been cleared for weeks, and I had troubles with 
the canoe. 
We had come out upon a little cove of Lac 
Brochet, which broadened out as soon as we 
rounded the point. There are several islands, on 
one of which stands a tumble-down cabin. The 
lake is three miles lorg. While we were going 
down it, W- dived from the bow and had 
short swim. He reported the water nipping cold. 
We lunched at the beginning of the next por¬ 
tage, starting over it with light packs immediately 
afterward. W- went ahead with the gun, in 
hopes of partridge;, while J- and I followed 
more slowly. Mr. Cabot reckons this carry as 
two and one-half miles. I think it nearly three; 
the back trip took fifty minutes’ brisk walking. 
It was a tough bit of work for us to tackle in our 
battered, unharderied condition. 
The trail first swings north. There are (or 
were) two overhanging trees to trouble a tall 
man carrying a canoe; also one tree fallen 
across the path with more projecting branches 
than a porcupine has quills. Beyond this last 
obstruction—say a mile from the start—the trail 
passes a small pond and swings westerly. Then 
it crosses a brook. Next comes a long stretch 
of bushy lowland. Then, perhaps, two miles and 
a half out, a second brook, followed by a slow 
rise; and at last a drop to Lac a l’Oure. The 
camp site is on a bluff, well above the water. 
Our first crossing came easy, but the second, 
with heavier loads, was a real pull. In the end 
we were so scandalously tired that we had to 
sever and handle one by one a pair of small duffle 
bags which weighed barely thirty pounds apiece. 
On this carry, J-made an extra trip, foot and 
all. I led off with the canoe, J- and W-• 
juggled packs. 
The night was not altogether restful.. Like most 
well-used camps, this was a rabbit warren. One 
of the beasts came around while we were eating. 
W-bowled him over with the shotgun. The 
real rumpus began after we turned in. Two or 
three rabbits can make more noise about a tent 
than you would expect from an elephant. The} 
are highly inquisitive; come and snuff about; go 
into hysterics twice a minute and stampede off at 
full gallop; come back and kick the tent; stam¬ 
pede again; and so on ad nauseam. Worst of all, 
they love to eat holes in tanalite tents—seem to 
like the taste of the waterproofing. So we had 
to keep awake and beat them off when they began 
nibbling. J-and I each took care of one side 
of our tent rather easily, but poor W-, who 
The Pictures Tell Their Own Story—Scenery, 
Fire, Work and Pleasure. 
slept alone in great magnificence, must needs run 
round and round to meet attacks from every di¬ 
rection. At last one bunny sniffed right beside 
me. I lashed out and hit him on the nose. Away 
he bounced, much surprised, plunk into a trap we 
had waiting for him. I declined the office of ex¬ 
ecutioner, so J-went out and slew our unwel¬ 
come caller. This incident quieted things down 
for the rest of the night. 
July 30—Breakfast, rabbit—not bad, nor yet in- 
spiringly good. We got off late. Stiff muscles 
a general complaint. Many bumps and shifts had 
reduced the outfit to a welter which was difficult 
to straighten out. Three miles of good paddling 
down a very pretty lake; then a short portage up 
a dry stream bed full of rolling stones, on which 
we balanced like performing bears at a circus. 
Beyond this portage is a pond not over three hun¬ 
dred yards across, from which a half-mile carry 
leads to the Riviere Blanche, a stream flowing into 
Tchitagama. That half mile seemed to stretch 
like rubber, and when we did come to the “river” 
it was far too shallow for canoes. W- sub¬ 
sequently dubbed it “The Sailor’s Nightmare,” and 
the name fits well. Where the trail first reaches 
the water is a camp site. We carried down¬ 
stream until the path petered out entirely. I 
found two shod canoe poles in the bushes, which 
seemed to indicate navigability at some time. Cer. 
tainly not now. The stream ran chattering over 
a bed of slippery stones. There was no choice, 
however, and after lunch we took to wading. 
In point of fact, the going was far from impos¬ 
sible. Through the shallows we made a path by 
rolling aside stones, shifting our course from bank 
to bank to follow the current. 
At “pot-holes” we straddled the canoe, hang¬ 
ing our moccasins overside to keep the packs 
fairly dry. The water was not particularly cold, 
which was lucky, as we often slipped in nearly 
up to our waists. 
But the rough bottom hurt our much abused 
crime and a new lineal measure came into being 
—Cabotage: gross underestimation of distance 
and the Cabot Mile: two ordinary ones in the 
mornng and three at night. The portage appeared 
at last, and I found how comfortable my woolen 
trousers were in comparison with the wet khaki 
,of the others. 
This trail ran along the steep stream bank. 
There was some danger of taking a header into 
the water, but we refrained. After the portage 
came a small lake expansion. We waded a riffle 
at its lower end, and thus reached a second lake. 
And so on, paddling and wading, until we had 
passed no fewer than five of these expansions. 
We took a good pike on the troll. The camp at 
the next portage was uncomfortable and too high 
above the water. But it was now nearly six, so 
we settled down (or rather, up) for the night. 
July 31.—The carry next morning offered ample 
opportunity for tumbles. We indulged to some 
extent. More wading, and another portage of 
the same brand. Then, while paddling across a 
deep spot, we were suddenly aware of a pleasant 
faced man with light hair and beard wading up¬ 
stream toward us, pushing his canoe. Two little 
Indian or half breed children scurried alongside 
through the bushes. We gave the man bon jour; 
in return he asked (I thought) whether we had 
caught any fish. W-claimed the question had 
something to do with “feu.” My answer passed 
muster, though. Our friend said there was un 
portage and then Tchitagama, the lake being a 
mile or a mile and a half away. 
Th'e last portage was deceitfully long. We came 
in sight of the lake fast enough, but what with 
low water and a very slightly sloping beach we 
had all we wanted before we could launch our 
ship. 
Tchitagama is long, narrow, shut in by high 
hills, and well worth 'the seeing. We paddled 
four or five miles down it, passing a small Indian 
camp, and lunched on a stony beach. On start¬ 
ing again we put out the troll and caught a yard- 
long pike. That ended our fishing. We wanted 
no whales. I may as well inform the horrified 
reader that we made no try for ouananiche. We 
did not know there were any in the neighborhood. 
Ignorance is not always bliss. 
Another Indian camp hove in sight on the south 
shore. Here the man of the house as soon as he 
saw us fled across the beach like one with a guilty 
