Mosquito 
Moose 
and 
Mascalonge 
By HUBERT GSHFOOTE 
marked the height of land grad- 
ually lost its blueness as_ the 
afternoon passed, and we slowly drew 
up toward them. They seemed to flat- 
ten out until they were but a gentle 
rise of green forest tops above the level 
wooded areas which formed the broad 
lake-strewn basin of the Ottawa River. 
They were still five miles distant 
when the sun flared a red warning of 
its western plunge. To-morrow we 
should be at the head of the lake early 
and make the portage up out of 21 Mile 
Lake—over the height of land 
and drop down into the head- 
waters of the Bell River, which 
flowed directly north into Hud- 
son’s Bay. 
Ninety miles down the Bell, 
the Canadian National R. R., 
cutting westward through the 
wilderness, two hundred miles 
north of the outposts of civiliza- 
tion, had dropped the boom town 
of Nottaway on the banks of the 
Bell. Towards this northern 
oasis of the woods we were driv- 
ing—straight north from Kip- 
awa, the lumber outpost of the 
pulp mills at Timiskamang. 
It seemed an age since we had 
taken the seven one-man canoes out of 
the old freight shed at Kipawa, pulled 
them out of their straw and burlap 
jackets and shoved off up the Lake 
Kipawa on the first- leg of the 1000- 
mile bush cruise. 
ie distant line of blue hills that 
(AEIES the boss of the lumber depot 
at Kipawa, lord of her seventeen 
hard-boiled but golden-hearted inhabi- 
tants, had grinned when he wished us 
“Bon voyage.” He spat a bucket full of 
tobacco juice and gave a last word of 
advice to these “garcons” from “the 
States.” “When you get lost,’ he 

Down thru the rips 
paused, “just head south—and keep 
comin’!” 
It was a rather motley crew, I sup- 
pose. “No, we were not trapping—no, 
not prospecting—no, not hunting.” .. . 
Then why the h— should seven seem- 
ingly sane men get seven canoes and 
steer north into the Quebec Bush for a 
thousand miles of mosquito-infested 
country? 
A MIXTURE of college men, Wall 
Street men and electricians. . . 
That explained it. Crazy? Sure! So 
UIIUITUUUTVVUUAUGLUUUUUTUUTU TUTTI 
Beside the ever-present mosquitoes, the voy- 
agers meet some Indians. 
height of land they make a portage, thru a 
swampy section, and arrive at the place 
where streams flow north into Hudson Bay. 
They encounter a bull moose lunching on 
lily pods, and draw some first-hand conclu- 
sions about the life-history of the species. 
JAUTAIAIUVITD ETUDE 
they put us down in the same class with 
the few wealthy birds who locked up 
their office in the fall to spend a week 
and a bag of money to get a shot at a 
moose. Only—we fooled them and 
doubled their diagnosis of “crazy.” 
We didn’t spend a bag of money and 
we didn’t hire a half dozen guides to 
tuck us into the blankets and burn the 
bacon for us—and we had a canoe for 
each man and used double paddles. Only 
the fool Eskimoes traveled that way. 
That was two weeks ago. 
Now the waters of Sandy Beach Lake 
rippled against our bow, 
Arriving at the 
Canoeing 
thru 
Canadian 
Wilds 
Part. Four 
ANDY BEACH LAKE is one of the 
immense bays of the Grand Lake 
Victoria system. This network of lakes 
is a great expansion of the Ottawa 
River where it wanders through a 
broad, flat-basin country among the 
low, rolling foot-hills of the age-worn 
Laurentian Mountains. 
During the summer the water-level of 
these lakes drop, when the low-water 
season hits the river. In Sandy Beach 
Lake this drop leaves many long white 
sanded beaches stretching far out into 
the lake. 
We landed on one of these 
points which extended out into 
the lake for nearly a quarter of 
a mile from the thick, tangled 
growth of brush and swamp- 
fern that bordered the lake. 
Upon breaking into this log- 
strewn thicket for firewood and 
tent poles, all the insects of the 
north came together and at- 
tacked in swarms—following us 
as we retreated out upon the 
point until they were swept 
away by a strong north wind 
that gradually grew to a near 
hurricane. 
It was like a camp in the Sa- 
hara—white sand drifting in 
clouds before the wind, the tent 
buckling, the tent ropes straining at the 
pegs driven deep into the dry beach 
sand and covered with logs. 
T was a sandy camp—sand in the 
beans, sand in the coffee, sand in our 
shirts, our ears and our blankets. We 
turned in and our teeth gritted on sand 
in our sleep. But man! It was real 
sleep—sleep free from the nagging, 
nerve-wracking hosts of “eagles’’—the 
first real night’s sleep since leaving 
Kipawa. Our “sleep” so far had been 
the worried, tossing, sweating sleep of 
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