Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador 9780773571884

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A WOMAN'S WAY THROUGH UNKNOWN LABRADOR

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A W O M A N ' S WAY THROUGH UNKNOWN LABRADOR

Mina Benson Hubbard Edited, and with an introduction, by Sherrill Grace

McGill-Queen's University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca

Introduction and notes © McGill-Queen's University Press 2004 Text, photographs, and map of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador © Betty Ellis ISBN 0-7735-2704-4 Legal deposit second quarter 2004 Bibliotheque nationale du Quebec Originally published in 1908 by John Murray, London.This edition has been entirely reset by McGill-Queen's University Press. Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Programme, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen's University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Hubbard, Leonidas, Mrs A woman's way through unknown Labrador / Mina Benson Hubbard ; edited and with an introduction by Sherrill Grace. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7735-2704-4 I. Hubbard, Leonidas, Mrs. -Travel - Newfoundland and Labrador - Labrador 1872-1903 -Travel - Newfoundland and Labrador - Labrador exploration. E., 1944-

2. Hubbard, Leonidas,

3. Labrador (N.L.) - Discovery and

4. Explorers - Newfoundland and Labrador - Labrador - Biography.

Il.Title.

FC2193.4.H82 2004

9 17.18'2042'0922

C2003-907387-4

Set in 10/1 3.5 Electra and Gill Sans Light. Book design and typesetting by zijn digital.

I. Grace, Sherrill

For Patricia Grace (1968-2004) "It was a short, full life journey, and a joyous, undaunted heart that traversed it." Mina Benson Hubbard

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CONTENTS

Preface

ix

Note on the Edition Figures

xiii

xv

Abbreviations

xvi

A Woman's Way: From Expedition to Autobiography

xvii

Sherrill Grace

A WOMAN'S WAY THROUGH UNKNOWN LABRADOR 1 Mina Benson Hubbard Preface Contents

7 9

List of Illustrations 11 Introduction by William B. Cabot 13 Chapters 1-18 33 Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr 157 Narrative by George Elson 189 Appendix

223

Notes to 'A Woman's Way: From Expedition to Autobiography" 233 Annotations to A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador Bibliography Index

267

253

239

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PREFACE

I do not now remember exactly when I discovered Mina Benson Hubbard's 1908 book A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador. When I did read it, however, I clearly remember being struck by the quality of the book and by its differences from many other northern narratives I had read. For a number of years during the 1990s I was combing the shelves for books about the Canadian North, and expedition narratives were an item of special interest because from them I was gaining a sense of how nineteenth- and early twentieth-century travellers saw the North and what they found of value in it. The works and ideas of many such writers - Vilhjalmur Stefansson, Diamond Jenness, Robert Flaherty, Agnes Deans Cameron, Gontrin de Poncins, among others - found their way into my book, Canada and the Idea of North, but Hubbard's work did not. At some point in my own journey through the literature about the Canadian North, I decided that Mina Benson Hubbard warranted more than a passing mention or a footnote. Mina, as I have come to think of her, grew on me. She simply would not let me rest and she seemed to insist that I read her again, that I ponder what she was saying and how she was saying it. Research questions have a habit of doing this; they pester me until they capture my attention, and by 1998-99 I knew that Mina had fully captured mine. I tried exorcising her with an article about women explorers, but that only raised more problems than it solved. At about this time, in the summer of 1999, I began an electronic correspondence with Anne Hart, research librarian at the Memorial University of Newfoundland and an authority on Mina Benson Hubbard. Then, in the summer of 2000,I visited the National Library of Canada to examine the microfilm of Hubbard's diary in preparation for writing another article, and it was after this research trip that I met Gwyneth Hoyle. Anne was responsible for gathering the original materials in the Centre for Newfoundland Studies of the Memorial University Library - Mina's diary, birth certificate, photographs, and various memorabilia - and she was writing Mina's biography. Gwyneth had published on Mina and knew the southern Ontario, Rice Lake area where Mina had been born and

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grew up. I was grateful to be taken under Gwyneth's wing and shown the Benson home, the church and cemetery, and surrounding countryside in June 2000. But something else happened, quite unexpectedly, in the summer of 2000, and this small event fuelled my growing determination to bring a new, annotated edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador into print. A young colleague and former resident of St John's, Newfoundland, sat in my office at the University of British Columbia and told me that when she went to school, she and her classmates had to read Dillon Wallace but had never been told about Mina Benson Hubbard. (Since then, I have had another young scholar tell me this same story.) What were these young people missing! What were we all missing! Mina, I decided, had to get back into print. But of course, scholarly expeditions never happen in a vacuum. There was Anne Hart in St John's, who was preparing the biography, and, I soon learned, Roberta Buchanan of the English Department at Memorial, who was editing the original diary. Sooner or later we would all need to meet, Gwyneth, Anne, Roberta, and myself, and what better occasion than a conference panel on Mina Benson Hubbard. For various reasons that plan was not realized, and the four of us have yet to toast Mina at the same table. However, three of us did meet in St John's in May 2001, and as a result of that meeting and of my visit to the archives, I found the inspiration and energy for writing my introduction. It is, therefore, a very special pleasure to thank Anne Hart and Roberta Buchanan, who have read and commented on my work and helped in many ways, and Gwyneth Hoyle, who always prodded me to look further and who answered a number of questions. Without their friendship and collegiality, not to mention their pioneering efforts, new work on Mina Benson Hubbard could not take place. To Wendy Roy, whose graduate work included Mina and who shared some of that work with me, and to Julie Cruikshank, whom readers will know as a leading Canadian anthropologist and ethnographer but whom I know as a colleague, friend, and as Mina's great niece, my warmest thanks. I hope that through this edition I can return something of value and interest to you both. There are many others whom I wish to thank, including Susanna Egan and Gabriele Helms, my very dear friends and colleagues, for giving me the opportunity to test some of my early ideas on Mina as autobiographer at the "Changing Identities" conference they organized at the University of British Columbia in July 2000; Alec Hoyle for his generous chauffering and photographing; Bryan Greene, canoeist and geographer, for his help with Labrador toponymy; Janet Friskney for her help with William Briggs; Virginia Murray for her information about the Murray archives and her permission to reproduce the original advertisement for the 1908 book; Anne-Marie Knowles, curator, Chesterfield Museum in Chesterfield, Derbyshire, for her help in identifying the English artist who

Preface

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made Leonidas's and Mina's portraits; George Brandak, manuscript curator in UBC's Special Collections, who is always so patient with my enthusiasms; Keith Bunnell, librarian in UBC's Walter C. Koerner Library, for his assistance with obscure references; my UBC colleagues Pamela Dalziel, for confirmation on Joseph Syddall's art, Veronica Strong-Boag, for advice on Canadian history, Lisa Chalykoff, for word-processing Mina's text so it could be edited and annotated, and Dominique Yupangco, for her expert assistance with technology; Michael Robertson of UBC's Media Group for his great care in photographing the maps and illustrations; Marcel Fortin of the University of Toronto Map Library for his CD scan of Mina's map; the staff of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies who made my brief visit there so productive - Bert Riggs and Susan Hadley - and librarians at the National Archives of Canada, the United Church of Canada Archives, the Smithsonian, the National Archives in Washington, the Lily Library, Indiana University, the HBC Archives in Winnipeg, and the National Archives and Records Administration in Maryland; Aurele Parisien of McGillQueen's University Press for encouraging me to do this book; and, as always, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for their continued support of my research. But there is one person who has helped to make the labour of this book a joy, who has always brought her warm smile, eager curiosity, and scholarly expertise to the research she has helped me with - Jill MacLachlan. In the midst of my conflicting duties, absent-mindedness, and pressing demands, Jill has always been sympathetic and positive, patient and meticulous. If there is, finally, any benefit to flow from the kind of scholarly work involved in preparing a volume like this, it will surely manifest itself in the future work of young scholars like Jill who will find their own ways through the temptations of unanswered questions and in the next generation of readers, in Newfoundland and away, who will discover Mina's way through Labrador.

S.E.G Vancouver, 2003

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NOTE ON THE EDITION

This edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador is based on the John Murray first edition of 1908 and reproduces the text exactly, including a facsimile of the original map, which has been bound in at the back of the book. Annotations to Mina Benson Hubbard's narrative are indicated by consecutive numbers within the text and appear at the end of the book. These are limited to people, places, and references not already explained in my introduction; for more detail, readers should consult Roberta Buchanan's edition of the 1905 diaries, Anne Hart's biography, and the cartography and topo-nymy of Bryan Greene, all in "It's All So Grand and Beautiful": The Life and Labrador Diary of Mina Hubbard, soon to be published (see Hart or Buchanan in the Bibliography). Annotations to Leonidas Hubbard's Diary and George Elson's Narrative have been kept to a minimum to preserve the focus on the 1905 expedition and on A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, but sources for further information on the 1903 expedition or on Labrador local history are listed in the Bibliography. Mina Benson Hubbard's spelling has been retained throughout her text, but in my introduction and notes I have used Naskapi for the First Nation group now commonly called, with the Montagnais, the Innu and Naskaupi for the river; Mina Benson Hubbard sometimes calls the small community on Hamilton Inlet from which the expedition started Northwest River, but I have used North West River throughout my portions of the edition. The spellings I have chosen are consistent with those used by Buchanan and Hart. References to this edition of Mina Benson Hubbard's book included in my introduction and the annotations are indicated as WW, followed by a page number, and all citations of archival materials held in the Centre for Newfoundland Studies at the Memorial University of Newfoundland are given in parentheses as CNS followed by collection and file numbers when these are available. Instead of a Works Cited I have included a short, general bibliography that will hopefully be of interest and use to readers. The Murray edition included a general index

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of names, places, and terms, but here I have provided a subject index to the entire volume. Because considerable controversy has developed over why Mina Benson Hubbard made her expedition, with writers from 1905 to the present either stating as fact or implying that she made public accusations against Dillon Wallace, I have transcribed the two interviews she gave to the World and reprinted them in the Appendix. These interviews provide as accurate an account of her public statements to the press as we are likely to find. My only further additions are the nine figures used in my introductory chapter. I hope these images will not only help set the stage as it was in 1905 and 1908 but also, with Figure 9 - the map of Nitassinan - show the Innu Labrador of today.

FIGURES (INTRODUCTION)

1 1907 portrait of Mina Benson Hubbard by Joseph Syddall xviii 2 Mrs Hubbard in the forest, from the New York World, 2 July 1905 xxvi 3 Mrs Hubbard as a widow, from the New York World, 2 July 1905 xxvi 4 A.P. Low's 1894 map of Labrador

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5 The tree at Lake Michikamau with the stored records 6 Mina's map as published in Harper's Magazine

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7 The photograph of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr, published by Caspar Whitney in 1904 and later used by Joseph Syddall for his 1907 portrait drawing xliii 8 Title pages for the John Murray and William Briggs printings of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador xliv 9 Nitassinan, a contemporary map of Labrador

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ABBREVIATIONS

CNS: The Centre for Newfoundland Studies at Memorial University of Newfoundland, which holds the Hubbard and Wallace papers and extensive newspaper clippings GE: George Elson Illus.: This always refers to the original illustrations chosen by Mina Benson Hubbard for her book, to distinguish them from the figures that accompany the introductory essay. LH: Leonidas Hubbard, Jr MBH: Mina Benson Hubbard. Although I call her familiarly by her given name in my narrative, in my notes I use this formal abbreviation. WW: A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador. For crossreferences within this edition of MBH's book, I give the abbreviation followed by a page number.

A WOMAN'S WAY FROM EXPEDITION TO AUTOBIOGRAPHY Sherrill Grace

The Canadian public may someday honour a woman whose claim to recognition rests upon pluck and brains. (Graham, 471 )-

When Jean Graham wrote these words, she may not have imagined how slight the recognition would be for Mina Benson Hubbard or how slow it would be in coming. The occasion for Graham's remark was her September 1908 review in the Canadian Magazine of Hubbard's account of her successful 1905 expedition across Labrador - A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador. Mina Hubbard undertook her expedition in the hope of completing the work begun in 1903 by her husband, Leonidas Hubbard, Jr, who died of starvation in October that year with his expedition a tragic failure. And yet, despite her actual success in the summer of 1905 and the generally positive reception of her book, she has either been forgotten or relegated to a minor role in the expeditionary dramas played out in Labrador during 1903 and 1905. Almost a century ago, however, Jean Graham described the woman, her journey, and the book in terms that must have appealed to Mina1 (if she read Graham's review) and that suggest why the book matters today. While acknowledging Mina's explanation that she went to Labrador because of her husband, Graham insists that "as one continues to read this chronicle of a journey through unknown districts, one comes to the conclusion that the wife of Leonidas Hubbard has a spirit akin to his own, and that the canoe trip over stretches of unexplored lake and river appealed to her love of the remote and primeval" (469-70). Mina Benson Hubbard (1870-1956) certainly did come to love the Labrador wild. In addition to having "pluck" (a word that sounds trivializing now but was a common term of praise for men and women in Mina's day) and "brains," she was determined, practical, proud, and passionately committed to the task she set herself and to her husband's memory. Judging from contemporary photographs and from the portraits by Joseph Syddall (see Figure 1 and illus., p. 2), she was beautiful, slim, feminine, even fragile looking - attributes that would not

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Figure I. Portrait of Mina Benson Hubbard by Joseph Syddall reproduced on the John Murray advertising flyer for her book. Syddall did this full portrait drawing in 1907, and Mina used his three-quarter profile drawing, dated 1907, for the frontispiece of her book (see i//us., p. 2). The text of the advertising copy highlights her achievements and the role played by William Cabot.

necessarily serve her serious interests. Moreover, she could write well and could tailor her prose to suit different audiences. This achievement, given that she was a trained nurse and not a professional writer like her husband, is in some ways as significant as her expedition, and it makes the neglect of her book all the more puzzling. Not only did she mount her own expedition across a hitherto un-mapped section of Labrador - the very country and attempt that had taken her husband's life - she accomplished, in record time, all he had hoped but failed to do. Then, she not only survived to tell the tale, but wrote about it in five articles and a book, and gave public lectures, with lantern slides, about her expedition. While it would be an exaggeration to say that Mina lived for and through her expedition (she had a very full life after 1908; see Hart), it is fair to say that the expedition of 1905 and the book published in 1908 were watershed events in her life.2 In preparing this new edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador for publication a full century after her decision to make her "way," I have had several goals in mind. First, and most important, I want to bring this book back into circulation so that it can be read, discussed, critiqued, studied, and enjoyed. A Woman's Way deserves attention. It belongs, I am convinced, with books like Mary Kingsley's Travels in West Africa (1897) or with any number of travel books that have received attention in recent years.3 It belongs, especially, with the volu-

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minous literature on exploration and travel in the Canadian North - with books by Warburton Pike, William Cabot, Vilhjalmur Stefansson, Diamond Jenness, Franz Boas, and Gontran de Poncins, or with the works of Isobel Wylie Hutchison, Agnes Deans Cameron, and Clara Vyvyan. It belongs, as well, side by side with books about Labrador, from Lure of the Labrador Wild by Dillon Wallace to Sketches of Labrador Life by Lydia Campbell, Labrador Memories by Margaret Baikie, Woman of Labrador by Elizabeth Goudie, Nitassinan: The Innu Struggle to Reclaim Their Homeland by Marie Wadden, and (albeit in a very different way) It's Like the Legend: Innu Women's Voices edited by Nympha Byrne and Camille Fouillard. Seen in the contexts of turn-of-the-nineteenth-century travel writing, of northern expedition writing, and of women's autobiography, A Woman's Way is fascinating because so many of the challenges, contradictions, complications (biographical, ideological, narrative), and conflicts inherent in any attempt to write about one's personal experiences of travel through an arduous, unfamiliar landscape come into sharp focus. Like so many travel writers before and since, Mina discovered that she was writing about herself, and in our current age, which seems obsessed with biography and autobiography, her wrestle with the angel of life-writing is deeply moving. This edition of A Woman's Way is closely based on the original edition, published in the spring of 1908 by John Murray in London and, under the imprint of William Briggs, in Toronto. I will say more in due course about the textual variations of the book and its publishing history, but my choice of the Murray/Briggs as my copy text is important because this is the edition that Mina saw through the press herself. I have lightly annotated the text where references cannot be explained in this introduction, and I discuss the book's genesis (from her expedition diary to its unusual final form), its illustrations (drawn from her own and others' photographs), and its reception by contemporary reviewers. But because Mina also gave public lectures and published articles about her expedition, no re-evaluation of A Woman's Way would be complete without some consideration of the other venues and opportunities she seized for telling her story. It seemed to me fit that my husband's name should reap the fruits of service which had cost him so much, and in the summer of 1905 I myself undertook the conduct of the second Hubbard Expedition, and ... successfully completed the work undertaken two years before, (ww, 43)

Who was Mina Benson Hubbard? Why did she undertake such a challenging task? And what did she achieve? These questions seem to have haunted the story of the second Hubbard expedition right from its beginning in June 1905. As soon as word leaked out that a woman - the widow - was going to Labrador, the Amer-

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ican and Canadian newspapers went wild. The June headlines were often lurid and sensational: "Widow Goes to Arctic to Solve Death of Hubbard"; "Mrs. Hubbard Suspicious: Seeks Husband's Trail"; "Delicate Woman Explorer Ready for the Labrador"; "Hubbard's Death Mystery Lures Widow to Labrador." And the reporters, who regularly got their facts wrong, raised a first-rate storm of speculation and suspicion over Mina's motives. One tabloid ran a full-page story, complete with cartoons and photographs, under the title "What Does Mrs. Hubbard Expect to Find?" Despite her considerable efforts to keep her plans secret and her refusal to say much at all to prying reporters, she soon found herself accused of harbouring dark, unspecified suspicions about her husband's death and about Dillon Wallace's role in the fall of 1903. She was described as competing with Wallace, of being his rival, of following Wallace into Labrador, and of insisting on her foolish trip despite the advice of men (like the guide George Elson and the lawyer Alonzo McLaughlin). That the publicity swirling around her was based on innuendo, partial truths, outright errors, and wild speculation whipped up by journalists seems to have made little difference to the picture of Mina that has emerged since the clamour of 1905.4 Biography is not my purpose. For a detailed narrative of Mina's life, we must wait for Anne Hart's account in "It's All So Grand and Beautiful." But a few basic facts help to situate this woman who, at thirty-five, decided to mount an expedition unlike any other undertaken by a white woman in the Canadian North up to that time and for some time after. Mina Adelaide Benson was born, the sixth of eight children, in an Irish immigrant farming family at Bewdley in the Rice Lake District of Ontario, near Cobourg. Her family was deeply religious. Her father, James Benson, was active in the Bible Christian Church congregation and the Plainville Wesleyan Methodist Church (today the Plainville United Church; see Martin et al., 100-1), and Mina's broad spiritual interests remained strong throughout her life. Professionally, Mina chose to serve through teaching and nursing. In her twenties she taught at the local public school in Glourourim until she left, in 1897, for New York, where she trained as a nurse. It was while working as assistant superintendent at the S.R. Smith Infirmary on Staten Island that she met and nursed Leonidas Hubbard, Jr (1872-1903) through a bout of typhoid. They married on 31 January 1901, and it is he, more than anyone or anything else in the Labrador stories about to unfold, who remains for me the greatest mystery. Mina adored this man. Indeed, he seems to have inspired a remarkable degree of affection, loyalty, respect, and admiration in everyone who knew him. In 1903 Hubbard was assistant editor of the American wilderness magazine Outing. He was keenly interested in fishing, canoeing, and gentlemanly exploration, activities from which he hoped to produce nature and adventure stories.

