 
happy. But there rose a chief who was 
so powerful that he at last believed him- 
self mightier than the Master of Life 
and his young men were taught to mock 
the Great Spirit. They would call upon 
Him to come and fight with them or 
challenge Him to take the crops of 
growing corn or the game in the forests. 
They laughed at their old men, who 
feared for many moons the reproach of 
Gitchi Manito. 
The Master of Life ttirned his smiling 
face away from them, so that they 
should have no more light or warmth 
and must build fires in the forest if they 
would live or see. Still they laughed and 
taunted the Master, saying that He had 
followed one trail so long that He could 
not get out of it, but must come every 
day and give light and heat. 
In a half moon the quick eyes of some 
saw in the morning the face of the 
Great Spirit appear where it was not 
wont to appear but they were silent, 
fearing the jibes of the people. Each 
day brought less and less of Gitchi 
Manito’s smile and His face was hidden 
by the dark snow cloud, while terrible 
storms beat upon the frightened faces 
turned at last in appeal toward the 
heavens. Strong warriors became as 
women ; the old men covered their heads 
with skins and stayed in the forest, 
while the women in the lodges crooned 
the low mournful wail of the death- 
song. I rost and snow came upon the 
unsheltered and stricken race and many 
perished. Then The Master of Life, 
who had almost removed His face from 
the sight of His children, had pity and 
told them he would come again. 
Day by day the remaining few 
watched with joy the return of the sun. 
They sang the praise of the approach- 
ing summer and once more gave thanks 
for the first blades of the growing corn 
as they burst from the ground. Then 
Gitchi Manito, the Master -of >Life, told 
his children that every year, as a pun- 
ishment for their past evils, they 
should feel for a season the might of the 
power they had mocked, and they mur- 
mured not, but bowed their heads in 
meekness. So come the first winter.” 
The moon was full and sailing to the 
south across the lake; the trout jumped 
in the’ sheen of the reflection and small 
circles widened to the distant shores. 
We were to leave at dawn for the swel- 
ter of a July city. How hopeless it was 
to try and sleep. I left Old Albert sit- 
ting on the shore and going to the canoe 
gently pushed it into the lake and until 
far into the night I drifted on that per- 
fect water Lac-Loup-Cervier. 
(continued on page 85 ) 
