picture lake with the bows of our 
canoes. A racing cut across this gem 
of the woodlands and the path lead us 
gradually up a ten-foot rise, along an 
eight-mile trail and then dropped us on 
the shore of the first of the double twin 
lakes to the last lake. 
HAT ten-foot rise and five-block 
span was the ridge of the country. 
The waters of the first lake flowed 
south to the St. Lawrence—the water 
we were now on would lead us north to 
the Hudson Bay. 
This crystal, pine-bordered lake was 
shaped like a dumb bell, the two ends 
being connected by a four-foot bush- 
crowded channel. It wanders in indeci- 
sion as it leaves the first—then in a 
twist you glide out into the third of 
these triplets—each a frank imitation 
of the other. Lake Tear of the Clouds 
cuddling at the foot of the last peak of 
Mount Marcy, the mile-high crown of 
the Adirondacks, is a beauty—but it’s a 
mud pond in comparison with these. 
The only thing that this “triumvirate” 
lacks is the grandeur of a Marcy tow- 
ering above it. 
Every red-blooded man dreams of 
building a cottage for his sweetheart— 
I would dream of this setting; but the 
mosquitoes forbid and leave little time 
for romantic thought—in comfort. 
The trail from the third lake down, 
into the navigable portion of the Bell 
gave fair promise of being the repeti- 
tion of the fine trail on the other side 
of the divide—but it quickly broke its 
word, our backs, and our tempers. 
For a quarter mile the trail ran well, 
winding in and out through the cen- 
tury-old forest. Then the character of 
the trail changed abruptly as it drop- 
ped, slanting down a hillside and 
broadened into a clearing in the tall 
spruce and poplar saplings at the edge 
of a broken, swampy area of hummocks 
and scattered swamp pines. The port- 
age end was probably just a step down 
into the swamp where a waterway 
would lead out into a lake—that is the 
logical answer when a trail leads from 
high, dry ground down to a swamp. 
E were royally mistaken. The trail 
led out into the hummocks of rank 
metallic bladed swamp grass and ferns. 
The swamp pines stood out separately 
like blue spruce in a-carefully planted 
park—the floor from a distance looked 
like a smooth level lawn—but underfoot 
it was almost awash with swamp water. 
The trail heaved up and down with our 
weight as though it were a huge blanket 
floating over a bog. 
At times a foot would break through 
this blanket of roots and fibers and one 
would pitch forward—the leg driving 
deep to the knee or hip. To prevent 
this, a sort of corduroy path had 
been made of branch-trimmed sapling 
trunks. Here we found the explanation 
of the oversized clearing among the 
saplings which stood thickly at the edge 
of the swamp—and the size of the 
clearing gave us a shocking intimation 
of the length of the trail. The saplings 
were usually of black spruce, from two 
to three inches thick and from twenty- 
five to fifty feet in length. These were 
laid in pairs lengthwise of the mushy 
trail like a narrow ladder without 
rounds. 
We were soon soaking wet—it was 
devilishly hot and humid, the packs cut 
and the canoes were cumbersome, and 
the air was like an oven overhead—a 
back-breaking wrench when the foot 
slipped from the corduroy and plunged 
into the bog. But then I suppose it’s 
all right in winter! 
The mosquitoes were worse here than 
on any trail before or after. The 
swamp was an ideal breeding place for 
them, but furnished little food, account- 
ing for both their numbers and their 
appetites. The canoe on our shoulders 
acted like a cage, or rather more like a 
dining-room, in which the “eagles” as- 
sembled. A heavy shirt wrapped around 
the neck turned their efforts from the 
neck to the face and hands. It concen- 
trated their attack, but at the same 
time it narrowed our area of defense. 
It crowded them a little, but I guess 
they all found room by turns. 
NE hand steadied the swaying 
canoe at the gunwale, while the 
other grasped a cut branch of birch 
with heavy leaves. This was kept in 
constant action—not scaring but brush- 
ing and whipping the “eagles” from the 
wrists, hands and face. If Sherman 
had been with us, he would have had 
an adequate and descriptive expres- 
sion. 
Our first thought, that a short dis- 
tance into the swamp would bring us to 
open water, was gradually destroyed. 
Neither the swamp nor the trail seemed 
to have an ending. We struggled on— 
slipping from the tight-rope trail and 
climbing on again for a good mile which 
seemed like five. 
I slipped again and dropped to my 
knees on the mushy floor. My head 
reeled in the humid, stifling, sweaty 
heat. I let the canoe roll from my 
shoulders into the swamp grass and 
found myself looking up into the 
smutty, wrinkled features of the first 
human being we had met in two weeks 
of travel. 
But, was it a human being? Short, 
squat, broad-shouldered, muscular body 
—a heavy neck and small head made 
large by a mop of greasy, black, 
straight hair, As Shorty expressed it, 
“Tt looked like a cross between a ‘woj’ 
and a ‘chink.’ ” 
From a deeply wrinkled, swarthy 
skinned setting, two beady black eyes 
peered out from under the bow of a 
huge, broad-beamed, twenty-foot canoe 
—and at the other end of the canoe 
stood the dirty duplicate of the first. I’d 
have sworn they were twins. 
HEY were at the side of the trail, 
evidently having stopped upon 
sighting us and stepped aside to allow 
us to pass—or perhaps to amuse them- 
selves at our hot-worded progress. 
My surprised “Good morning” 
brought a couple of “Ughs” from each. 
Then I tried “Bon matin” and was re- 
warded with a grin of comprehension. 
I swabbed the sweat and mosquitoes 
from my face and asked in French “if 
the trail was much longer.” A grin, a 
negative shake of the greasy black hair, 
a guttural “Pas loin,’ and a quick half 
circle of the hand in the direction of 
the trail. 
Then a couple more “Ughs” from be- 
hind the canoe set the two men into 
motion and they passed on the springy, 
corduroy revealing a line of four more 
dark, greasy skinned mimicographs, 
each bent at forty-five degrees under a 
mule-sized pack. 
It was our first glimpse of the Indian 
habitants who were the people of this 
land. All wore heavily greased ankle 
mocassins, wool socks, baggy pants, 
dirty flannel shirts and sloppy felt hats. 
These four were much the same in build 
and features as the first two. Their 
packs varied. The front man carried 
a pack as big as three feed sacks and 
on top rode a big, highly polished, 
richly carved— Period Victrola. I 
rubbed my eyes. 
The second and third had plain packs 
suspended by tump-lines over the fore- 
head. Piled in the V between the packs 
and the neck were four duffle bags. The 
last man bent beneath a mountain of a 
pack crowned by three wire soda-foun- 
tain chairs. As to what the pack con- 
tained, you could probably let your 
imagination run wild and not be far 
from the truth. They had gone to Not- 
taway with money and had come back 
with junk—as far as life in the woods 
was concerned. 
AN Indian with credit at a store will 
buy beans, sugar, coffee and blan- 
kets; with money in his pocket he buys 
patent-leather shoes, iron bedsteads 
and bicycles. No, they’re not fools— 
merely children. It’s well for them that 
the Hudson Bay Co. keeps them on a 
credit basis. Eighty per cent. of the 
Indian trappers and hunters are a year 
in debt to the company, all the time. In 
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