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Mina shared some of this passion for the outdoors: they spent their honeymoon camping and she accompanied him on a 1902 canoe trip in Canada (see Leonidas Hubbard, "Off Days on Superior's North Shore"). His expedition to Labrador was supposed to supply him with rich material for stories - about the great caribou migration, about the Naskapi, and about a largely unexplored and unmapped part of the northern wilderness. Dillon Wallace (1863-1939), a close friend and a lawyer, agreed to go with Hubbard, and the two Americans hired George Elson (1876-1944), a Canadian Scots-Cree from James Bay, as their guide.5 The story of Hubbard's 1903 expedition has been told many times by individuals with varying degrees of vested interest in the spin to be put upon events. Wallace, with Mina's uneasy approval and with the ghost-writing assistance of Frank Barkley Copley, prepared The Lure of the Labrador Wild, but when she finally read the manuscript, Mina was greatly disappointed because the narrative appeared to confirm newspaper speculation that her husband had been weak and foolish and that his expedition would not have failed so utterly, nor would he have starved to death, had he planned the trip with greater care 6. Moreover, Wallace portrayed himself, and was seen by his readers, as a hero who, although barely surviving himself, had stayed on in Labrador to retrieve Hubbard's body and bring it back to the United States and who had then persevered to produce "the issue of our plighted troth" (Lure, np) in the form of his book. Although George Elson was the only one of the three men to make it out for help, he was relegated to the margins, to the position of a fifth business, by Wallace, whose narrative is not an expedition narrative but an elegiac romance that enhances his own role as the heroic survivor who testifies to actual events and tells the true story of his friend's death.7 But Wallace was by no means the only interpreter of this expedition. In a June 1904 article, William Cabot, himself a knowledgeable traveller in Labrador, protests the negative representations of Leonidas in the press and, by implication, in Wallace's forthcoming book. Cabot, about whom I will have more to say, tries to put Hubbard's failure in the context of Labrador realities as he knew them: starvation, he points out, is all too frequent in this harsh subarctic environment, where weather and game are unpredictable and maps (for white men) are incomplete and unreliable. Cabot reminds his readers of Sir John Franklin's fate in 1845 and of Warburton Pike's description of the challenges (including near starvation) of such travel in his 1891 book The Barren Ground of Northern Canada. Less than a year later, in March 1905, Caspar Whitney, the chief editor of Outing and an amateur explorer, entered the fray by publishing his own version of events in his magazine, together with substantial excerpts from Hubbard's 1903 diary 8. Whitney, who had the reputation and potential legal liability of Out-

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ing to consider, claims that he was "not in sympathy" with Hubbard and had "sought to dissuade" him from undertaking the trip (642). Moreover, he makes a point of insisting that Hubbard told Outing nothing about his equipment, the clear inference being that had he done so Whitney would have warned him about its inadequacies. This article, which runs to forty-seven pages and includes many expedition photographs (as well as the photograph of Leonidas used by the English artist Joseph Syddall for his portrait of Leonidas in Mina's book; see illus., p. 156) and rough maps, devotes considerable space to the details of Wallace's return to New York with Hubbard's body, before turning to Hubbard's diary. And it ends, significantly, with Hubbard's praise and exoneration of Wallace and Elson, and with Hubbard's words, which have been cited and recited ever since: "I think the boys will be able, with the Lord's help, to save me" (687). It is impossible now to sort out with absolute certainty just what caused the rift between Mina Benson Hubbard and Dillon Wallace, or to determine exactly when she or he decided to mount their expeditions. However, as soon as the press got wind of her plans, the furor began, and it is important to examine the press coverage, between June and December 1905, of her and Wallace's expeditions in order to appreciate the challenges she faced and the socio-cultural complexities of her undertaking. What I can affirm is that Wallace's Lure of the Labrador Wild appeared in early 1905 and that published announcements of his intention to return to Labrador appeared in February 1905; the first I am aware of was on 25 February 1905 (CNS 6.02.003). On 27 March 1905 the Brooklyn Daily Eagle ran a major feature on Wallace, with an interview, photographs, and references to 1903 and to his Lure of the Labrador Wild; he is touted by the reporter as a "hero" and an "explorer" about to set forth on "The Dillon Wallace Expedition." Mina, for her part, kept her plans quiet until June, when she arrived in Halifax on the way to Labrador.9 Later, in one of her articles, she insisted that her "journey into the interior of Labrador was decided upon quite suddenly one day in January 1905": I was sitting at my writing-table that day, feeling very, very helpless and sad. I suppose no one will ever quite know with what a sickening sense of limitation I longed to be a man, so that I might go away and do the work to which my husband has given his life, and which his death left unfinished. But I was a woman, and it did not occur to me that I could do anything until that January day, when, as I sat looking out of the window, aching with a sense of my own littleness and impotence, suddenly something thrilled through my whole being. I could not tell you what it was. I could not in any definite way describe it to you; but it came like a sudden illumination of darkness, and it meant, "Go to Labrador." ("Through Lonely Labrador," 82)

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Did she already know, in early January 1905, that Wallace was planning to return? Possibly. Might such knowledge, combined with her disappointment over his forthcoming book, have steeled her resolve to go? Possibly. Does it matter? No - unless one wants to suggest that she had no business going to Labrador at all and only went out of jealous spite and in a spirit of ungenerous rivalry. But these are precisely the terms picked up by the press of the day, and repeated by others since, to describe her and her expedition. When someone undertakes a dangerous or improbable-seeming adventure, it is natural to wonder why, and few areas of dangerous endeavour have led to greater competition, rivalry, and dispute than exploration. Northern exploration is no exception. Only think of the race to discover the Northwest Passage, the millions of pounds spent on searches for Franklin, the indignation of no less a person than Charles Dickens over allegations of cannibalism in the final stages of that disaster, the ruin of Dr John Rae's career and reputation (a reputation still in need of reparation; see McGoogan), or the unscrupulous battle waged over the discovery of the North Pole by Robert Peary and Frederick Cook (see Bloom). The Labrador expeditions of 1903 and 1905 were staged before a decades-old backdrop of mystery, defamation of character, jealousies, competition (individual and national), and immense financial investment and in a historical context defined by the nineteeth-century scramble for conquest and economic advantage, glory, and immortality by being the first to discover the passage, the pole, or some other rare, exotic site or group of people. So why should anyone be surprised or offended when journalists fanned the rhetorical flames of contest and rivalry in the Hubbard affair or when they attempted to put a human face on what must have seemed a bizarre undertaking? Their job was to sell newspapers. Jealousy, greed, love, hatred, mystery, and suspicion make good copy. The possible explanations for why shouts of competition and jealousy would be taken so seriously in this case are many. Wallace had already represented himself, and been represented by others, as a hero; therefore, any suggestion that he had not behaved well in 1903 was scandalous. Mina was a woman, a grieving widow. Women, by contemporary definitions of gender, had no business going on expeditions; any woman who did came under special scrutiny. Her motive could not be professional work because she could not profess geography, cartography, ethnography, or field photography. Another motive must be sought, and in Mina's case it was not far to seek. Many reporters repeated the negative comments from Wallace's supporters and spouted contemporary views on gender; it was easy for them to dismiss her as a distraught female unable to resign herself to her husband's death, full of illogical hostility and petty suspicion, jealous of Wai-

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lace's role, resentful of his survival, and preoccupied with the perfection of Leonidas. In some newspaper accounts she seemed little short of deranged. How else explain such a mad, useless, costly, and above all unfeminine and inappropriate undertaking? In June and November of 1905 the American and Canadian newspapers kept Mina Benson Hubbard and Dillon Wallace in the headlines. The articles varied in length, sometimes used photographs, and usually got the facts, people's names, and what was said (or not said) wrong. Wallace was represented as a hero, an explorer, and an author, the man who had risked his life in 1903 to save his friend and was now going to complete his friend's work. His motive for going was never in question. Mina was repeatedly presented through her status as a widow and through her physical appearance - fragile and pale were the terms most often used - while he was presented as a man of action and iron will, with legitimate goals and work to do. On 13 June 1905, under the headline "Mrs. Hubbard Suspicious," she is described as undertaking a "strange visit" that is "purely sentimentally inspired" because her "mind" cannot conceive of her husband as anything less than a genius (New York Tribune, 1). These disparaging comments are attributed to Alonzo McLaughlin, a law partner and friend of Wallace's and the lawyer handling Leonidas Hubbard's estate, but they are not the only troubling remarks ostensibly given to the Tribune reporter. S. Edgar Briggs, who worked for Fleming H. Revell (Wallace's publisher), was quoted as refusing to discuss the "estrangement" between Mina and Wallace and as saying that Mina had not gone to Labrador to explore (2); his implication was that her reasons were personal, even spiteful. And so the tone was set for the majority of the news coverage to follow every few days in June. Her "visit" to Labrador was "strange" and sentimental, conceived by an unbalanced mind full of suspicions. Her "secret mission" (New York Evening Telegram, 13 June 1905, 16) was shrouded in mystery, driven by estrangement, and characterized by emotion and personal dispute. In fairness, Mina was not presented only in this negative light by the press, and ironically, she may have contributed to the speculation whirling around her from the loth of June on because she refused to answer reporters' questions and deliberately kept her plans private (see her letters to John Gillis for 19 April and 21 May 1905, CNS 2.01.001). Sometimes she was described as "plucky," "intrepid," "daring," determined, and fond of the outdoors. Nevertheless, the dominant image of her constructed by the press was negative. When Dillon Wallace's doting sister became involved, a further negative twist was added to the story. In an article for the St John's Evening Herald dated 19 June 1905 but with a Halifax 12 June byline, under the dramatic subtitle "Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard Sails for Northern Wilds in Opposition to Dillon Wallace," we are informed that Hub-

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bard and Wallace are "hot rivals," that she "keeps her mouth tightly closed" (4), but that Wallace's sister is "not so reticent": "Her story in brief is that Mrs. Hubbard is jealous of Wallace, that she feels that in publishing 'Lure of the Labrador Wild' and going on the present expedition he is doing something that should be hers to do" (4). In her loyal attempt to support her brother, Annie Wallace went out of her way to tarnish and diminish his "rival." A case of women beware women? Or of all is fair in love and northern exploration? From this point on the newspapers had what they wanted, and a presumptuous jealousy was added to Mina's emerging portrait. How much of this reporting she was aware of I cannot say, but at least one friend was aware and tried to set the record straight. On 22 June 1905 the Reverend James E.G. Sawyer, her Williamstown pastor, wrote a letter to the editor of the New York Worldprotesting the errors and speculations being published in its pages and in other papers. Sawyer, who was in a position to know the facts, assures the press and public that Mrs Hubbard had no doubt about how her husband died and had gone to Labrador "to complete the work which her husband undertook" (6). He insists that she did not harbour a "spirit of rivalry" and that "her plan [to go to Labrador] was carefully matured several months before she learned that [Wallace] intended an expedition." He points out that Wallace was not three weeks ahead of her, that she was not following him, and that her party "will probably enter the wilderness ahead of his." Then, in an interesting aside, Sawyer comments on George Elson's presence as her guide. Elson, Sawyer explains, was the "mainstay" of Leonidas Hubbard's expedition and responsible for saving Wallace's life; he agreed to guide Mina, Sawyer states, because "he has confidence in the success of [her] arduous and hazardous enterprise."10 While Sawyer allows that Mina was displeased with The Lure of the Labrador Wild, he dismisses the rumours circulating in the press by focusing on her exploration "work," which was the purpose of her "heroic undertaking." He stresses the "enthusiasm" with which "she gives herself to exploration," the absence of any rivalry with or suspicion of Wallace, and the "carefully matured" nature of her plans prior to any knowledge of Wallace's. Sawyer concludes by reminding readers that Dillon Wallace owed his life to George Elson and he enjoins us to respect Mina's efforts; her "consecration to her husband's memory should," he urges, "win the sympathy and admiration of the world." Two weeks later, on 2 July, well after Mina was safely on her expedition and beyond the reach of the paparazzi, the World published a full-spread tabloidstyle piece purportedly based on an exclusive interview with her by a World Magazine correspondent in her Halifax YWCA room just before she left for Newfoundland (see Appendix). This article, although highly decorative, is billed as "'Why I Went to Labrador': Mrs. Hubbard's Own Story" and boasts two stylish

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Figure 2 (left). Image of Mrs Hubbard in the forest, from her interview with the New York World, 2 July 1905. Figure 3 (right). Image of Mrs Hubbard as the serious widow, from her interview with the New York World, 2 July 1905.

illustrations, one of "Mrs Hubbard in the Canadian Forest, Photo taken at the time of her marriage" (Figure 2) and the other of "Mrs. Hubbard as she is today" (Figure 3). Inserted at the left side of the page is a full-length photograph of Leonidas, an image familiar to readers of Wallace's Lure of the Labrador Wild, where it is the frontispiece and where Leonidas is facing left, looking out over a lake. In this article, however, Leonidas is shown facing right, looking towards his smiling bride and beyond her to his unsmiling widow, and the caption reads: "Leonidas Hubbard who starved to death in Labrador." The text of this article, which includes many passages in quotation marks, confirms that she "Meant to Go Secretly," although she does not explain why she believed secrecy, even from her mother, was so important. She then goes on to describe the work she plans to do mapping the Naskaupi and George Rivers and when and how she planned her expedition. In a revealing comment, she explains that she "wished, time after time, that I were a man, so that I could take up this work, but it had not struck me that I, a woman, could go to the wilds of Labrador on an expedition" (i).

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Then she dates her decision to go as early as January 1905, when she had asked George Elson to accompany her and immediately began preparations. She also insists on telling the reporter many biographical details about Elson - that he is Scotch and Cree (she does not say "halfbreed"), which she calls "a splendid combination," that he is an experienced guide, hunter, canoeist, and surveyor who can make maps, that he made "nobly heroic efforts" to save her husband, and that he was responsible for bringing the body out of the interior. She concludes her description of Elson by stating that he is "loyal, true and brave." This interview, "the first she has given and the last she will give before she returns from the Labrador wilds," took place so that she could "correct erroneous statements ... as to the object of her trip," which suggests that she knew something about the unwelcome publicity and innuendo swirling around her and that she may have wanted secrecy to avoid just such allegations and speculations appearing in the press. The interview also serves to position her and her party in a legitimate and positive light. She is going to Labrador to complete her husband's work and her companion and guide is well known and eminently respectable. Moreover, she sounds thoughtful, determined, and well organized. Her words, as quoted, complement the image of her serious face and direct look. It is hard to imagine how she could have more effectively countered the accusations used against her in the June newspapers. This interview article identifies her as a Canadian, a trained nurse, and a devoted wife, in short, as a person to be taken seriously and to be, at the very least, believed. The period between 2 July and 8 November 1905 was comparatively quiet. Both the second Hubbard expedition and the Wallace expedition were completely incommunicado. However, on 22 July the pot was stirred once more when Leonidas Hubbard's sister, Daisy Hubbard Williams, sent a letter to the World, the New York paper with a considerable vested interest in reporting on the Labrador affair. In this letter Mrs Williams rejected any suggestion that Dillon Wallace did not do enough for her brother and, although she maintained that Mrs Hubbard (Mina) could not have implied any criticism of Wallace in her 2 July Worldinterview (as indeed she did not), Williams's letter gave the impression that she blamed Mina for the public disparagement of her brother's loyal frierTd. In praising Wallace, Daisy Williams implied that the Hubbard family supported him, not Mina. This letter provided new grist for the gossip mill and was picked up and quoted by other papers.11 The press in its wisdom had decided that the Hubbard family sided with Wallace, which it appears they did (see Hart). Other items for July and August were brief and confusing. The New York Herald announced on 14 August: "Mrs. Hubbard to Give Up Labrador Expedition." This idea gave immediate rise to another, more graphic headline, "Mrs Hubbard

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Turns Back from Quest - Fails to Penetrate Labrador Wilderness to Investigate Husband's Death," and to the terse "Mrs. Hubbard Gives Up Labrador Trip." Regardless of her statements in the World interview, the journalists persisted in misrepresenting her motives and goals. Then, on 8 November 1905, the New York Tribune speculated that Mina and Wallace "may have perished" in a frontpage item titled "Fear for Explorers." The paper went on to describe news received from three members of Wallace's party who had been sent back to the coast, but noted that Wallace and a companion were continuing on to Ungava (see Wallace, Long Labrador Trail, 166-75, and Davidson and Rugge, 353-6). The item concluded by stating that Mina "had caused a sensation by forming an expedition of her own" (1).Also on the 8th the North Adams Evening Transcript (published in North Adams, where Wallace was working on his book, and near Williamstown, where Mina had gone after Leonidas's death) ran a speculative piece about what they called "The Rival Explorers" (8). And so it continued for a few more days. The first accurate news was Mina's Wednesday, 8 November 1905 telegram, sent from Chateau Bay, Labrador, to Herbert Bridgman, business manager of the Brooklyn Standard-Union, secretary of the Peary Arctic Club (see Officer and Page, 154), and her close friend and supporter: "Successful. Will return home by steamer King Edward." On 9 November the Brooklyn Daily Eagle published a detailed summary of the 1903 and 1905 expeditions under the title "Mrs. Hubbard Telegraphs She Has Been Successful" (5). On 9 November the Evening Telegram ran a shorter piece declaring that "Mrs. Hubbard and Party are Safe"; the paper cites her telegram to Bridgman and adds that "Wallace and Companions are also Heard From" (5). On the loth the World ran a major piece with her photograph (see Figure 3), quoting at length from her letter to its editor, calling her "intrepid," and touting her as the "WOMAN WHO TRAVERSED LABRADOR'S ICY WASTES" (4). At this point one might well think that Mina Benson Hubbard's worst troubles were over. The public knew that she had returned safely from Labrador and had been successful. However, the press consistently criticized or downplayed her expedition. On 9 November Alonzo McLaughlin is quoted as saying that she "gave up," despite the publication of her telegram. Caspar Whitney holds forth praising Dillon Wallace and refusing to discuss Mrs Hubbard. But perhaps the unkindest cut came in the North Adams Evening Transcript on 10 November. In this piece her telegram to Bridgman is quoted but the anonymous reporter goes on to assert that "she cannot have carried out her original intentions [because that] would take her on a much longer journey" (8). On the 14th the New York Tribune followed suit with comments attributed to the Reverend Dr John B. Marchand, clearly a highly educated clergyman who knew Labrador and could

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state, with all the authority of his person, that Dillon Wallace was alive (just how he knew this is not clear). The good reverend describes Wallace as "a levelheaded fellow" who could "forge ahead, even without an Indian guide," and who, even at this stage in his expedition, had "already done much." Then Marchand is reported as assuring the American public that they would soon hear that Wallace "has planted your flag on a new land" (5)! Of Mina he concludes: "I do not think Mrs. Hubbard got into the interior; in fact, I don't see how she could in such short time" (5). By the time Mina arrived back in Williamstown on the evening of 22 November 1905, the papers had largely agreed to dismiss her claims. Her return was noted briefly, along with some scattered details (the maps used by her husband were incorrect, she was perhaps writing a book or articles, the flies were bad), but with one exception, she was neither praised nor given serious attention. As far as I know, only the New York Tribune was positive and then only in terms of gender: "fitted out at her own expense, [her expedition] is one of the most remarkable exhibitions of woman's courage in recent years. She was the only woman in the expedition" (22 November 1905.16). Its emphasis, then, was not that she had succeeded, that she had headed the expedition, or that she had accomplished something, but that she was courageous for a woman and that she had been "the only woman" on an otherwise male team. In everyday parlance this is called damning with faint praise. Once again the thinness of the reporting may have resulted from Mina's refusal to talk to reporters. Given her treatment at their hands in June, such reluctance is understandable. However, it is very likely that she had promised full details to the World; they carried her first and only interview in June and now they could boast the rights to her first-hand account of success. On Sunday, 26 November, the World published a half-page spread (see Appendix), with her picture, titled "Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard's Own Story of her Trip Through the Wilderness of Labrador" (E 3 ). Here, in her first published narrative of her expedition, Mina describes her work in detail, gives the dates on which she reached Lake Michikamau (6 August), arrived at the George River Hudson's Bay Company (HBC) post (27 August), and started home on the Pelican (22 October), and confirms that she will "write a book or a magazine article." Most importantly, she is quoted as saying: I accomplished all that I started for. I explored the Nascaupee and George Rivers which, while marked on the maps, are incorrectly placed. I saw the caribou crossing at the height of land and I visited the Indians in their homes. This is what my husband tried to do and that he failed was due, as I have said, to his missing the Nascaupee River and to the impossibility of finding food in that unfortunate year. (E 3 )

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The only other American interview I have located was given to a reporter from the North Adams Evening Transcript in the Reverend James Sawyer's home, first published in that paper on 23 November and reprinted in the morning edition of 30 November. After briefly summarizing some details about the expedition, the reporter adds that Mina is "a small, frail woman of a retiring nature and the very last person one would suppose would attempt such a hazardous undertaking," before going on, at some length, to praise Wallace for crossing Labrador without an Indian guide.12 If one were to judge Mina Benson Hubbard and her expedition from the stories in the press between June and November 1905, it would be hard to take her seriously. She is cast as a woman with dubious motives, undertaking a costly and dangerous trip against the advice of men who knew better and in deliberate, wilful competition with the very man best suited to complete her dead husband's work. Above all, she is repeatedly defined by her appearance, her emotions, and her gender. She is frail, weak, secretive, unhinged by her husband's death. The occasional adjectives of praise - plucky, intrepid, courageous - are outweighed by the generally negative rhetoric used to describe her. That the accusations of rivalry between Mina and Wallace were fabricated by the press and clearly fuelled by Briggs, Whitney, McLaughlin, and Miss Wallace seems not to have mattered. Female jealousy and rivalry made more sense to the public (and to Wallace's friends) than any other motive that might explain why she embarked on her expedition. Even when she returned successful, she was doubted and her accomplishments diminished. Put simply, in 1905 it was incredible for a woman to mount and complete a successful northern expedition. If a woman went on such a "strange" trip, then she was a masculine virago or emotionally disturbed, and either way she was behaving in an inappropriate way. She could not possibly have accomplished what she claimed - the Reverend Dr Marchand said so - but if she did, then Wallace had done something better. More recently it has become popular to diminish Mina by crediting George Elson and the three male guides with the successes of the expedition or even by criticizing her for not giving them more credit, but these readings of the second Hubbard expedition end up pretty much where those of 1905 were - by concluding that a woman can only be a bit player in a man's game of wilderness exploration. The truth (if one can even use that word) is somewhere in between all the competing (I would say complementary) versions of the day, and it is far more complex than the rhetoric of masculine heroics or the genre of first-person discovery allow. But a few things are certain: sensible white explorers in Canada's North, from Hearne to Low, hired Native guides and relied on First Nations peoples; really sensible whites listened to their guides, and Mina followed this tradition and completed her expedition in record time, with complete success and without serious mishap.

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"Writing to-day. Slow. Hard to decide what to write about. Afraid of writing what people are not at all interested in and being thought silly or rather a bore. Wish I knew a bit better what public is interested in." ("Diary," 31 August 1905)

There is little doubt now that Mina Benson Hubbard, with the real and essential help of George Elson and her party, achieved a great deal on the second Hubbard expedition. Her diary, maps, and the surviving photographs prove that she went where she claimed to have gone. More intriguing, I believe, is how she came to write her articles and book. As the above quotation makes clear, she struggled to find her subject and her voice. She struggled, as well, for the selfconfidence required to speak and for the conviction necessary to see her through to publication. By comparison with the physical demands of the expedition, during which she was solicitously cared for and fortunate in weather, writing her book became, I believe, the larger, more terrifying challenge. In Labrador she was far from public scrutiny and yet never alone; in A Woman's Way she was truly on her own and, ultimately, in the public eye. And the distinction I am making between the actual expedition and the writing of the book is important. By going to Labrador she had challenged the masculine establishment of the Peary Arctic Club and the Royal Geographical Society, as well as public opinion on a woman's proper place, but she had done so, as it were, privately. By daring to write about her success and to publish her account, she was going public seriously, staking a claim to readership, and joining the ranks of those explorers (the overwhelming majority male) who had published before her. How to set forth on an expedition presented solid, practical problems. How to write about it was another matter. The facts of the expedition are straightforward. If we can assume (and I do) that she resolved to mount an expedition sometime between late December 1904 and early January 1905, then the time between January and early June must have been spent in quiet but careful preparation. Herbert Bridgman assisted her in the selection of her equipment; Elson found the right men to accompany them - Joseph Iserhoff, Russian-Cree, and Job Chapies, Cree, both of whom were friends of George's from Missanabie, and Gilbert Blake (1885-1979), a young man of white and Inuit ancestry from North West River. A few surviving letters from Mina to John Gillis, manager of the Grand River Pulp and Lumber Company, between 19 April and 3 June 1905 confirm the plans she had made to travel to Labrador. She purchased two canoes and equipped her team with the supplies she lists in the book (see WW, 45). In her personal gear she took two Kodaks, a sextant, an artificial horizon, a barometer, a thermometer, a revolver, some fishing tackle, and appropriate clothing; she included a few luxuries as well - an air mattress, a feather pillow, a hot-water bottle, and brandy, which would play its

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Figure 4. A.P. Low's 1894 map of Labrador, reproduced from his 1895 article "Explorations through the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula, 1893-1894." It shows the incomplete status of contemporary Labrador cartography.

own role on the trail. She left Halifax to sail directly for Labrador on 16 June aboard the Gillis lumber boat Harlaw and arrived at the North West River HBC post in Hamilton Inlet on the 25th. Two days later she, Elson, and the three other members of their team left the post. On 27 August, two months and almost six hundred miles later, the Hubbard party arrived at the George River HBC post to a surprised but warm welcome from the factor, Mr John Ford and his wife. They had almost two more months to wait until the English supply ship Pelican arrived to take them south, and the last week, after Wallace arrived at the post (on 14 October), was very difficult for Mina. Although she makes no mention of this trial in the book, she records her revulsion towards Wallace very clearly in her diary. The events and experiences of the weeks en route from North West River to Ungava are described fully in her diary and shaped into a compelling narrative in her book. There is no need to summarize them here except to point out that the group had no serious accidents, made record time, and met with both the Montagnais and the Naskapi. Along the route Mina took numerous photographs and made the measurements necessary to complete an accurate map of the Naskaupi and George Rivers. She was helped in this work by George Elson, who, as is clear from his diary entries for 6 and 7 August, took several photo-

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graphs of Mina during the expedition. When completed and published, her map was judged to be excellent, the first accurate cartographic representation of the Labrador interior through which she passed (see Cabot, In Northern Labrador, 10). With this map she was able to prove that A.P. Low's map, on which her husband had relied, was incorrect and that Leonidas had turned into the Susan River (in reality little more than a brook) instead of the Naskaupi River that flowed east and south from Lake Michikamau. Low's map, however, did show clearly that this great lake led north to the George River and on to Ungava (see Figure 4). On 18 December Mina gave her first public lecture in the Williamstown Methodist church. The lecture, during which she used lantern slides prepared from the photographs taken on the expedition, lasted for almost two hours. According to the report in the North Adams Evening Transcript for 21 December 1905 ("Mrs. Hubbard Tells the Story of her Expedition"), her lecture "was full of human interest and was forcibly and entertainingly delivered ... without being made in the least tiresome" (1). She described the expedition's meeting with both the Montagnais and Naskapi, the extraordinary experience of observing the caribou migration, and the details of her provisions, clothing, equipment, and exploration work, and she recognized and praised the work of George Elson and her entire team. Significantly, she apparently tackled head on the rumours and accusations that had swirled around her in the press over the past seven months. The Transcript reporter describes her statement as follows: In closing Mrs. Hubbard spoke of the many stories that had been afloat since her departure last spring concerning the purpose of her expedition. She said that no living person had ever heard her intimate that the companions of her husband had deserted him. She branded such reports as malicious lies, which emanated from the camp of her enemies. She said that her sole purpose in going to Labrador was to carry out the work of her husband, (1)

In this, her first public story-telling venture, Mina Benson Hubbard must have settled upon many of the narrative components of the book that we know she was already writing. She was, as it were, exercising her narrative muscles, stretching her writerly legs, and testing her authorial voice. It is regrettable that the only surviving trace of this appearance as a successful explorer/author/photographer and expert on parts of Labrador exists in a newspaper account; none of her lecture texts or lantern slides appears to have survived. If we can safely judge from this news report, however, it does seem that she had fully realized both the necessity of defending herself against accusations and the importance of legitimating strategies such as visual proof and factual detail. Moreover, she must have found

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enough of a voice to hold an audience for what, by any measure, was a long lecture. Mina, it seems, could tell a good story, and the apparent success of this venture must have buoyed her self-confidence. Between 1905 and February 1908, when A Woman's Way was published, Mina gave several more well-received public lectures in Canada, the United States, and England. Many years later, she again spoke in Canada about her expedition when she was invited to give the prestigious "Year '26 Lecture" - the first woman to do so - to the Ontario Agricultural College (now the University of Guelph) on 29 October 1936. On this occasion she joined the ranks of contemporary men of distinction such as Sir Robert Falconer, Professor Stephen Leacock, the Reverend James Endicott, and major Canadian cultural figures such as Arthur Lismer and B.K. Sandwell, and she was praised for her courage, accomplishments, and the "exquisite language" of her address.13 In addition, she published her articles, and these, unlike the lectures, have survived in full so that they can be considered for what they demonstrate about her efforts to publicize her work, how she categorized that work, and her talent for pitching her material to a specific audience. Reflecting now on her somewhat poignant remark in the diary for 31 August 1905 (quoted above, xxxi) I am tempted to say that Mina did not fully appreciate what her contemporary public was interested in or, more precisely, the degree to which any public was conditioned by publishers to want, and to see value in, certain kinds of stories. However, she did come to a remarkably astute understanding of how to write for different publics. Her first two articles, both published in 1906, provide an illuminating study in contrasts. "Labrador, From Lake Melville to Ungava Bay," for the Bulletin of the American Geographical Society, provides what its title suggests - an objective and factual account of her expedition. "My Explorations in Unknown Labrador," for Harper's Monthly Magazine, while presenting many of the same facts, is much more personal and subjective.14 The Bulletin article is made more objective by her language, rhetoric, and selective use of materials: the photographs included are topographical, not personal; her map is given pride of place; and cartographic and geographic information is stressed. It begins in a factual, third-person voice and presents a genealogy of Labrador exploration. The reader is told that in "the northeastern portion of the Dominion of Canada is the great Labrador Peninsula, which, though first to be discovered, is of all the regions of North America the last and least explored" (529). After a brief summary of its size and topography, Mina reviews what is known about the place: she begins with the Hudson's Bay Company's posts, credits John McLean as the "discoverer of the Grand Falls of the Hamilton River" (later called Churchill Falls), cites the work of Henry Youle Hind, R.F. Holme, and two American expeditions in the early 1890s, and concludes with

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"the great Labrador explorer" A.P. Low, whose "work has tended to dispel the darkness of mystery so long shadowing the interior of the great peninsula" (530). This praise of Low notwithstanding, she goes on to insist that Low had not mapped the area "between Lake Melville and Ungava Bay," which she describes in the familiar masculine rhetoric of exploration as "virgin field for the explorer" (530). Finally, she comes to Leonidas and the first Hubbard expedition. She puts his 1903 efforts, and his "defeat and death" (530), in this genealogical context, in part to claim distinction for him in terms that readers of the Bulletin will recognize and in part to introduce her role and task. The remainder of the article follows the route of the second Hubbard expedition up the Naskaupi River, through Seal Lake, to the Height of Land and Lake Michikamau, and from there through lake extensions north to the George River and down to Ungava. She uses the first person sparingly, usually restricting her voice to plain, factual description; thus, Lake Michikamau is "sixty miles long and twenty-five miles in width" (531-2), and the Naskaupi River "issues from the lake to the east a few miles north of Lat. 54°" (532). There are a few notable, if brief, digressions from this quasi-scientific tone: one is a disclaimer that her map is only "pioneer work" (531), which safeguards her against professional quibbles; the other is an excuse of sorts for shortcomings in her cartography because she has "not had access to" her husband's notebook with his maps and records (531). (Wallace kept these materials, refusing to return them to her.) Her map, a detailed representation of the territory through which she travelled, appears at the end of the article and shows both her route and Leonidas's mistaken route of 1903. Inset with the map is a 1905 atlas map of Labrador; it clearly illustrates what she added to contemporary knowledge and how Leonidas was misled. Of the eleven photographs included with this account, only three show members of the expedition, and these are distant shots in which the individuals are barely discernible. All the photographs are used in a conventional exploration-narrative manner to illustrate points in the narrative - points about location, fauna, topography — and to confirm that the author was there and is accurately describing that. These photographs, in both their composition and subject matter and in their captions (for example, "Cape Corbeau, 12 miles away" facing page 532), replicate and reinforce the narrative. They constitute a truth claim by providing a visual record and evidentiary proof. The Harper's article, in striking contrast, is deeply personal. Although the general account of what happened is identical with that of the Bulletin piece, Mina's focus is on people, instead of facts, on the aesthetics of perception instead of measurements. She describes her clothing in detail; she provides dialogue for herself, her companions, and the First Nations people she meets; she stresses her appreciation of the beauties of the country and its animals (especially the cari-

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Figure 5. This photograph of the tree at Lake Michikamau shows the records stored there, and it only appears with Mina's article in Harper's Magazine. See WW, 98.

bou); and she confesses to a host of emotions — "expectancy," sorrow, fear, confidence, and admiration - admitting at one point that "my heart sickened" (817) and at another that "my heart bounded" (822). Fewer photographs are included for Harper's than for the Bulletin, but of these eight, five include recognizable people: one is a formal photograph of "Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard" (and Mina appears in all the others); one is of the North West River HBC post from which the expedition set forth; one is a romantic shot of lake, trees, and cloud-piled sky (possibly of Lake Michikamau); and one especially interesting photograph shows tangled brush and a small tree with an object lodged in its branches (see Figure 5). The caption for this image tells us that this is the "Tree at Lake Michikamau, Where Records Were Left" (816), and in her narrative Mina explains that this object is "a big flat stone" on which she had written "HUBBARD EXPEDITION ARRIVED HERE AUG. 2ND, '05" and underneath these proud words "the names of all the party" (821). Only one small map accompanies the Harper's article (see Figure 6), but it shows, like the more detailed one in the Bulletin, the main items of interest.

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Figure 6. Mine's map as published in Harper's Magazine. The map she published with her article for the Bulletin of the American Geographical Society is the more detailed, scientific survey map published with her book (see fold-out map at end of this edition).

In all these ways, then, but particularly through her rhetoric, diction, and selected visual materials, Mina writes two widely differing accounts of the same expedition. At the same time, she creates two distinct voices and self-representations. In the Bulletin she is Mrs Leonidas Hubbard, an expedition leader in a genealogy of explorers; in Harper's she is an individual - what is more a female individual - with strong feelings and a very personal voice. In the Bulletin she writes to provide factual information that can be incorporated into an advancing body of knowledge about Labrador; she takes her place in the sanctioned, male lineage and legitimates her work by relating that work to others' work; she is writing and publishing for the scientific record. In Harper's, however, she writes as Mina Benson Hubbard, Leonidas Hubbard's widow (although she signs both as Mrs Hubbard), as one of a small group of people, on whom she relies; the quoted dialogue grounds her relational position, not to a list of explorers and a body of knowledge, but to her living companions and to the real, living human beings she meets along the way. Here the country she passes through is alive with associations, whereas there, in the Bulletin, Labrador is an explorer's "virgin territo-

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ry," a place to be accounted for, accurately mapped, surveyed, and reported on (though she never uses terms like conquer and penetrate, which are common in men's narratives, and she does not list resources to be developed or exploited). In asking how Mina learned to write this way, we need only look to some of the books she may have read, and we know that she had read Low and studied his maps. It is possible that she modelled her prose and approach, perhaps even her title for the Bulletin, on his "Explorations through the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula, 1893-1894" or on his much longer Report on Explorations in the Labrador Peninsula. Her article is by no means as technical as Low's "Explorations," but her discursive strategies and explorer's voice are similar. She knew full well that she had to adopt these strategies and this voice if she were to be believed, heeded, and her achievements recognized in the male worlds of science and exploration. By singling out Low as a possible rhetorical model, I do not mean to suggest that there were no other models for Mina to study. To the contrary, there surely were, and the style of the Harper'spiece suggests that she was familiar with its pages and capable of adopting a Harper's voice. No writer creates in a vacuum. All writers learn to work with or against genre, and Mina Benson Hubbard cannot be an exception. Her influences are many and include scientists like Low, contemporary travel writers like Mary Kingsley (to whom I shall return) and Warburton Pike, and a wider literary tradition stretching from Shakespeare to Bunyan, Coleridge, and Rudyard Kipling (one of Leonidas's favourites).15 She also knew her Bible well - like Leonidas she carried it with her and read from it daily on her expedition - and was acquainted with the masculinist literature of wilderness adventure stories. Her husband wrote this kind of thing, and this genre of writing was familiar to her from the pages of Outing as well as the Windsor Magazine, in which she published. Before she wrote for the latter, however, her Bulletin article was reprinted (almost completely) in the Journal of the Manchester Geographical Society for 1907, where it carries the title "A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador." Clearly, she had settled on the title for her book by at least October 1907 because the article, bearing this title, is the text of her address, on Tuesday, 8 October 1907, "to the Society in the Geographical Hall"; a footnote acknowledges that it is printed with the permission of the American Geographical Society. Apart from this significant difference in title, the Bulletin and the Journal of the Manchester Geographical Society texts are the same. Only four of the original set of eleven photographs are included in the latter, and they record physical sites; however, the map is identical in both pieces. The last two articles are quite different from each other and, while covering much of the same narrative ground, differ in interesting ways from the Harper's piece, which they resemble in voice, and from the more scientific Bulletin article.

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On 15 April 1908 the Englishwoman's Review published "Through Lonely Labrador," a brief, six-page account with neither photographs nor map. At about the same time Windsor Magazine, a popular, illustrated British monthly "for men and women" that featured articles on art and artists, short fiction (fellow Canadian Charles G.D. Roberts was a regular contributor at this time), poetry, and general interest essays, published Mina's "Exploring Inner Labrador" with fourteen illustrations. "Through Lonely Labrador" is by far Mina's most personal, autobiographical publication, especially in its introductory paragraphs; "Exploring Inner Labrador" is more general and factual. The differences, however, are differences of degree, modulation, and balance because at certain points the exact same sentences or even whole paragraphs appear in both articles. The personal, emotional note is struck right away by the title "Through Lonely Labrador," while the activity of exploring, rather than feeling or reflecting, is immediately stressed by the second title. Mina could assume a female readership for the Englishwoman's Review, and this assumption led her to present herself as, first and foremost, a grieving widow "feeling very, very helpless and sad" (82); she gives her entire raison d'etre as that of the loyal wife inspired by "a sudden illumination" and obeying an unspoken, spiritual command: "Go to Labrador" (82). Though she does not put it in scriptural terms (her sincere Christianity might have balked at doing so), her language is decidedly religious: "as I sat looking out of the window, aching with a sense of my own littleness and impotence, suddenly something thrilled through my whole being" (82). Mina, like the Virgin Mary or the saints, has experienced an annunciation, a call. Her "task," as she calls it, is "to do the work to which my husband had given his life, and which his death left unfinished" (82). This call to go forth in her husband's name, to go to Labrador in his place, to do his work, is at once her mission and her legitimation. It exonerates her, in the critical eyes of contemporary female readers, who might be all too quick to judge her as behaving inappropriately (after all, both Leonidas's sister and Wallace's sister had gone public with their criticism), by placing her actions outside or beyond her own wilfulness. And this "call" explains, in socially acceptable terms, her behaviour and her right to be going on such a mission: she goes forth to do his work. Throughout this piece, Mina stresses her feminine position and perspective. Thus, she trembles at the power of the rapids on the Naskaupi, and she watches "with bated breath" as one of her crew negotiates such waters. The places where she camps are "charming," and with her air mattress, quilt, feather pillow, and hot-water bottle, she assures her readers that she was "as comfortable as if in the most luxurious apartment" (84). Through these details Mina quite successfully and strategically domesticates the wilderness, as if to say - you too, gentle reader, could go where I have gone and do what I have done because it is not, after

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all, so very dangerous. And she goes on to say that this physical comfort was complemented by spiritual security: "Often above the music of the rapid came the sound of hymns sung in Indian, soft and sweet" (85). She includes, in carefully abbreviated form, a description of her escape from her guides (see WW, 89-90) to illustrate that she was "a great source of anxiety to the men" (85), who took extraordinary care of her, and by quoting George's admonishment (see WW, 92), she implies that she obeyed him without demur. In short, she did what any good woman should: she obeyed her man. In "Through Lonely Labrador" Mina does not bore her readers with geographical minutiae or masculine facts. A few distances are mentioned, to be sure, but given the short span of the piece, a very substantial amount of space is devoted to describing the flowers and the exquisite fragrance of a special vine with twin blossoms. The vicious flies are never mentioned, nor are the all too real dangers of the expedition, least of all any imagined threat from the Naskapi. "Providence" (the term is hers, 84), is always watching over her. "Exploring Inner Labrador" begins and develops in a sharply different key. The first six paragraphs, narrated in the third person, establish the geographic, historical, and cartographic context. Instead of divine inspiration, a "great wish" led her to undertake "the second Hubbard Expedition" (555). Leonidas is still omnipresent (he always was for her), but he is not invoked as a legitimating trope or as an acceptable disguise. This time, in this venue, she is categorical: "I successfully completed the work" (555). This work she describes as "desperately hard" and "discouraging" (557), and she gives detailed descriptions of the tracking and portaging needed to make what was often very slow progress. Balancing these harsh realities are her descriptions of the beauty of Labrador and the abundance of "delicious" game. Her first view of Lake Michikamau, for example, "sent its thrill pulsing through every part of my being" (559), and she expresses unabashed pride in being "the first of the white race [to stand] at the source of the Nascaupee River" (561; see also WW, 117). Six of the fourteen photographs for this article, like the majority of the text itself, also appear in A Woman's Way. It is the emphasis, which inevitably occurs with this kind of excerpting, that gives this piece its particular colour. As with the Bulletin, most of the photographs are long-distance shots across water, with low horizons, high skies, and hills, and all these landscape photographs (twelve in total) establish the camerawoman as a remote, observing, and controlling eye. They provide visual testimony to her presence in that landscape, and they do so by asserting what Mary Louise Pratt has called the "imperial eyes" of the western traveller, who is the monarch of all that he or she surveys (see Pratt, 201-5). Only two of the photographs (both of which also figure in the book and must have been taken by George Elson; see illus., pp. 75 and 99) focus on people, in both

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cases Mina herself. Even without the further emphasis of the map, these images, together with this narrative, represent Mina as a successful explorer who is at once knowledgeable about Labrador, well prepared for her work, and devoted to her husband's memory and dreams, but who is also fully present, as herself, on this expedition and proud of her accomplishments. Much more might be said about these five articles, but a few key points can be stressed. First, as a group, these pieces demonstrate unequivocally that Mina Benson Hubbard could write well and that she could write to an audience. Second, this ability to tailor her narrative cloth reveals her keen awareness of her own complex subject position: on the one hand, she knew she could be criticized as a woman presuming to do a man's work, and on the other, she knew she could be dismissed as not accomplishing anything serious or worthwhile. In each article, therefore, she tried to put her most appropriate foot forward so that for a largely male, professional audience she told a factual story and for a more general, mixed audience she told a story that stressed human interest. The stance she adopts for The Englishwoman's Review is the one I find most disappointing and problematic because in it she so clearly caters to the conservative feminine public opinion of her day. But who am I to complain? What is possible now was not even imaginable in 1905 or 1907 when this piece was written. In any case, it is completely unnecessary to attempt to locate the true or ideal Mina in these articles because she had no single voice. None of us does. She ventriloquized and performed her several parts, and in that rich complexity lies the fascination of her texts. These articles show us something more than her narrative dexterity and something congruent with the final book. I have already noted a degree of duplication among the articles and between the articles and the book itself, but this duplication increases as she writes until the articles mirror the book: what appear separately in the articles come together in the book to produce a very hybrid, multivoiced story with several different, often competing and conflicting, narrative voices. My point is that Mina Benson Hubbard was all these voices and all these selves - a devoted wife, a grieving widow, an astute and courageous explorer, a woman constrained by gender and sex from experiencing full freedom, responsibility, and agency, a sensitive participant in her expedition rather than its autocratic boss, a woman who appreciated the comforts she enjoyed while exploring, who greatly respected the skill of her guides, and who responded to the harsh beauty of the Labrador wilderness. She was all these people and more. At some point during her weeks on the trail, Mrs Hubbard shed that marital identity to discover Mina Benson Hubbard, who was the woman prior to Leonidas, plus Leonidas's adoring wife, plus a further self, who took pride in her individual achievements. This complex, multiple self was further consolidated and trans-

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formed as she became an author who, yes, saw at times with "imperial eyes," but who also wrote from the heart of her own much more uncertain, ambiguous subjectivity. In the book that resulted from her journey, a journey at once physical, psychological, and spiritual, she created a story that the public was interested in but had difficulty grasping in its entirety. It is hard to think of a trope more decisively gendered than the monarchof-all-l-survey scene. Explorer-man paints/possesses newly unveiled landscape - woman. But of course there were explorer-women. (Mary Louise Pratt, 213)

A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador is a book of many parts and, as we shall see, Mina conceived of it in this way from early on. In addition to the main narrative of her 1905 expedition, which at 122 pages is the longest and most important component of the book, A Woman's Way carries a brief formal preface with acknowledgments; an interesting introduction, called "Labrador" by William B. Cabot; a biographical chapter (chapter 1 of the main narrative) in which Mina writes elegiacally of Leonidas's life and dreams; excerpts from Leonidas's 1903 diary; George Elson's narrative of the last days of the 1903 expedition, composed (at her request) during his visit with her in Williamstown in 1904-5; fifty-one illustrations - the frontispiece drawing of the author by Joseph Syddall, a companion Syddall drawing of Leonidas (taken from a photograph; see Figure 7), the photographs taken on the expedition by Mina herself or, in some instances, by George Elson, and a fold-out map, which appears at the end of this edition. This complex, hybrid text presents readers with some challenges, perhaps the most immediate being the perceived need to relate the parts in some sequential or narratively logical way. Consideration of genre and generic conventions will help me map the text, but before I do that, I want to look briefly at the publishing history of AWoman's Way.16 By spring 1907 Mina was living in England, where she gave lantern-slide lectures, met her second husband, Harold Ellis, and established contact with one of Great Britain's major publishing houses: John Murray. Murray already had a track record for publishing travel and exploration literature (see Stanley, 165-6), so this serious trade interest, coupled with his stature, made Murray the ideal choice as originating publisher. In the last analysis, Murray produced a beautiful volume and put real effort into marketing it. Extant records confirm that Murray provided the copies for sale in Toronto under the William Briggs imprint. Briggs was the obvious choice for Canadian publisher because he was steward for the Methodist Book and Publishing House and part of the Methodist/United Church coalition that later formed Ryerson Press. Moreover, he had an excel-

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Figure 7. This photograph ofLeonidas Hubbard.Jr, was published by Caspar Whitney with his 1904 article. It is the image on which Joseph Syddall based his 1907 portrait drawing that Mina reproduced in her book,' see /'//us., p, 156.

lent track record for publishing Canadian books on travel, exploration, and history.17 I have not discovered (to date) any evidence of Briggs's marketing of the book, but an advertising flyer with the order form prepared for John Murray's edition has survived (see Figure 1). The full front face portrait of Mina, by Joseph Syddall, dated 1907, reassures the prospective buyer/reader that the author is a lady, young, completely feminine, and attractive, but also serious, determined, and authoritative - a sort of latter-day Lady Jane Franklin. The advertising blurb is carefully constructed to complement the portrait and to inform the buyer/ reader of some strategic facts: "Mrs. Hubbard" has completed the work of her husband, who "lost his life in the cause of science"; her narrative and map carry the approval of "geographical authorities"; and the volume has the further distinction and "great advantage" of an expert introduction by William Cabot. When I mention Jane Franklin in the same sentence as Mina, I do so in all seriousness because Jane devoted herself to the search for her lost husband and to his posthumous reputation. She was a cultural model for Mina, a reference point, especially in England and Canada. Whether Mina consciously evoked her example or not I cannot say, but I think Murray did so through the advertising for her book, and at least one reviewer made the comparison.18

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Figure 8. Title pages showing imprints for the John Murray and William Briggs printings of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador.

Apart from the imprint and publication prelim page, the Murray and Briggs editions are identical (see Figure 8). In both, the photographs appear, one to a page, each with its caption, facing - and thereby illustrating and elaborating upon - specific points in the narrative. Thus, the team members are described in the text and the accompanying portrait photograph shows and names each man. In both, the map is held in a sleeve glued to the back cover, and both include an index. However, the edition published by S.S. McClure in October 1908, roughly seven months after the book appeared in England, differs in major ways from the Murray/Briggs volume.19 Visually it is a less attractive product: it is smaller in size and typeface; its photographs are reduced in size and impact by being squeezed two to a page; it drops the index; and, most significantly, it does not include Cabot's introduction. One other change is noteworthy: Leonidas's portrait appears at the beginning (on page 18) with Mina's biographical sketch in chapter 1, instead of after Mina's narrative and facing his diary excerpt, where it appears in the Murray/Briggs. In the absence of correspondence or any in-house editorial evidence about who altered the Murray plates and why, I am left to surmise what happened here by reflecting upon the quite different impressions made by these two editions.

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First, and simply as an item for a bookseller's shelves, the McClure is inferior, less attractive to hold, use, or look at. Second, the McClure is much less informative. The absence of Cabot's introduction is crucial, an omission that, together with the reduction and arbitrary pairing of the photographs, contributes to the weaker impact of the book. Without the introduction, a reader has no way of contextualizing Labrador, Mina, or what she accomplished except through what remains - Leonidas's photograph (given pride of place), his diary and Elson's narrative, and each of these components pulls attention away from the main narrative of "a woman's way" towards the young American journalist who perished in Labrador and had already been written about by Dillon Wallace. In short, Mina is diminished through McClure's excision of text and information, while Leonidas is foregrounded (even more than he was in the Murray/Briggs). The McClure edition privileges biography over autobiography, his story over hers. How do I account for these changes? Well, once more, only by speculating that to an American audience, especially a New York one, Leonidas Hubbard was important, worthwhile, topical, and familiar. He would sell books, be linked in readers' minds with Wallace's books, and thereby complement rather than compete with those books. Wish as I may that I could reconstruct the window and table displays of New York booksellers in the fall of 1908,1 cannot. But it is possible that the McClure edition of Mina's book, if it appeared in displays at all, shared space with Wallace's Lure of the Labrador WildandThe Long Labrador Trailand that images of Leonidas helped to market all three; her book may even have helped the American sales of his. I will speculate further and suggest that vested interests behind the scenes colluded in an effort to devalue Mina by de-authorizing and de-legitimizing her book. William Cabot and Mrs Leonidas Hubbard may both have been deemed persona non grata in some circles, Cabot because of his 1904 article defending Leonidas against charges, made by the press, of foolishness and lack of preparation, Mina because she was a mere woman and wife. To publish her full book might exonerate her, might even require some rhetorical restitution of her reputation or admission of error, and could possibly annoy other publishers, other authors, or even family members who had criticized her for going to Labrador. Fortunately, however, the full book does exist and it is the object of my attention. Murray's ledgers show that 1,520 copies were printed initially and that, of these, 260 were sold to Briggs in May 1908. In the same month two blocks of plates, plus 2,500 maps, were sent to McClure in New York; the maps were glued to the back cover, instead of held in individual sleeves as with the Murray and Briggs. In a letter to me, Virginia Murray reports that A Woman's Way went out of print in 1920 after "tiny" sales during the First World War. The publishing his-

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tory after 1920 is somewhat bleak. Doubleday, which had taken over McClure, released another imprint in 1909 (see LaFramboise, 2001,17), but the book went out of print until Breakwater published a paperback edition (based on the McClure) in 1981, without subtitle and over the name "Mina Hubbard," without Cabot's introduction, Mina's map, or an index, and with her photographs crowded together at the end of the book. Breakwater stresses Mina's national identity as an "Ontario born Canadian heroine," positions her as Dillon Wallace's "arch rival," and describes her as "this slender little woman, in long skirts and fashionable hats" (quoted from dustjacket). Pierre Berton, in his page-and-a-half foreword, echoes these points and manages both to praise and demean the author and her achievement. On the one hand, her book is "remarkable" and "her personal odyssey" an "extraordinary feat." On the other, it was "a grudge match" "a personal act of revenge" (on Mina's part) - and it was "led by the intrepid and unflappable George Elson." All this is crammed into Berton's opening two paragraphs, along with his assertion that George was in love with Mina, but the remaining space provides a summary of Wallace's activities, Hubbard's death, how, "thanks to George," she "won the race," her diary (where, Berton tells us, "she cries for her Laddie"), her subsequent marriage, and her dramatic death at eighty-six, when, "during a lapse into senility ... she walked into the path of a speeding locomotive." Nothing is said of any serious import about what she accomplished or about the quality of her writing. Instead she is reduced to her gender, her sex appeal ("a Gibson girl" who attracted George), and her men (George and the husbands). We are left with the lasting image of her as a crazy old woman crushed by a train, as if that had some Anna Karenina-style bearing on her life. A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador is, as I have suggested, a complex, hybrid narrative, and as such, it differs in fundamental ways from other expedition narratives. At the same time, it shows striking similarities with the genre, and I want to consider these similarities closely. The differences arise primarily from her inclusion of others' texts and voices and from the nature and extent of Cabot's introduction. The similarities reside chiefly in her own narrative, from chapters 2 to 18, in her inclusion of photographs and a map, and in certain details that conform to the conventions of expedition accounts. However disparate the various parts of this book may at first seem, I believe they all arise from and contribute to a unified purpose. The whole is greater than its parts, and its multiplicity contributes significantly to the book's unique identity. Mina's dedication is both thoughtful and generous: to the mother Leonidas loved and the father "who was one of his heroes." In this way, the name of Leonidas Hubbard is foregrounded and the book itself made into an offering to his family. The "Preface," while matter-of-fact in tone, carries a number of extra-

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textual traces that point to the larger context. Thus, she states categorically why she went to Labrador and why her book has its unusual hybrid form. The "greater part," as she puts it, "of Mr Hubbard's diary," together with Elson's account, is here to correct "misleading accounts of Mr Hubbard's expedition, which have appeared elsewhere" (WW, 7). Moreover, she wishes, both in the composite narrative and in her map, which shows both the 1903 and 1905 routes, to record both expeditions and to firmly situate hers as the continuation and completion of his. And she is careful to disclaim any geographic or cartographic expertise. Her opening reference to "misleading accounts," combined with her explanation that she has never had access to her husband's "maps ... field notes and records," hints at the difficulties she faced in mounting her continuation of his expedition and at Wallace's self-interest in keeping Leonidas's papers. The acknowledgments are important as well because, in the absence of surviving correspondence, they provide clues about who supported her and how. Herbert L. Bridgman (1844-1924) advised her on equipment and on her book, and kept her expedition plans quiet; Mina named the Bridgman Mountains for him and Helen Falls for his wife (see Bridgman, 81). Harold Ellis (1875-1935), her second husband, was from a well-to-do Methodist family and the son of a British member of Parliament; his "help and counsel" included comments on the manuscript (see Hart) and possibly connecting her with John Murray. William Cabot I have already introduced and will consider further. Dr Cluny Macpherson (1879-1966) was the chief medical officer with the Grenfell Mission at Battle Harbour, and he assisted her with local arrangements. The thanks she proffers to George Elson and James Sawyer may seem slight, but the brevity, as I see it, belies a depth of genuine feeling beyond what she felt for the others. I wish she had acknowledged here (or somewhere) which photographs George took, but she does clearly note that he provided the route sketch for the 1903 expedition. There can be no doubt whatsoever that George Elson made her expedition possible; she says so emphatically later in the book - "Behind me in my canoe sat the trusty hero whose courage and honour and fidelity made my venture possible, and who took from my shoulders so much of the responsibility" (WW, 46). As is clear from the diary and the book, she was usually wise enough to let him be the guide and, for the most part, to heed his expert advice. The Reverend James Sawyer (1842-1923) provided the spiritual encouragement she needed in deciding to go, in planning the trip, and in seeing it through. Mina was sincerely religious, and the strength of this faith should not be underestimated. Mount Sawyer is named for her "beloved pastor," and Point Lucie may be named for his wife (see Roy, "Locating Power"). By thanking him for her book's title she flags his support of her mission, a mission he had already praised in his letter to the World. Her book is a woman's way, and she signs this preface, in contrast with the

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formal "Mrs Leonidas Hubbard, Junior" on the title page, as MINA BENSON HUBBARD. Even in these terse markers of identity, the one a formal, conventional, and - more than mere convention - willing erasure of herself in favour of her husband, the other much more personally and individually assertive, she signals the complexity of her own position and her voice: within the accepted norms of the day for a married woman, there exists a person with a different voice and a separate identity. Between 1899 and 1924 William Brooks Cabot (1858-1949), an American civil engineer turned ethnographer and photographer, made several trips through Labrador and northeastern Quebec. He was drawn to the area by its remote beauty and its First Nations people, especially the Naskapi, whom he saw for the first time in 1899 and returned to study more closely in 1903. Each summer from 1904 to 1907 he returned, making expeditions inland as far as the George River (in 1910) from the coast at Davis Inlet. His book In Northern Labrador did not appear until 1912, so it cannot be considered an influence on Mina's writing, but he was well known as an expert on Labrador by 1905 and his enthusiasm for the place and its inhabitants certainly fired Leonidas Hubbard's imagination (Davidson and Rugge, Great Heart, 20). Moreover, he considered the Hubbards his friends (see Cabot, "Labrador Expedition," 478) and was corresponding with Mina, who deeply appreciated his 1904 article and must have asked him to prepare the introduction to her book.20 Cabot's introduction, "Labrador," provides essential context for both the 1903 and 1905 expeditions. In this essay, Cabot identifies the area, summarizes the history of its exploration by white people, and describes the lifestyle of the First Nations peoples who had occupied the area for centuries. Most importantly, he explains the challenges and dangers of inland travel, for which existing maps were incomplete or inaccurate and where even the Montagnais and Naskapi struggled to survive. White people entered Labrador at their peril, in Cabot's view, and were a burden to those First Nations people who helped them. Starvation was an ever-present threat. The purpose of all this Labrador history and description, however, is not simply to set the stage for Mina's expedition. Cabot soon turns his attention to Leonidas Hubbard's 1903 expedition and goes to considerable lengths to explain how Leonidas planned for it and where and why his plans went awry. He defends Hubbard's decision to retreat overland - "The land route was known, the Beaver [River] was not" (WW, 26) - and points out that Hubbard's diary confirms the exemplary spirit with which he and his companions faced the final days of their ordeal. "Not unnaturally," he reminds us, "might the party's last period have been marked by surrender to fear, by the selfish disregard of one another's fate, or worse" (WW, 26), and "worse" is an unmistakable, if oblique, reference to starvation cannibalism. Then, in a crucial paragraph, which may well account for

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McClure's decision to cut this introduction, Cabot dismisses those who published "criticism of [Hubbard's] equipment and capability" as ignorant of subarctic conditions: "The confidence and freedom of the various writers in their criticism was really in proportion to their unfamiliarity with such travel" (WW, 27). In the paragraphs that follow this condemnation of Leonidas's critics, Cabot turns his full attention to Mina. He explains why she had to mount an expedition and assesses the significance of what she accomplished. True to the ideology of the day and, it must be remembered, Mina's own language and self-definition, Cabot sees the "husband's spirit" descending upon the expedition's female and "untried leader," and he singles out her "courage and devotion" for praise (WW, 28). But Cabot goes further than the conventional rhetoric of his time by insisting that a man familiar with northern travel "must adjust his eyes to a new horizon before seeing as it is this latest picture. The embarkation of a woman, slight, young ..." (WW, 28). In a few deft phrases Cabot acknowledges and displaces contemporary prejudices against a woman's undertaking northern exploration. If he cannot quite allow that she goes North in her own right, to fulfil her own goals (something Mina did not fully admit to herself until, I think, later on), he does insist that she be seen for what she is - an explorer - and praised for what she successfully accomplished. The "greater part" of the "Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.," as excerpted by Mina, functions in several ways within the total text. It serves, of course, to grant Leonidas his own voice within the enterprise, to allow him to represent himself; it helps to legitimate Mina's expedition by linking the two as overlapping, complementary expeditions and stories; and it provides some interesting comparisons with Mina's expedition narrative. This publication of the diary, however, is not its first. Caspar Whitney had already published excerpts; Dillon Wallace had quoted from it in Lure of the Labrador Wild; and the final entries for 18 October had been cited by various newspapers.21 The differences between Mina's publication and the others are in the details. Where Whitney and Wallace made selections to suit their masculinist (and other, more personal) purposes, Mina retained most of her husband's references to her when deciding what to reprint. The biggest contrast is between Whitney's and Mina's publications. Mina follows the diary in form, punctuation, and spelling more closely than Whitney does. Whitney tidies up Hubbard's text and suppresses Hubbard's references to Mina and to his dreams of home, as well as many of his comments about feeling weak. The result is an action-oriented, somewhat depersonalized text. By leaving these references in, Mina shows Leonidas in the round, as it were, and certainly as a husband who occasionally thought about his wife. Paradoxically, however, at least as I read Mina's excerpts (and indeed Leonidas's entire diary), the contrasts between his diary and her narrative (and even

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between their two diaries) undermine her attempt to present his expedition in a positive light and her role in his life as important. Speaking in his own voice, Leonidas Hubbard sounds childish, foolhardy, and stubborn, as well as basically kindly and well-meaning. His time and energy are spent recording conversations about food, fantasies about dinners with Mina, and dreams about weakness and hunger. That thoughts about food would become obsessive under such circumstances as Hubbard faced in September and October 1903 should come as no surprise. What is surprising, given Mina's devotion to him and her care in transcribing his references to her, is the paucity of such references. They are rare and brief, usually centred around food and creaturely comforts, and they never evince any concern for her well-being or future. For the woman who adored this man, I can only imagine his diary as a cold comfort. In the larger context of A Woman's Way, where his diary sits side-by-side with George's narrative, "Last Days Together," the problems with Leonidas's selfrepresentation are less apparent because what the diary provides is just one perspective on the disaster of 1903 and, by implication and juxtaposition, the success of 1905. George's account provides another, and together these two contribute to the multiple perspectives on Labrador contained in the book.22 Through George's eyes we are able to see the extremity of the 1903 situation, to understand the sheer physical danger of a Labrador winter, and to appreciate the enormity of his efforts to reach help. A comparison of George's narrative with Wallace's description of these days prior to rescue in Lure of the Labrador Wild (251-72) illustrates how crucial George's role in their rescue really was. I can think of few diary entries more likely to knock some understanding into smug city-slickers (then and now) than George's descriptions of 26 and 27 October (see WW, 203-5). In the larger context of the whole book, Leonidas's story invites and precipitates hers; Leonidas's and George's answer Cabot's; the voices of these three men echo each other and resonate with her voice, and Mina's story rests between them, benefiting from their existence within the covers of her book and adding significantly to the masculine picture and, thus, to our understanding of 1903 and 1905. In imagining A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, Mina worked collaboratively, comparatively, relationally, and contextually; a diary entry for 15 October 1905 confirms that she already saw the book as a whole of many parts but that she worried about her own voice: "Am afraid I am making a dreadfully flat uninteresting story out of it and one which will look strange beside Laddie's diary and George's story." The central narrative of A Woman's Way is in its own way polyvocal. Chapter 1 stands on its own as a biographical sketch of Leonidas. Chapters 2-18 tell the story of her expedition, and throughout she uses a variety of narrative and dramatic techniques, including exposition, passages of lyrical description, dialogue,

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and a few substantial quotations from her diary (see WW, 146-7, and Buchanan). Chapter 1 is by far the weakest. Mina had begun a book about Leonidas after his death but well before she completed her expedition. However, in a 2 June 1905 letter to William Cabot, she explains that, after receiving advice, she has decided "to defer the publication of the book till my return"; but the only part of this original "book" that appears to have survived is in chapter 1 (see note 20). The advice to defer was sound, and we now have a much better book. Compared with the prose in her main narrative, the prose in chapter 1 is cliched and derivative and the rhetoric strained. She begins, strategically enough, with that day in January 1903 when Leonidas announced that he would go to Labrador, but she almost immediately lapses into hagiography. The "boy" she describes is a romantic dreamer. He is also a devout Christian, a lover of the "outside world," "utterly fearless, resolute, persistent" (WW, 38), but at the same time simple, gentle, and tender. She describes his summons to their wedding, their honeymoon, his position with Outing, and some of his articles. Although she does not dwell upon what his loss meant to her or her reaction to the message announcing his death, she concludes her memoir of Leonidas on a decidedly elegiac and allegorical note, describing him metaphorically as "a splash of glorious sunshine" and then extending that metaphor into a symbol of "wonderful light that has stopped to engulf you" (WW, 42). The rhetorical shift to abstraction with the second-person pronoun - "you see," "you revel" - coupled with the unmistakable association of Leonidas with Christ has the ironic result of reducing her homage to bathos and fails to capture any solid sense of why the human being meant so much to her. The contrast between this religious poeticizing and the voice that speaks in chapter 2 could hardly be stronger. The former is sentimental; the latter clear, factual, and realistic. Only in retrospect, I think, and only when one steps back from the book as a whole can one see any value in her biographical flourish. Mina needed Leonidas as a guiding, kindly light, and whether she was aware of this or not, she needed to put his presence to use, to contain, control, and direct the energy of his influence over her life. This biographical sketch, trite as it may be, is quickly forgotten when she turns to her own story, with the result that Leonidas's biography ends up subsumed by, reduced to the inspiration for, her autobiography. By describing the relationship between biography and autobiography in this way, I do not for a moment wish to imply that she did not love this man or that her need for him and for the endorsement and sanction of his life and death were merely expedient ways to manage contemporary restrictions on the activities of white, middle-class North American wives. Her diary, in which she is quite frank for her time, makes it very clear that she adored her "Laddie" (he is always addressed formally in the book), that she longed for him and grieved his untime-

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ly death, and that, above all, she missed his love for her, for she appears to have measured her self-worth by the yardstick of his love.23 In explaining the relationship of chapter 1 to the main narrative, I have used the term autobiography, but Mina's story is other things before it is that. It is, in many ways, a typical exploration narrative of the period; it is also an eventful travel narrative with the added feature of copious illustration. What began for her as an expedition became - as she lived it, but much more importantly as she wrote it retrospectively - an autobiography. The expedition conventions frame her story insofar as they demand an initial description of equipment, provisions, and team members and a final "Reckoning," as she calls it in chapter 18, where we are given the length of her journey (576 miles), the dates, the remaining provisions, and the most important "results," the map. Expedition conventions come into play at certain points during the narrative as well, as when she provides measurements or descriptions of the route or describes First Nations people. However, the narrative of A Woman's Way (chapters 2-18) exceeds these conventions, as many expedition narratives do. Even here in her closing chapter, where genre demands a tally of the work done, her narrative resists such factual, impersonal boundaries. To avoid spoiling a reader's first discovery of Mina's story and her "Reckoning," I will only note in passing that, at the end, she shifts abruptly from facts to feelings, from her completed physical journey to her spiritual se/f-discovery. Remembering what she imagines as her husband's generosity, she protests that even in the hour of death and defeat he had remembered his companions, whereas "I, in the hour of my triumph, had forgotten mine. We were the Light and Darkness and with the light gone how deep was the darkness. Once I had thought I stood up beside him, but in what a school had I learned that I only reached to his feet" (WW, 154). Prostrated though she may be, it is undeniably she who goes back to be with the guides, to rejoin them, if only briefly, symbolically, to thank them by example more than by words. In telling this part of the story, however, she is explaining what life has taught her, and while I doubt that Mina Benson Hubbard intended to transform herself into a hero, or a heroic pilgrim, she has done so all the same. Leonidas lights up her triumph, her success, her arrival at the centre of her own life story. Mina's autobiography surfaces gradually through her expedition narrative until it peaks with her declaration that she is proud to be first in the field in exploring this area of Labrador (WW, 117). In order to be able to feel and, most importantly, to write and publish such a declaration, she has come a long way and learned a great deal about herself. She has learned, for example, that a white, middle-class woman like herself can mount an expedition, take measurements, identify flora and fauna, photograph the country and its indigenous peo-

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pie, camp for two months, survive flies, intense heat, rough portages, sudden drenching rain and cold, and hold her own (in her own way) with the guides and retain their respect and loyalty - in short, that she can do what a white, middleclass man can do and go where he can go. But Mina, as I have argued elsewhere, had learned and recorded much more in her diary than she records in her narrative (see Grace, 2000 and 2001). Where the experience of her expedition taught her about her own pleasures - in nature, in freedom, in agency - writing her narrative (after chapter 1) taught her how to speak in her own voice and to recognize how she constituted that voice. If there is one episode in the narrative that foregrounds this subtle and complex lesson, it is her escape from her oppressively watchful guides in chapter 8. The immediate consequence of her break for freedom is that she terrifies George and the men, but the deeper, far more important result is what she learns about the constraints upon individual autonomy, about the dynamics of race and gender relations, and about one person's inevitable responsibility for others. She learns from this experience that her identity is relational (see Eakin, How Our Lives Become Stories, 55-61, 68-9), that she cannot act alone and without consideration for the team, that she, in fact, is one member of the group with only one perspective on a composite experience. I think it is this lesson, learned on the trail, that makes her self-criticism in chapter 18 so powerful. Her "reckoning" is not merely individual and singular, as the expedition leader who must account for distance travelled, supplies, and so forth; her most important "reckoning" is with herself as one of a team that a return to civilization will literally disband. Figuratively, however, and in the pages of her book, Mina Benson Hubbard immortalized that team by allowing everyone to speak, contribute, and participate in a team effort. Her first person "I," which increases in confidence as she writes/travels, is always held in relational check by others' voices: Leonidas's, George's, all the men whom we hear in the extensive reported speech of dialogue.24 While this quality of self-discovery is fundamental to A Woman's Way and unique in its multiple, relational articulation of identity, it is by no means the only aspect of the text that distinguishes it from other expedition narratives. As even a cursory comparison with Dillon Wallace's Long Labrador Trail demonstrates, his narrative of 1905 - unlike her book - is exclusively centred on himself and presented in an emphatic first person.25 Wallace does not record learning about himself from this voyage. His narrative eye/I is fixed on conquering, penetrating, and advancing through the wilds. Relatively little space is allotted to dialogue, and the speech put into the mouth of his one Indian guide is a parody of pidgin English (something Mina never does, in either diary or book). Warburton Pike deploys a similar rhetoric of conquest and racial superiority. In both The

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Barren Ground of Northern Canada (1891) and Through the Subarctic Forest (1896), he writes, in tedious detail and with many racial slurs (see, for example, Barren Ground, 131ff, andSubarctic Forest, 13, 86), of his single-minded pursuit of musk ox to kill or of the satisfaction experienced in discovering and naming a river "unknown to any white man and unmarked on any map" (Subarctic Forest, 180). Despite the oppressive weight (at least to me) of the masculine first person in Pike's and Wallace's books, and their sense of themselves as self-reliant, superior beings, there is, paradoxically, very little autobiographical sensibility, depth, or complexity in their work; they lie on the page as flat, two-dimensional beings, and those with whom they come into contact are cardboard figures and stereotypes - dirty Eskimos, lying Indians, hearty HBC factors, kindly HBC wives, and so on. The only white male traveller in Labrador contemporary with Mina who, in my view, resembles her is William Cabot. In Northern Labrador (1912), his account of several summer trips, with seventy-six photographs, is remarkable for the amount of space devoted to describing the beauty of the landscape and to explaining what he has observed of the culture, language, and lifestyle of everyone he meets, but especially the Naskapi. To be sure, Cabot's reasons for going to Labrador at all were different, in significant ways, from Wallace's, and he did not make his northern voyages, as did Pike, to prove his prowess as a hunter or to discover new rivers. Cabot's interests were in the people themselves, and he was always aware that his presence was disruptive. He takes pride in "rescuing [Naskapi words and place names] from the ignominy of shifting white nomenclature" (4), confesses to being "almost frightened" (46) by mosquitoes, frequently pauses to enjoy the natural beauty around him, and makes a special point of recording the stories, myths, and beliefs of the people he meets (see, for example, his account of the Naskapi view of the northern lights [65]). In a prophetic and, from today's perspective, bitterly ironic statement, he concludesIn Northern Labrador by naming his Naskapi friends and wishing them future happiness and plenty: "Their country still is theirs, and the deer; and long may they so remain" (286). Such sensitivity to race and cultural difference, combined with ethnographic curiosity and concern, is relatively rare in nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury exploration narratives. Where Wallace hopes for Christian missionaries to redeem the heathen Indians (Long Labrador Trail, 209-11) and Pike constantly infantilizes and criticizes most Indians he meets, Cabot praises them and strives to meet individual First Nations people on their own terms. Mina's approach to the Montagnais and Naskapi is similar to Cabot's. If she experienced so-called culture shock when she visited their "homes" (as she calls their tent camps), she does not dwell on it, either in her diary or in the book. Instead, her

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interest is caught by their dress and customs and by the pride they take in themselves (for example, the young Naskapi man showing off his red leggings [WW, 137]) and their possessions. Compared with Cabot's, her visits with these people are very brief, but she is nonetheless aware that they expect her to trade and she is dismayed by her inability to give them all they want. Where she exceeds Cabot, who chooses to travel alone, and demonstrates the sharpest contrast with Pike and Wallace is in her attitude towards her guides. Her praise of and respect for them is unequivocal, and while the diary shows she was angry with George at times, neither there nor in her book does she indulge in the racial stereotyping so common in her day. As important as what she does say about her non-white team is what she does not.26 But it is not only in the written aspects of A Woman's Way that Mina differs from Pike or Wallace and more closely resembles Cabot. Her photography is a revealing vehicle of representation, and while it shares certain qualities with the conventions of northern expedition photography (from Low, for example, to Pike, Wallace, Robert Flaherty, and a professional explorer like Stefansson), it also demonstrates her sensibilities, values, and priorities. Speaking generally about this era of northern photography, at least as executed by the Geological Survey of Canada, which amassed over half a million photographs, John Stevens admits that only "the best of them recognize and salute the heart and soul of the stranger" (3). Any comprehensive examination of photography is beyond my scope and expertise, but it is well established that, by the late nineteenth century, photography and professional photographers were increasingly important on arctic expeditions (see Adams). Moreover, improvements in technology, such as the development of celluloid film rolls combined with small, hand-held cameras, made amateur photography widely accessible. By 1900 photography was commonly used to assert sovereignty over lands being surveyed, to document an explorer's or scientist's work, and to record, in a supposedly truthful, factual way, cultural change and ethnographic evidence. Mina's photographs serve at least two of these purposes; they most certainly document her progress and they provide interesting examples of amateur ethnographic photography.27 While I think it would be an exaggeration to insist that her photographs assert sovereignty over anything, they do, all the same, participate in a process of visual framing and surveying that post-colonial theorists describe as imperialist (see Adams, Hall, Pratt, and Roy). That she took photographs and captioned them to document her trip in conventional ways is clear; "On into the Wilderness," "Coming Down the Trail with Packs," "Breakfast on Michikamau," and "The Arrival at Ungava" confirm her route as powerfully, if not more so, than any map could do. One crucial piece of visual documentation that she did not use in the book is "Tree at Lake Michikamau, where records

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were left" (see Figure 5), an image that appears only with the Harper's article but confirms unequivocally that Mina Benson Hubbard was there. However, a majority of her photographs document her expedition in somewhat unusual and unconventional ways. A surprising number of her shots are centred on the men as they navigate rapids, skin caribou, dry meat, or pole up shallow water. On the one hand, these photographs demonstrate what work was done and how dangerous some of it could be, thereby validating the truth of her narrative, but on the other, their number in proportion to the total number of images or the total in which she appears alone significantly reinforces the admiration she expresses for the men and her willingness to acknowledge their skill and efforts. In one of these shots of her guides working, she adds a touch of humour and self-reflexive irony: "The White Man's Burden" (illus., p. 23) shows George piling sacks of provisions on the back of one of the guides and neatly reverses Kipling's imperialist rhetoric to provide an appropriate visual complement to Cabot's criticism, in the facing text, of white assumptions. More important still are her portrait photographs of each individual man, who is carefully named and whose photograph (in the Murray/Briggs edition) appears at the point in her narrative where she describes that man. My point in stressing these photographs of the guides working or posing for her camera is not that she was unique in using photography to record the Indian guides (although portrait photographs with the person's full name are relatively rare), but that Pike, Wallace, and Low did not follow this practice and that her photography therefore stands out as highly inclusive and respectful in comparison with theirs. Mina also included several photographs of herself, and if I fault her use of photography, it is here. All the images of Mina in Labrador were almost certainly taken by George, who notes photographing her on at least two occasions, but she does not acknowledge this or identify the photographer of a given image. To be fair, such identification was not the common practice of the day, let alone the copyright legality that it is today, so her lack of acknowledgment is the norm. The images themselves are fascinating. They constitute a documentary record of her activities - washing, cooking, hiking, meeting with Naskapi women - and inactivities, for example in "Stormbound" (illus., p. 105), and thereby provide ocular proof of her way through Labrador. "In the Heart of the Wilderness" (illus., p. 75) illustrates how she was cared for (she is holding a book or map, not a paddle), while also confirming that she was there, in the loaded canoe beside the white caribou moss on shore. But these images of Mina do more than document and validate her story. They capture something of the complex reality of the woman herself as joyful, as part of her team, as busy, and as practically (if oppressively, by today's standards) dressed and equipped with hat, bug net, moccasins, Kodaks, and gun. Individually and together they provide a striking con-

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trast with the frontispiece, which constantly reminds us of the genteel woman known to the so-called civilized world as Mrs Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. For two months in the summer of 1905, this woman gave place to that one, and in "The Arrival at Ungava" (illus., p. 151) an elegant-seeming Mina-cum-Mrs Hubbard (or, if one looks closely, a roughly clad Mina in sealskin boots) steps daintily back into the world where she must resume her widow's role. Except that this photograph is staged. As George notes in his diary, the photograph was taken on 7 September, ten days after the actual arrival; thus, whoever took this photograph represents her in the process of metamorphosis from one surface identity to another, as if she has been, for all time, in that moment between being on her expedition as one of the team and being the white leader who must, momentarily, make her reckoning. One might classify this photograph as a lie, a deliberate misrepresentation, because it does not show what it claims - the actual landing on 27 August - but it seems to me that it does record, or testify to, something equally significant: her careful planning of her book and her deliberate self-awareness as an explorer, both qualities she recognized she would need if she were to publish a convincing, credible story. Her ethnographic photographs are somewhat harder to assess because they impart, at least to me, a mixed message. "Nascaupees in Skin Dress" (illus., p. 18) strikes me as a conventional example of contemporary documentation, and "A Montagnais Type" (illus., p. 212), both in the image itself and in its caption, is equally objectifying. In this latter image, despite the boy's serious, direct look, he is seen in his surfaces only and as the object of her gaze. In both, the First Nations people illustrate what they are perceived to be and therefore prove what she saw. This kind of photography was the dominant mode in late nineteenthand early twentieth-century exploration/ethnographic accounts, but it is not the only way to work with a camera. As Peter Hamilton notes, there are two categories of documentary photography, the objective, which aims to record surfaces, and the subjective, which is reflective and intentional and stresses the choices of the photographer (84). Hamilton suggests that, with subjective documentary photography, the photographer is "more than a spectator in an historical grandstand. Being there is important, being an eyewitness is significant, but the crux of the matter is bearing witness. To bear witness is to make known, to confirm, to give testimony to others" (84). According to Hamilton, this subjective approach became the dominant paradigm by the 1930s, but I think a case can be made for early traces of this subjective documentary testimony in some of Mina's camera work. "The Nascaupee Chief and Men" (illus., p. 134) is a partial example of what I understand Hamilton to mean by subjective. This photograph carries a significant amount of objective proof value, but there is, I think, a small, added ele-

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ment of subjective individuality both in the image and in Mina's intentions in taking the picture. The chief stands out from among his men because of his direct look, which engages hers, his pose, and the term "chief," which she uses to name him. Even more interesting are the photographs she took of women and children. In her choice of subject matter, as well as in the style of the photographs, she resembles Cabot (see also Steven's on Low, 3). "Nascaupee Little Folk," "A North Country Mother and Her Little Ones," and "The Montagnais Boy" (illus., pp. 141, 207, and 129) all attest to her interest in the individual people she met, especially the children. The tight focus on the children or on the mother/child grouping is more like Cabot's camera work and choice of subject, notably a 1906 image like "Innu Woman and Child, Mistinipi Lake" (see Loring, O Darkly Bright, 34), than anything to be found in Pike or Wallace. These closeups record her wish to, as Peter Hamilton puts it, "give testimony" (84) to an ethnic group of people much more commonly objectified, homogenized, and exploited by the photographic conventions of her day. In sum, then, these are very good photographs and they deserve further attention. They constitute a significant proportion of the visual content and, perhaps most importantly, serve to people Labrador, even to contradict or belie the title of the book, which describes Labrador as unknown. In her diary, Mina confessed that she did not feel alone or homesick in Labrador, feelings she seems to have believed she should have or would be expected to have. One reason, I believe, she felt comfortable there was that she saw the place as full instead of as empty, as inhabited by women, men, and children whose material culture, visible traces (for example, in "The Indians' Cache" [illus., p. 121]), and physical presence were all around her, rather than as barren and inhospitable. Moreover, she acknowledged the First Nations people and her guides as fully human. Scenery or landscape photographs do not dominate her visual record as they do Wallace's or Pike's, but she did take this kind of picture and she included several in A Woman's Way. "Deep Ancient Valleys" (illus., p. 15), for example, is pure visual romance of the kind she may well have seen in a popular coffee-table volume like Picturesque Canada (1822; see Reid, 299-300). It is composed like a nineteenth-century picturesque painting — a Lucius O'Brien, say, or an Allan Edson or a John A. Fraser - and it could have been taken almost anywhere. Without its parenthetical subtitle, "Solitude (Seal Lake)," it has a similarly vague, decorative, aestheticized effect. "The Fall," "Wild Maid Marion," and "Bridgman Mountains" (illus., pp. 84, 89, and 148) are more precise. They illustrate specific locations in her narrative, and as illustrations they consolidate and confirm her attempt to name and claim aspects of the country. "Great Michikamau" (illus., p. 176), in which only the lake appears in a panoramic, low horizon, distance shot, affirms her arrival at this symbolic place, the lake Leonidas longed to see

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but could not reach, the lake from which Dillon Wallace would drink in a private ritual when he arrived on its shores (Long Labrador Trail, 117-20). These photographs of an empty landscape are the most conventional and the least effective of Mina's illustrations, and she wisely chose to include relatively few of them in her book. To a degree they participate in that imperial gaze that Mary Louise Pratt identifies as characteristic of European (and thus Euro-Canadian or Euro-American) travellers to exotic, foreign locales, and their painterly, picturesque composition serves to frame, control, and tame an otherwise dangerous and recalcitrant wilderness. However, within A Woman's Way, where they are greatly outnumbered by images of inhabited landscapes and strong, individual human faces, they lose much of their colonizing power.

The most important work done since Low's return [in 1896] is Mrs. Hubbard's exploration of Northwest River, while scarcely less to be appreciated is her good travel map of George River. (William Cabot, In Northern Labrador, 10) The reader of women's bios has to constantly decipher between the lines to discover the hidden outos, the sometimes multiple selves and subjects struggling to escape from textual confinement. (EleanorTy, 62)

There are several perspectives from which to view Mina Benson Hubbard's A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador. One is certainly that of her contemporaries like William Cabot or those often anonymous reviewers of her book, but more recently a few writers, readers, travellers, and scholars have looked at the woman and her book in other ways. To some she is merely a bit player in someone else's story (her husband's, Wallace's, or George Elson's); to a few she is an inspiration, a bit of a romantic heroine. In the eyes of recent scholars biographers, cultural and literary critics, historians - she is a fascinating, composite figure, important in her own right while inevitably playing parts in others' life stories. From my perspective, William Cabot struck the decisive note by praising her exploration work and her map. Everything else falls into place, for me, around that. Her ambition and motivation were to do this work and correct the available maps. Without such a desire, surfacing from the personal crisis of her husband's death, she might never have written a book and come to posterity's attention at all. But it is the book we are left with, and it is in the book, her published perspective on herself, that we must see her, and as Eleanor Ty reminds us, we must school ourselves to look between the lines if we really want to find Mina Benson Hubbard. I have called this introduction to her work (expedition and narrative) "from expedition to autobiography" because I read

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the woman and the author as journeying through Labrador to discover, among other things, herself. Contemporary reviews of A Woman's Way were mixed. At one extreme Jean Graham in the Canadian Magazinegave the book high praise and serious attention; at the other, the unidentified writer in the Review of Historical Publications Relating to Canada dismissed it as "pleasantly written" but of no value except for its inclusion of Leonidas's diary. Whether the reviewers praised or damned, however, they all fixed on one thing: gender. Taking their cue from Mina herself and from her title, they tended to displace the book to talk about its author. They used the author to upstage the book. My favourite example of this emphasis on the author was published in the London paper the Daily Chronicle under the title "A Woman Explorer." The reviewer writes at greater length than most and provides substantial quotation, but his/her fascination is summed up as follows: "Courageous traveller - but always the woman! And how womanly and beautiful is this ...," whereupon the reviewer quotes a passage in which Mina says she did not feel terribly lonely in the bush. In a similar vein, the reviewer for another British paper, the Western Mail, who knows enough about exploration in the Canadian North to quote Warburton Pike, exclaims that Labrador is "the last place" for a woman to go and describes the book as "essentially a woman's story, filled with the unsophisticated wonder of it all" and adorned with "little womanly touches." Robert Lynd, writing in Black 61 White, praises the "charm" of the book, but calls Mina "a traveller by ... accident" and finds the Leonidas Hubbard diary section of greatest interest (712). But the most interesting of the British reviews is one called "Love's Labour" in the Evening Standard and St. James's Gazette for 5 June 1908. This is a substantial review that manages to praise Mina's expedition and her narrative while simultaneously crediting Leonidas for what was achieved. To this reviewer A Woman's Way is unique among "accounts ... of feminine exploration" because the author undertook the expedition for love and thereby vindicated her husband's life. She is especially to be praised, according to this reviewer, for remaining, throughout the trials of the expedition, "more woman than explorer," even though she must be recognized as possessing "indomitable courage and a splendid endurance." Of the book itself we are told that "[h]er observation is keen, her love of Nature ... very evident, and she has a pleasant sense of humour. Written vividly and well, her narrative is clear and absorbing" (5). And yet, despite what sounds like praise, this piece concludes by shifting attention away from wife to husband, from her narrative to his diary. The reviewer ends with a long quotation from the final days of Leonidas's diary, and we are reminded that Hubbard "died like a man, and he bequeathed to the world this achievement which his wife has finished and narrated" (5). I might, at this point, ask what book the

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reviewer thought he was reading and protest that it could not have been the same book that I read, but of course we do read the same book and Mina created it to have both stories (and others too). In a sense, she set herself up for this removal to the sidelines of history. Then there were the skeptics and critics. Not all reviewers agreed that "Mrs. Hubbard pursued and achieved, with rare tenacity, courage, and singleness of purpose, a definite objective" or that "no more fascinating story of travel has appeared these many years"28. One reviewer notes that "George Elson seems to have been the virtual leader" (Western Mail); another describes Mina as "a mere passenger on the trip" and criticizes the book as not a very satisfactory or scientific study of Labrador" (Millais, 1909, 401-2); and two others insist on raising the spectre of Dillon Wallace. The first of these skeptics is the reviewer of the Murray edition of A Woman's Way for the Review of Historical Publications Relating to Canada. This reviewer quickly dismisses the "adventurous expedition" because he feels that "the danger was no more than any canoeing party" would face on "streams ill-mapped" (134), and he goes on to insist that it demanded nothing "more than ordinary pluck and powers of endurance" (134). The unexamined standard of measurement here seems to be of the "mine is bigger, thus better, than yours" ilk; unless extreme danger is faced and near superhuman endurance required, nothing of value can be expected. More unkindly still, the reviewer next claims that Mrs Hubbard "ignored" the fact of Wallace's expedition, and he compares her claim to be "first in the field" unfavourably with Wallace, who took a longer, more difficult route over land, while she simply "kept to the river" (135). Although this reviewer writes that "it must be admitted" that Mina's map "is far superior" to Wallace's, he nonetheless ends the review by stating that "the most interesting part" of the book is "Hubbard's diary, which was recovered with his body, and has already appeared in Outing," and that George's narrative "adds nothing to what Wallace had already told" in Lure of the Labrador Wild. Writing at length in the Chicago Dial and reviewing the McClure edition, Munson Aldrich Havens calls Mina "this courageous woman" for making the trip but criticizes her "naive femininity" in describing her clothing (286).29 He quotes from her narrative at some length, noting in particular her description of the handsome young Naskapi with the red leggings as proof that Indian "gallantries," as he calls them, were not forced upon "the fair visitor" (288), before turning his attention to Leonidas's diary and George's narrative. The former is described as a vivid account of human suffering but the latter is challenged. Havens labels George's description of Wallace's insistence that he recover the canoe as "unbelievable," and he hurries on to chastise Mina for her "evident depreciation, throughout her book, of Wallace's services to her husband and loy-

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ally to his memory" (289). "Private differences," he moralizes, "should not have led Mrs. Hubbard to set down aught in malice" (289). Why Mina should discuss Wallace, how she has depreciated him, or where she has written anything "in malice" is never made clear. Nor does Havens acknowledge that Wallace's 1907 book represses mention of Mina and her expedition. Presumably he is offended because she included George's narrative at all; George Elson was merely the native guide in 1903 and 1905 and his version of things could not possibly correct, or supplement, a white man's. Although George does not openly criticize Wallace, he does not present a heroic picture of the man, so Havens takes it upon himself to put things right by concluding his review of A Woman's Way with a highly sympathetic, detailed description (drawn from Lure of the Labrador Wild) of Wallace's 1903 ordeal. Lost in this personal advocacy of Wallace and this attack on Mina (and on George) is the purpose for which Havens is writing - to review her narrative of her 1905 expedition - and the absence of Cabot's introduction from the McClure edition makes it even easier for Havens to ignore what she accomplished. I have examined these reviews at some length because they demonstrate how some readers, probably fairly representative of the book's audience, perceived A Woman's Way. While it is predictable that reviews will range from praise to criticism, and while good reviews should no doubt offer both, these reviews are striking for two reasons. First, when written in ignorance of the newspaper noise of 1905, they focus obsessively on gender and on the sex, character, and personality of the writer rather than on the text under review. Second, when written in the knowledge of the 1905 press reports, they are highly partisan and clearly aimed at an audience that sides with Wallace in the paparazzi-created story of rivalry. Within these parameters of gender and partisanship (and they are related in obvious ways), it is difficult to see how a book like A Woman's Way could make its way to a fair and full assessment. But, I would suggest, one reviewer did manage a more balanced review that allowed for gender but left the emphasis on the book itself. Of the reviews I have found, only Jean Graham's describes the book in detail, comments on the map and the quality of the illustrations, and keeps the 1903 context in its place - as background. Moreover, Graham ends her review on a unique note. She is reviewing the Briggs edition, but she points out that A Woman's Way has been praised abroad and reminds readers that Mina Benson Hubbard is Canadian and that Canadians should honour one of their own. To appreciate as fully as possible who Mina was as a writer and how she was read by her contemporaries necessitates a look beyond the reviews to the sociohistorical and cultural context that shaped her identity and influenced her selfexpression and literary style. I have already mentioned influences from other

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northern Canada or specifically Labrador travel and expedition texts, and we know from her own allusions that she read Low, Pike, Hind, and Holme, and must have been aware of scientific publications like the Bulletin of the American Geographical Society.30 It is also safe to assume that she had read Leonidas's essays and was familiar with Outing, Harper's Magazine, the Windsor Review, and, although she did not publish there, the Christian Guardian. In the pages of Outing she could see how men popularized wilderness adventure; in professional journals like the Bulletin she could see how scientists reported their findings; in Harper's (which specialized in tales about the great North), the Windsor Review, and the Christian Guardian she would find a wide range of popular, sentimental, tasteful writing on conventional topics, from the wild life stories of Charles G.D. Roberts (an expert in the genre) to essays on the lives of good Christians and missionaries. My point is that these publications stayed within the margins of middle-class taste and conservative ideology. To read them was to participate in mainstream culture. Little would appear in such venues to challenge social or artistic norms or provoke radical reassessments of middle-class, Western beliefs about empire, progress, race, gender, and development. But if Mina was aware of these publications, she was also familiar with other kinds of literature. Rudyard Kipling, who enjoyed enormous popularity in North America (as in Britain) in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was a great favourite of Leonidas's (see Wallace, Lure of the Labrador Wild, 106, and inter alia). Mina must have known Kipling's work or, at the very least, heard her husband reciting his verse. And yet, to my knowledge, she does not quote Kipling herself; her only overt use of him in A Woman's Way is the ironic photograph caption "The White Man's Burden." John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress may have been a direct influence on her writing because we know from the diary that she was reading Bunyan while waiting at the George River post and drafting the narrative of her journey. Insofar as Pilgrim's Progress can be viewed as a form of spiritual autobiography-cum-travel-book, then its indirect influence on Mina's imagination at a crucial time in the gestation of her story could have been considerable.31 Certainly the Bible was always close at hand, though here again I think the influence is indirect and fairly conventional, with the possible exception of her Christ-like, divine-guiding-light metaphor for Leonidas. There are two possible sources of influence that I think are interesting but about which I can only speculate. One is Romantic poetry, especially Wordsworth; the other is Mary Kingsley, in particular My Travels in West Africa (1897). Volumes of Romantic poetry, either by the British Romantics or by late nineteenth-century Canadian poets like Charles G.D. Roberts, Archibald Lampman, and Bliss Carman, would have been easily accessible to Mina, either in her parental home, in the school books she studied or taught from, in the local

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papers, or in the home she established with Leonidas. The House, under Briggs, specialized in secular Canadian writing by the 1890s (see Friskney), and Henry Van Dyke's popular book of nature essays, Little Rivers, a copy of which Leonidas gave Mina, is replete with sentimental rhetoric and quotations from Wordsworth, among other Romantic poets. British poets were standard fare in the Canada of Mina's day, and what I will call romantic sensibilities in the appreciation of nature and the attribution of spiritual value and power to natural phenomena were broadly influential, culturally diffused (in picturesque landscape painting as well as writing), and constituted the common rhetorical source for aesthetic judgment and poetic tropes. The Labrador landscape, as Mina saw it, was not a Darwinian battlefield, which is all the more remarkable given Leonidas's death, but a landscape of picturesque beauty, containing spiritual mystery and sustenance and inspiring romantic longing for freedom, adventure, and solitude. There are a few key scenes that particularly appealed to her aesthetic and spiritual eye and elicited her descriptive powers. The most productive natural settings were invariably rapids, a great number of which she necessarily saw, portaged around, or canoed through. Early in the expedition she describes "Three Mile Rapid" as "picturesque ... with great swells which curled back like ocean breakers," but she goes on immediately to contrast this sight with the smooth water ahead and the beckoning vista of "a beautiful wooded island": "The country had been grand with a desolate sort of grandeur softened by the sunshine and water and beautiful skies, but now the river with its darkly-wooded hills was not only grand but was weirdly beautiful as well" (WW, 58). Another favourite scene was the view she obtained after climbing hills and mountains; she would make the climb, usually with George or some of the men, in order to see the route ahead, but she would invariably be struck by the beauty of what she saw. At a key moment just short of the Naskaupi River on Lake Michikamau, her party arrived at the Height of Land, where she knew the rivers begin to flow to the north. "It was thoroughly exciting work this climbing to the top of things," she writes, before telling us that, after "three hundred miles of my journey into the great, silent wilderness," she stepped out of the canoe "on the summit of the Divide - the first of the white race to trace the Nascaupee River to its source" (WW, 117). But this sense of arrival, of being the first and of seeing the place with the imperial eyes of the explorer (as Pratt calls these sightings), is instantly qualified by her realization that she is tiny but nature is vast, that her "strange feeling" of being at the top of the world is mitigated by the fact that she "could not see far" and that she is caught within the sublime spaces "between earth and the sky" (WW, 117-18).

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Mina's literary powers are hardly extensive and her descriptive language, at its best, is simple and fresh, rather than cloying and cliched. "Beautiful," "mysterious," and "weird" are her favourite adjectives, and she never fails to note and praise the qualities of light in Labrador, whether in full sunshine, after rain, at sunset, or at night with the northern lights. Occasionally she allegorizes the landscape, reading it for spiritual guidance or seeing in it messages to guide her physical path. Thus, at one point, she exclaims that the peace, beauty, and "sunset light" of their evening camp "seemed in a special way to accord" with the Sabbath (WW, 59), while at another, and one of her very few spiritual low points, she observes that the hills after showers, when the sun suddenly throws a glow over everything just before darkness descends, may be beautiful but are spiritually empty, like a corpse: "It was very wild and beautiful, but as an exquisite, loved form from which the spirit has fled" (WW, 71). A passage like this links the Labrador wilderness, in Mina's imagination, with Leonidas as her guiding light and spiritual redeemer, conflating the one with the other and both with a divinity of spirit present - or, in this case, absent - in nature. Much more common for her is the feeling that she has been sustained by nature, that she is safe and at home (WW, 82), that she wishes never to go back (to civilization, everyday life, to her conventional role), and that "the strange wild beauty" of Labrador "buries itself silently in the deep parts of one's being" (WW, 119). She is always reading the landscape, not just for signs of Leonidas or divinity but for personal messages about her expedition. Of course, this tendency to see the landscape semiotically, as a system of signs, is both inevitable and wise. George and the other men had to read the trail from the traces of passing people and animals, and they had to read the rivers very closely indeed or be swamped by rapids and strong currents. Mina, however, reads the landscape for spiritual messages. Thus, towards the end of the expedition, as she anticipates seeing the HBC post at every turn in the river but is frustrated by some new obstacle, she describes herself as a pilgrim (if not as a Parsifal figure) who, "while exploring some great ruin ... chanced into a secret, hidden chamber, the most splendid of them all" (WW, 142). In a few phrases she transforms the George River canyons into a Gothic castle or, more significantly, into a sacred place holding the Grail. One last example will suffice to illustrate, not only how she read the landscape, but how she interpreted it romantically as holding messages of encouragement, hope, and spiritual sustenance for her. It is evening; there is a stunning sunset amidst the "desolate grandeur" of wilderness sky and river; she wonders if the "gladness" of the scene is all there is. Then, as answer to her question, she writes: "Perhaps yes surely, somewhere within it there was gladness; but everywhere it was beautiful with the beauty which alone, to some hearts, can carry the

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'still small voice.' If only it would never say, 'What doest thou here?' one must wish to stay and listen to it always" (WW, 130). In a passage like this, Mina Benson Hubbard shows the conventional romantic sensibility she has brought with her into the wilderness, along with her Bible (she is quoting 1 Kings, 19:11 and 13). She came prepared to be guided by the men she hired, yes, but also by that "still small voice" of the wilderness, of "Nature's self, which is the breath of God" (Wordsworth, The Prelude, 275). One appropriate way to describe the emotional fabric of her diary and her "Woman's Way" might be with Wordsworth's lines from "Intimations of Immortality": Mina knew thoughts that "lie too deep for tears," but she recognized her own "glorious birth" in the Labrador sun, even though she could not deny that, in Leonidas's death, for her "there hath past away a glory from the earth" (152). Although Mina told the readers of The Englishwoman's Review that she received a quasi-religious call to "[g]o to Labrador," her decision was probably not so precipitous and was certainly not without precedent. Other Western women had made expeditions to far-flung corners of the world, and advice existed on how women should prepare for and comport themselves on their travels (see Blunt, 36; Mills, 2; Russell, 16-42; and Stanley, 148). Closest to home was Outing, subtitled Illustrated Magazine of Sport, Travel, and Country Life, whose writers were aware of current trends among women who liked the outdoors. In 1901 Outing published a piece by Annie Peck called "Practical Mountain Climbing" with a photograph of the redoubtable Miss Peck in pants. This jettisoning of skirts was a matter of lively debate in the late nineteenth century, and it continued to be a bone of contention for decades. Peck's practical advice, in fact, focuses on appropriate clothing such as strong boots, woollen stockings, and pants which, she warns, may not be "becoming ... to stout figures" (699), and she advises women who have misgivings about wearing such masculine attire to retain their skirts while still in public view but to discard them when they can no longer be seen (700). She also advises her readers to take cognac with them for emergencies (in Hints to Lady Travellers Davidson recommends brandy), a piece of advice Mina heeded. Mina may well have studied several other conduct books, such as Hints to Lady Travellers at Home and Abroad (1889), A Few Words of Advice on Travelling: Its Requirements Addressed to Ladies (1875), Hints to Travellers Scientific and General (1883), which was published by the Royal Geographical Society and aimed at men, or The Art of Travel; or, Shifts and Contrivances Available in Wild Countries (1883).32 Given her own long-standing interest in travel and the outdoors and her further involvement in such activities through Leonidas, it would be surprising if Mina had not heard about the most famous of contemporary women travellers, Mary Kingsley (1862-1900), news of whose sudden death at thirty-eight was in all the papers.33 Although I have no direct evidence of it, I also believe it is highly

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likely that she had read, or read about, Kingsley's Travels in West Africa (1897) and, possibly, her West African Studies (1899). A comparison of the two women shows a significant degree of similarity, and a comparison of Kingsley's Travels with A Woman's Way reveals certain generic and gendered commonalities while highlighting some interesting differences. Both women were in their early to mid-thirties when they set forth and both went on expeditions under the aegis of a male figure to complete a maleinitiated task - for Mary her father and his work, for Mina her husband and his. Both were middle-class women with some education and modest means. Both wore skirts, which in their day spoke volumes, and neither could be classified as a feminist or a suffragette, although Mina already appears to have had a greater sensitivity than Mary to gender constraints and she soon became an active supporter of votes for women.34 Both gave public lectures after their return, and their works were received and discussed in terms of the authors' gender; reviewers and the general press often trivialized their achievements and focused instead on their lady-like appearance, fragility, and femininity (see Blunt, 116, and Huxley, 7-8). For both women, the work of their expeditions was a mixture of science, ethnography, and exploration (though the emphases differ), and each was the sole woman in a party of male, Native guides, a situation that each had to negotiate with considerable rhetorical care so as not to unduly offend standards of propriety. Travels in West Africa and A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador are both derived from diaries, and in each case selected materials from the diaries are quoted in the book; otherwise the books provide an edited version of the experience as recorded in the diaries. Both women use the first person (though Mary uses present tense and Mina past), and both construct themselves as sentimental narrators who are active participants in all that happens. Of the two I find Mina's presentation more dramatic, in part because of her liberal use of dialogue and in part because her voice, unlike Kingsley's, is not ironic but straightforwardly engaged and excited by events. This is, of course, a matter of degree and the distinction should not be overemphasized, but I think Mina presents herself more openly as a hero, as "first" to see this or that, and as a successful explorer. Where Kingsley's voice is at once more dominant (there are no texts by others in her book), more subjective, and more ambiguous than Mina's, Mina's is more muted (as one voice among many) and much less ironic. Mina is also less overtly performative, even though the past tense underscores her position as both the storyteller and the actor, as both outside and inside the story, as both objective and subjective. When it comes to matters of landscape and people, the similarities are again quite striking. Both women (and this is considered fairly common in travel and exploration narratives by women; see Blunt, Miles, and McEwan) respond to

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and describe the wilderness in sensuous, romantic, personal terms rather than in the impersonal, objective, imperialist terms of their male counterparts. However, both use photography to prove what they claim and both name places they see, assuming, in accord with exploration convention of the day, that these places do not already have indigenous names. To this practice of naming Mina adds cartography and Mary adds trade (notably in her second book), both of which are powerful colonizing tools. In these ways, then, both women participate in the general and familiar discourse of exploration. Their attitudes towards their guides and the indigenous peoples they meet are roughly comparable, although Kingsley endorses a system of racial hierarchy much more emphatically than does Mina. At the same time, both view the people they meet (African and First Nations) as individuals and as subjects (rather than as mere objects of study), and both are quick to remind their readers not to criticize these people for aspects of their culture or living conditions (for the Africans, fetish worship [Travels, 171]; for the Montagnais, dirt [WW, 127]) that occur commonly in socalled civilization. As Alison Blunt has remarked of Mary Kingsley, this tendency to humanize, respect, and individualize the indigenous other works to the advantage of the woman narrator/explorer because her self-worth is validated by the intelligent recognition of the other's subjectivity through the practice of reciprocity between apparent equals (Blunt, 107). And the same can definitely be said for Mina. I do not doubt for a moment the sincerity of her respect and admiration for George and the other men or the sincere sense of honour and privilege she felt at being able to visit the Montagnais and Naskapi in their camps, but their respect for her and the men's great care of her during the expedition validated her subjectivity and presence in Labrador and, in a sense, sanctioned her activities.35 I have dwelt at some length on this close comparison with Mary Kingsley less because I think she directly influenced Mina, which I cannot prove, than because such comparisons help to situate Mina in her historical context. Travel by white, middle-class women was not unheard of in Mina's day; she was not a rare example of womanly endeavour. She must be seen, I believe, as part of a larger and growing phenomenon of female challenge to male hegemony and as participating in and exploiting the discourses of travel and exploration that were readily available to her. To see her in context, or in some of her possible contexts, is not to diminish her courage and determination or to devalue what she accomplished. To the contrary, seeing her in context helps today's reader appreciate the challenges she faced, the hurdles she overcame, and the complex nature of the work she published. That she was not alone in being trivialized as a woman attempting exploration or that she was, like Kingsley and others, perceived largely in terms of gender illustrates the problem. It is worth remem-

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bering that women were not admitted to the Royal Geographical Society on the same terms as men until 1913 and that in 1893 George Lord Curzon could publicly "contest in toto the general capability of women to contribute to scientific geographical knowledge. Their sex and training render them especially unfitted for exploration, and the genus of professional female globetrotteresses ... is one of the horrors of the latter end of the nineteenth century" (quoted in LaFramboise, 2001, 13, and McEwan, 5). To some contemporary minds, Mina was just such a horror.36 Today such rhetoric is less common (although space exploration is still a gender hot spot), and it seems mildly funny to think of Mina Benson Hubbard as a threat to anything. To look for her in A Woman's Way with today's eyes is to see her in other roles, of which I will mention only three: that of romantic heroine, a very recent invention; that of Labrador explorer, which she always claimed; and that of autobiographer. The first of these is relatively quickly examined, but it manifests itself in two representations of Mina: either as an erotic figure, pursuing her own desires or becoming an object of George Elson's, or as an inspirational figure for other women. Although there is, to date, no actual proof that she was romantically, let alone sexually, involved with George, and there is little reason to believe she would endorse the kind of romantic hero worship she has inspired, the very fact that her image can be manipulated to serve such different ends confirms the fascination she continues to exert on the imagination. Amongst those who have probed the potential for love in the Labrador wilds are Pierre Berton in The Wild Frontier, Davidson and Rugge in Great Heart, and Clayton Klein in Challenge the Wilderness. Berton simply states that George "was more than a little in love with her" (Foreword, np) and drops the matter, but Davidson and Rugge go to considerable lengths to read between the lines of Mina's and George's diaries and to reconstruct possibilities for the expedition based on what is said or, even more so, on what is missing in the diaries (see, for example, Great Heart, 29, 349-53). They place considerable importance on George's frequent diary entry "See other book" - a book or expedition journal that has not been found - and on Mina's insistence that all the men sign a declaration (located towards the end of her diary) confirming the exemplary conduct of all members of the expedition. But in the last analysis they can only speculate that there were tensions between George and Mina because he desired her and entertained hopes of marrying a white woman. Unlike Davidson and Rugge, who are historians and respect the record, Clayton Klein has fabricated a wild fiction in Challenge the Wilderness, with false photographs, fictional letters passed off as fact, and fanciful love scenes, complete with implausible dialogue (implausible primarily as dialogue, never mind as a convincing facsimile of Mina's speech). In Klein's conception of her, Mina is an older, sex-starved widow

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longing to seduce George, who must remain cool under such temptation because he truly loves another, younger woman. What really happened, if anything, between Mina and George we may never know, but everyone interested in her life or George's has his or her own theory, and if a movie is ever made about her Labrador expedition, I, for one, will bet that love in the bush will fill more seats than mapping the George River. Running with the caribou would make a good sequence and provide a nice visual reference to Never Cry Wolf (especially if those running are nude), and this scene could be used in a love or cartography plot.37 Amongst those - all women - who see Mina as an inspiring romantic hero are today's like-minded women who enjoy challenging the wilderness in their own ways and following, as they see it, in Mina's footsteps. Carol Iwata and Judith Niemi were members of a seven-woman expedition from Minnesota that canoed the George River in the early 1980s. In their 1983 article, "Women's Ways in Labrador," they explain their trip, their title, and their prominent use of photographs of Mina alone (on the magazine cover and in the article) by saying that "we wanted Mrs. Hubbard's spirit with us on this trip" (6). They are quick to add, however, that their trip was more difficult than hers because, unlike them, she did not have to do any work (which was not, in fact, the case). Like Iwata and Niemi, Lynn Noel has also been captivated by Mina, but unlike them she imagines Mina as a solitary woman (reminiscent of Pauline Johnson) paddling her own canoe. In a 1989 song called "A Woman's Way," Noel describes her heroine setting out from her "Ontario farmhouse" "To paddle the unknown wilderness / And discover a woman's way," and she has Mina, the speaker/singer of the lyrics, enjoying freedom, having adventures, finding peace as she defies men to chart her own course, and advising other women to follow her example. As the disk title, A Woman's Way, Songs and True Stories of Northern Women Explorers (1999), makes clear, Noel's agenda is feminist recuperation of forgotten women explorers, and she sees these women (who include Jane Franklin, Gold Rush heroines, and Pauline Johnson, who was not an explorer) as romantic models and spiritual avatars. But if Noel merely sings about Mina's solitary glory and Iwata and Niemi travelled her route with a large team, just one woman, to date, has attempted to repeat Mina's actual journey with one Innu guide. In the summer of 2000 the English journalist Alexandra Pratt tried to retrace Mina's route across Labrador. She was, she told reporters, fascinated by "Mina's story" and saw in Mina a person with the courage to overcome "what people must have said to her [and] go out and do it" (quoted in Foot). And Pratt remains deeply impressed by Mina, noting in her 2002 book, Lost Lands, Forgotten Stones: A Woman's Journey to the Heart of Labrador, that she finds it "incredible that Mina was able to take

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meterological and geographical readings" on such an arduous journey (207), and she insists that Mina was "at all times... the leader" (139). Judging from her book, Pratt identified personally with Mina, frequently quoting from her diary or book to endorse or identify or confirm her own journey, and she cast her Innu guide, Jean-Pierre Ashini, in the role of a latter-day George Elson (see, for example, pages 39,128,161,186). However, her attempt to follow in Mina's footsteps failed a couple of weeks into the interior, just short of Mina's Maid Marion Falls, when she and Ashini had to be air-lifted out because they could not push upriver or cut their way through the dense bush blocking the trail. Mina's route had vanished. That the 1905 route has largely disappeared is true, and the fact of this occurrence leads me to my next contemporary role for Mina Benson Hubbard: Labrador explorer. No one, today, can trace her complete route because major portions of the Labrador landscape have been altered in ways Mina could not have foreseen, would probably have regretted, but nevertheless helped to advance. Her map of the rivers changed an area of the peninsula from unknown to known, and thus accessible, territory. Like all maps, hers showed the way into Labrador by measuring, charting, naming, and representing. That map, her great pride and, as William Cabot rightly said, her most valuable achievement, helped to open up the interior of Labrador to the forces of development and exploitation that would radically change the land and the lives of the Innu after the Second World War. Since Mina's day, many have written about the history, ethnography, and changing face of Labrador. Books like Speck's Naskapi: The Savage Hunters of the Labrador Peninsula (1935, 1977), Henriksen's Hunters in the Barrens: The Naskapi on the Edge of the White Man's World (1973), Zimmerly's Cains Land Revisited: Cultural Change in Central Labrador, 1775-1972 (1975), and Ronald Rompkey's edition of Eliot Curwen's journal, Labrador Odyssey (1996), offer scholarly examinations of Labrador's people and the economic and social changes that have taken place over the years. Patrick O'Flaherty, in his celebrated overview of Newfoundland and Labrador literature called The Rock Observed (1979), considers a very wide range of writing about the island and its mainland territory over several centuries. These books, and others I might mention, illustrate the gradual encroachment of white, Euro-Canadian people, values, and consumer demands on Labrador and the parallel expropriation of Innu lands and the destruction of a way of life that curious people like Leonidas Hubbard, Mina Benson Hubbard, and William Cabot so wished to observe. The consequences of these changes are laid bare in Susan Musgrave's essay "Another Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador" (1996). Perhaps the single most cataclysmic blow to the land and to the Innu came with the development of the Churchill Falls hydroelectric dam, as a result of which great Michikamau disappeared forever, diverted into the Smallwood

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Reserve by dykes that would help produce billions of dollars worth of power for southern Canadian and American markets. As the waters drained away in 1973, much more was erased from the scene than the lake - hereditary Innu hunting grounds, traditional Innu travel routes, gathering places, burial sites, traplines, and, most striking of all, the thunder of the great falls, which had amazed white men from the time of John McLean in 1837 until well into the twentieth century. The once mighty falls were silenced. The impact of this change was violent and swift, but almost twenty years passed before the story was told in Marie Wadden's deeply moving Nitassinan: The Innu Struggle to Reclaim Their Homeland (1991).38 To think about Mina Benson Hubbard a century after she made her way through Labrador is to think of her in the context of Nitassinan (see Figure 9). She may not have looked with the imperial eyes of her male contemporaries or carried flags (as Wallace and others did) to plant on Labrador soil, and she did not speak of conquering the wilderness, exploiting its resources, penetrating its secrets, and civilizing the Indians, but by the very act of going there, of looking, photographing, and mapping, she contributed to Labrador's post-Second World War history. Today, a century after she gave her lectures with lantern slides and published her accounts, speaking always in the first person, it is imperative that we listen to her voice along with the voices of many other women, some of whose grandmothers she may have met, women who have had less power to speak and be heard than she did: Metis women like Elizabeth Goudie in Woman of Labrador (1973), Lydia Campbell in Sketches of Labrador Life (1984), and Margaret Baikie in Labrador Memories: Reflections at Mulligan (nd), and the many Innu women whose stories and voices have been collected by Nympha Byrne and Camille Fouillard in It's Like the Legend: Innu Women's Voices (2000). Mina would not recognize the proud, independent people she met in Labrador if she were to visit Utshimassits today, where, as Charlotte Gregoire protests, the white man has forced them into substandard housing and a life of substance abuse. But she would agree, I am certain, with Elizabeth Penashue, who was jailed for protesting the military base at Goose Bay, when Penashue insisted that "if further militarization continues on our land, there will be no future for the Innu. This land was meant to be used for hunting. This is not a land of war" (Byrne and Fouillard, 171)39 I also like to think that she would accept Penashue's eloquent invitation to revisit Labrador on Innu terms: Next March I want people to join me on a journey by sled and snowshoes to Minai-nipi once again. I want the military to know we will not go away. As well, in August I invite people to canoe with my husband and me down Mista-shipu (Churchill River) to let the world know that the Innu will continue to care for these waters and all Nitassinan. (175)

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Figure 9. Contemporary map ofNitassinan (Labrador) showing Innu place names and some of the changes resulting from the Churchill Falls hydroelectric development. Reprinted from Nitassinan:The Innu Struggle to Reclaim Their Homeland. Copyright © 1991 by Marie Wadden. Published in Canada by Douglas & Mclntyre Ltd, and reprinted by permission of the publisher.

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No one person can be blamed for the course of history, and Mina Benson Hubbard should not be blamed for undertaking her 1905 expedition with the goals and results that were the norm for her day. Much more important, in assessing her work now, is its difference, in so many ways, from those of her contemporaries. The key to this difference can be found, I think, in the autobiographical narrative that carries the expedition narrative in directions she herself may only have guessed at. It is the autobiography shaping, modulating, and informing her expedition that marks her book as "a woman's way," and it is in the context of autobiography that I want to place her now. Since the early 1970s, the scholarly study of life-writing - biography and autobiography - has steadily increased to produce a sophisticated body of theory and analysis. These studies of auto/biographical practices and of specific forms of auto/biography (in letters, diaries and journals, memoirs, formal biographies and autobiographies, novels, plays, and visual media) provide an immensely rich and varied set of lenses through which to view a text like A Woman's Way.40 Because I have already explored some of Mina's autobiographical practices elsewhere and because a thorough investigation of her book, notably in the context of her diary and her life, can only begin when all the necessary texts are available, I will only suggest a few of the possibilities I see for exploring the auto/biographical in A Woman's Way. As I have already noted, Mina's expedition through Labrador became for her a process of and means for exploring her own identity. The book, and to a lesser degree her articles, catch her performing different voices, negotiating a socio-cultural place from which to speak and write, and articulating a shifting sense of relational, multiple selves. It is not so much her use of the first person (or past tense) that focuses or mediates her complex identity - expedition narratives are written in the first person - as it is the way she dramatizes that first person and the way she relates her multiple selves to others or, to put it another way, the way she constitutes her selves z'nrra-relationally, within her own hybrid identity, and inter-relationally, in relation to other people's equally complex identities (see Eakin, How Our Lives Become Stones, 58-63, 93-4). In "Mimesis: The Dramatic Lineage of Auto/Biography," Evelyn Hinz argues that auto/biography can be productively compared with drama. Both genres, she suggests, exploit elements of conflict and dialogue, function through performance and/or spectatorship, and rely profoundly on mimesis to claim truthful representation of actual events (see Hinz, 195). As Hinz goes on to allow, there are some fundamental distinctions to be made between the genres, but the analogies are nonethless convincing and useful. Of course, an auto/biographical play is performed in public by living actors before a live audience and a written auto/ biography is read by a solitary reader. To understand "the theatre of autobiography," therefore, it is necessary to shift the idea of performance from the present

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to the past, from life enacted to life re-enacted, from spoken words to represented speech, from what is literally witnessed on a stage to what is witnessed in the mind's eye through the "autobiographical act" (see Eakin, Fictions in Autobiography, 56). The mind's eye of auto/biographical performance, as I call it, is compound; like the process of photogravure, it uses a double resist.41 First the auto/ biographer must see the story through living it and then, through reliving it in narration, make it visible for others; he or she must first capture and then reproduce the image. Moreover, in those expedition narratives that are as richly and figurally illustrated as Mina's - and this is one reason why her photographs are so important and must be reproduced exactly as they appeared in the Murray/ Briggs edition - verbal performance is supplanted and enhanced by visual performance. Her photographs, so many of which centre on or include the human figure, ground my photogravure trope and analogy with drama because they visualize the double resist of photographic auto/biography and show us George, Job, Mina, and the others performing on the trail or the Naskapi women listening to Mina, and so on.42 Although I believe performativity is a crucial aspect of the auto/biographical in A Woman's Way, I do not think Mina's narrative would be as complex as it is without the numerous relational voices she allows to perform in her text. These voices exist across the text in the echoes, reverberations, dissonances, and complementarities that a reader picks up as he or she moves through the text from Cabot to Mina to Leonidas to George, and back again. But, as I have already noted, multiple voices also occur within Mina's specific portion of the narrative (chapters 2-18). It is here that she creates what Susanna Egan calls "mirror talk," that "fluid and encompassing activity both personal and generic" of "doublevoicing" and "double vision" (Egan, 25). In her search for a satisfactory way to represent herself at an historical moment and in the performance of a professional activity that tried to exclude women, Mina enacted a self-reflexive doublevoicing that replaced the physical mirror she did not take (and was glad not to have; see WW, 66) with her to Labrador. Thus, neither she nor we ever see her sun-burnt, fly-bitten, bleeding and swollen hands and face. What we do find reflected in her mirror talk is her gradually emerging sense of herself, in dialogue with her self (in the diary) and with others, as woman/explorer, as widow(wife)/ new woman, female constrained, in time and space, by contemporary prejudice/female free to move (albeit under her guides' too-watchful eyes) through space and beyond her time, as leader/follower, authority/initiate, adult/child, and, inevitably, as superior (through class and race)/inferior (through gender and experience). Her extreme self-deprecating praise of Leonidas in chapter 18, "Reckoning," notwithstanding, I see Mina reproduced in her mirror talk as coming slowly into an awareness of her multiple, often contradictory selves, into a

Ixxvi

Sherrill Grace

deserved pride in her abilities, and into an acknowledgment that she can and must exist in relation with others, whose identities are as complex and precious as her own. She is both Mrs Leonidas Hubbard Jr and Mina Benson Hubbard. Mina was very much a white, middle-class Canadian woman of her period, but with some differences: she married a little later than usual for the day; she pursued an acceptable profession for a woman of her class, although relatively few women did so; she understood and enjoyed the outdoors enough to be able to imagine undertaking an expedition to Labrador; she carried through and completed her expedition (a rare thing for a woman to do); and she followed through on the practical work by imagining and writing her narrative.43 In order to be able to act and write at all, she had to struggle with and defeat what no less a woman than Virginia Woolf also faced - a "phantom" called "The Angel in the House," a "sympathetic," "charming," "utterly unselfish" monster who had to be killed lest she "come between me and my paper" to dictate what a proper woman might or might not write.44 My Mina adored a charming, handsome, but stubborn and weak man, and he remained the love of her life, in part because he loved her, thereby reflecting back to her a reassuring image of herself as worthy of being loved, and in part because he died with this romantic image intact. But my Mina is also tough and intelligent, stubborn and uncompromising. She had what I call guts (rather than "pluck"), ambition, and imagination. She could write as well as hike, canoe, and camp, take interesting photographs with what, by my standards, was heavy, awkward equipment, and organize the practical details of an expedition. She was representative of her time in many ways, and fairly conventional in her values, but she also challenged conventions and tested the limits, as it were, on normative views of gender and race. Today we are long past the exploration value of her narrative, except as testimony to Labrador's, and Canada's, history, but we have not begun to appreciate how or why A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador is a classic in Canadian literature, and we have only started to understand some of the ways in which her book is a woman's way. Her map, which Cabot praised, has been superceded by global imaging, but readers have yet to take up Eleanor Ty's challenge to decipher the woman's image and free it from its "textual confinement." By putting this book back into circulation, I am, in a way, setting Mina free, releasing her from the dusty shelves of history. It is now your turn to find her through her text.

A WOMAN'S WAY THROUGH UNKNOWN LABRADOR

The Author (from the drawing by J. Syddall.)

A Woman s Way Through Unknown Labrador An Account of the Exploration of the Nascaupee and George Rivers

By MRS L E O N I D A S HUBBARD, J U N I O R with Portraits and Illustrations

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To

E L L E N VAN DER VOORT H U B B A R D his mother, whom he loved

and LEONIDAS HUBBARD his father, who was one of his heroes

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PREFACE

THIS book is the result of a determination on my part to complete my husband's unfinished work, and having done this to set before the public a plain statement, not only of my own journey, but of his as well. For this reason I have included in the book the greater part of Mr Hubbard's diary, which he kept during his journey, and which it will be seen is published exactly as he wrote it, and also George Elson's account of the last few days together, and his own subsequent efforts. I hope that this may go some way towards correcting misleading accounts of Mr Hubbard's expedition, which have appeared elsewhere. It is due also to the memory of my husband that I should here put on record the fact that my journey with its results - geographical and otherwise - is the only one over this region recognised by the geographical authorities of America and Europe. The map which is found accompanying this account of the two journeys, and for the use of which I am indebted to the courtesy of the American Geographical Society, sets forth the work I was able to accomplish. It does not claim to be other than purely pioneer work. I took no observations for longitude, but obtained a few for latitude, which served as guiding points in making my map. The controlling points of my journey were already astronomically fixed.* The route map of the first Hubbard Expedition is from one drawn for me by George Elson, with the few observations for latitude recorded by Mr Hubbard in his diary as guiding points. My husband's maps, together with other field notes and records, I have not had access to, as these have never been handed over to me. Grateful acknowledgment is here made of my indebtedness to Mr Herbert L. Bridgman and Mr Harold T. Ellis for their help and counsel in my work. Here, too, I would express my sincere appreciation of the contribution to the book from Mr Cabot, a descendant of the ancient explorers, who is peculiarly well fitted to speak of Labrador. The great peninsula has been, as he terms it, his * Northwest River post, Lake Michikamau and its outlet, and the mouth of the George River.

8 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

"playground," and by canoe in summer or on snow-shoes in winter he has travelled thousands of miles in the interior, thus placing himself in closest touch with it. To Dr Cluny Macpherson for his generous services I am deeply grateful. To George Elson for his loyal devotion to Mr Hubbard and myself my debt of gratitude must ever remain unpaid. To Dr James E.G. Sawyer, my beloved pastor, I am indebted for the title of my book. MINA BENSON HUBBARD

CONTENTS

Labrador. By William B. Cabot 13 i ii

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior 33 Slipping Away into the Wilderness 43

in

Climbing the Rapids 50

iv

Disaster Which Threatened Defeat 55

v VI

To the Bend of the River

Cross Country to Seal Lake Waters 72

vii

Off for Michikamau 79

vni

Scaring the Guides 86

ix x xi xii

63

Mount Hubbard and Windbound Lake 93 Michikamau

97

Storm-Bound on Michikamats 103 The Migrating Caribou 108

xni I

Across the Divide 115

xiv

Through the Lakes of the Upper George 119

xv xvi

The Montagnais Indians 125 The Barren Ground People 132

xvn The Race for Ungava 142 xvm

The Reckoning 153 Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr 157 Narrative by George Elson 189

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-*-» LIST OF I L L U S T R A T I O N S

The Author

2

Deep Ancient Valleys 15 Nascaupees in Skin Dress 18 The White Man's Burden 23 Indian Women and Their Home The Fierce Nascaupee

27

29

On into the Wilderness 36 Where Romance Lingers 41 George Elson Job

46

49

Making Canoe Poles 52 A Study in Rapids 56 Washing-Day 61 Coming Down the Trail with Packs 65 On the Trail Joe

67

70

In the Heart of the Wilderness 75 Solitude (Seal Lake) 78 Skinning the Caribou The Fall

82

84

Wild Maid Marion Gertrude Falls

89

94

Breakfast on the Michikamau Stormbound 105

99

12 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

From an Indian Grave 109 A Bit of the Caribou Country 112 Gilbert 116 The Indians' Cache 121 The Camp on the Hill 126 The Montagnais Boy 129 The Nascaupee Chief and Men 134 With the Nascaupee Women 139 Nascaupee Little Folk 141 Shooting the Rapids 145 Bridgman Mountains 148 The Arrival at Ungava 151 Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. From the drawing by ]. Syddall 156 A Bit of the Coast 160 A Rainy Camp 163 Drying Caribou Meat and Mixing Bannocks 167 Working up Shallow Water 171 Great Michikamau 176 Carrying the Canoe up the Hill on the Portage 180 In the Nascaupee Valley 183 Launching 190 A Rough Country 201 A North Country Mother and Her Little Ones 207 A Montagnais Type 212 The French Post at Northwest River 216 Hudson's Bay Company Post at Northwest River 216 Night-Gloom Gathers 220 Mina Benson Hubbard's Map

at end of book

I N T R O D U C T I O N BY W I L L I A M B. C A B O T

Labrador

THE name Labrador has come to be associated with cold and desolation. The conditions over a large part of its territory are in fact those of the Arctic circle. Visited by English ships as early as 1497, its inhospitable shores have turned southward the course of European migration for more than four hundred years. The coasts still remain the scene of merely primitive pursuits. Few but fishermen and fur-traders push through its midsummer ice. Modem enterprise, but for a few pulp or lumber workings in the low levels of southern valleys, has passed by to more inviting fields. As to the interior, the wide table-land, it is enough to say that even now, in the world-wide pressure of modern exploitation, it probably contains not one settled resident of pure white race. When it is considered that the peninsula lies substantially between the moderate latitudes of 50° and 60°, its conditions seem in fact extraordinary. Nowhere else do polar currents maintain their influence so far from the actual Arctic. An imposing stream of stately northern ice, sometimes two hundred miles wide, makes its way not only down the long eastern coast of Labrador, but far south to the Newfoundland banks and the latitudes of the Mediterranean. The like of this majestic stream of tall ice does not exist upon the globe; in the northern hemisphere there is nothing approaching it. The Greenland current and its adjacent lands are really a long narrowing tongue of the Arctic, projected into regions which otherwise would be mild of climate and occupied by a fixed population. As it is, compared with other places of the same latitude, of equal sun, the peninsula has by climate an indifferent inheritance. In the same zone with London, Paris, St Petersburg, its cities, beyond the rare trading station or mission, are fishermen's cabins and the northern igloos; no nearer the traditional Arctic than the wheat lands of the Saskatchewan, the temperate valleys of British Columbia, than almost the entire cultivable belt of the Russian Empire - its little soil returns practically no unfrosted crop; and the grey uplift of its outer islands, unlighted, unchanged, from the grounded bergs of Belle Isle to the rockborne graves and huge desolation of Nachvack fiord in the north, stands facing, as if in final antithesis, the smiling shores of old-world civilisation.

14 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

It is noteworthy that two other peninsulas, the Labrador's only companions in extent, are also of comparative sterility. The three - Arabia, Labrador, Alaska are the greatest land forms of their kind, with no near rivals in size. Although of these the Labrador is least habitable, all three are wanting in the elements which invite permanent occupation. The peninsula is generally reckoned to include the country northward from a straight line drawn from the south end of James Bay to a point near Seven Islands on the Gulf of St Lawrence, with an area of 511,000 square miles [see Figure 9]. Actually, the neck of the peninsula would seem in fairness to be nearer to a line drawn to the mouth of the Saguenay River, and this would give an area of some 600,000 miles - not very much below that of the Arabian peninsula, with its 845,000. By either method of calculation it must be acknowledged as second largest of the great semi-detached land forms; while its boldness of outline and wide separation from other large land masses go far to confer upon it equal rank with its one superior in extent. The area of the Labrador is perhaps larger than is generally realised, partly because the maps upon which it is presented are of small scale, usually showing upon the same sheet the whole breadth of the adjacent continent. In the presence of a geographical neighbour of such overwhelming proportions the peninsula makes but a modest showing, even with its really considerable longer diameters of 950 and 1,200 miles. The surface of the peninsula is mainly an uneven plateau of 1,000 to 2,000 feet elevation, rising to a slight apex a little south of Nichicun in latitude 53°. Many great rivers gather about the central area, plunging sooner or later into deep, ancient valleys and passing swiftly to the seas of all coasts. Those flowing into Hudson Bay westward are not much below the level of the country, which slopes more gradually on that side than toward the other coasts. Along the various watersheds are thousands of great and small lakes. The central country is a network of water-courses. As a rule the lakes of the plateau are not deep. In one of the largest Dr Low dropped a hatchet fastened to a sounding line when several miles from land.1 It stopped after going a few feet, and some effort followed to clear the line and let it go on, the episode ending with the discovery that the hatchet had found bottom in six or eight feet of water. On the contrary, the two greatest lakes of all, Mistassini and Michikamau, are of unusual depth. They drain respectively westward into Hudson Bay and eastward into the Atlantic. Mistassini, 100 miles in length, is somewhat the greater. Its low shores are considerably grown with stunted spruce, under which the subsoil remains frozen through July. During much of the summer its great body of cold water, chilling the warm south-western winds, is overhung with clouds and

Introduction by William B. Cabot 15

Deep Ancient Valleys

cheerless with drizzling rain. Michikamau, high-lying and broad, with bold shores, is by far the more inspiring of these sea-like expanses.2 Some of the narrower lakes or river expansions are the deepest of all, Mouchalagan giving soundings of more than 600 feet at a point quite near shore. Fifty miles inland in the north-east, on an unmapped river called by the Indians, Assiwaban,3 a single sounding in the Natuaashu expansion gave 275 feet at only 250 yards from land. The bottom of the lake was at least 100 feet below sea-level. Greater depths might have been expected in other places, from the configuration of the shores. The deep inlets which occur along the Atlantic are all submerged river courses, "drowned valleys," eroded long before the last ice period. At present the region is rising, as is shown by the raised sea beaches all along the middle coast. The ancient Eskimo camping-places are now inconveniently high from the water. Near Cape Harrigan the present rate of elevation seems to be a foot in twenty years. The depth off-shore is usually less than in the inlets. The ice-cap would appear to have carried out the debris of previous ages from the interior, pushing it beyond the outer islands as a terminal moraine, which, reaching well to the surface, accounts for the comparative shallowness existing. Behind were left the interminable wastes of rounded granite hills which are a feature of the interior. The effect of this endless succession of low elevations upon the unaccustomed traveller's mind is peculiarly depressing. To the unhardened explorer the following expression of Henry Yule Hind, upon visiting the high region about the head of the Moisie, appears tolerably well justified: - "Words fail to describe the appalling desolation of the Labrador tableland."4 Trees of some size are not wholly wanting over any large area of the peninsula, unless in the unexplored north-west. In the south-west, even the tops of the hills are forested. Spruce, larch, poplar, and the various birches are not totally absent to latitude 60° on Ungava Bay. The river levels of the south-western dis-

16 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

tricts are widely timbered with the small Banksian or Labrador pine. With its graceful tracery against the sky, it appears more southern in aspect than any of the other subarctic trees. Its leaves are eaten by caribou, rabbit, and the halfmigratory spruce partridge. The latter as a contribution to the kettle is important. In spite of its long winter periods, with little or no other food than the pine leaves, it remains free from the bitter resinous taste which would naturally be expected. Before the central country is reached, the hilltops and higher levels become everywhere bare of trees, and in the last 300 miles toward Ungava there is almost no wood, excepting in unusually sheltered spots and in the deeper valleys. The people of the Labrador inland are a remnant. Less than a thousand families of these roving Indians now remain. Yearly, with packs of fur, they visit some trading-post, all except two of which are situated upon tidal shores. Their most necessary purchases are arms and ammunition, knives, axes, utensils, cloth, and tobacco. Liquor, in spite of good laws, is rather frequently conveyed to them, although not during recent years by the Hudson's Bay Company. Occasionally a family remains inland over a second year, usually after a poor hunt; some out-going neighbour, perhaps, taking along the catch of the first year. The fur-bearing animals are the marten, beaver, otter, wolverene, fisher-bear, lynx, fox, mink, ermine, and muskrat. The red fox is especially large and handsome. Its black or "silver" variety frequently commands a price of from one to five hundred dollars. They are taken chiefly in the north-east. A curious variation seems to occur from one period to another in the relative proportion of silvers and reds taken. In 1907 there were brought in at one point seventeen silvers, twenty "cross" foxes, and one hundred and thirteen of the common red ones. Yet during some periods almost no silvers at all are caught, whatever the abundance of their red variety. All three colours may appear in one litter of the common red fox. It is a remarkable upturn of fortune's wheel that brings to the hunter one of the finer skins, the equivalent, perhaps, of his ordinary earnings for as much as one or two years. An Eskimo at Hopedale received five hundred dollars for a pair of matched silvers this year. Occasional prices are yet higher. In general the better hunters make incomes which are really handsome when their limited requirements are considered. Furs to an average annual value of about one thousand dollars for the twenty-nine years ending in 1904 were brought in by a mountaineer in the Lake St John district.5 Latterly the deer-skin tent is found only in the north, the use of cotton cloth having become general. The families move as may be necessary, passing to fresh ground as the game becomes thinned. In many districts the part of the women and children in gaining subsistence is quite as important as that of the hunter,

Introduction by William B. Cabot 17

whose principal effort may be directed toward taking fur. The surest reliance, usually, is fish. On the shore of some lake the lodge is raised, the nets and snares set near by, and the hunter is free to care for his distant traps, while the family bring in the fish, rabbits, and ptarmigan, which constitute the living. The ptarmigan are commonly shot, a light gun being usually available for camp use. The hunter may go unarmed, taking only his small axe and dog. He sometimes sleeps far out on a line of traps, coming home finally with perhaps a lynx or porcupine, or a few spruce partridges snared from trees with a noose tied to a pole of fishing-rod dimensions. No game is more valued for the kettle than the beaver, and this not more by the natives than by the chance traveller, whatever his traditions. The lynx and porcupine are also in favour, the white meat of the former being specially liked. The other fur-bearers are rarely eaten excepting in times of scarcity, the diabolical wolverene last of all. In the season of open water ducks, geese, and muskrats vary the fare. The fish are of peculiar excellence, from the ouinanish,6 trout and lake trout to the less valued pike and red and white suckers. The northern whitefish is generally reckoned the best of all. The people of the northern barren lands are often limited in winter to caribou and fish, the former uncertain in their migrating movements, and the latter more or less dormant and unavailable under the seven to nine feet of ice which covers the lakes. Woodland caribou are found in moderate numbers in the timbered areas of the south, mixing sometimes with the barren ground variety from the north. The latter still move in great migrations from the northern shores about Ungava, scattering in the timber south as far as the coast near Belle Isle. Along with these in some numbers are the wolves. Their long high-pitched howl, the ultimate note of the wilderness, falls occasionally upon the ear of the twilight camper. This, and the cry of the loon from the lakes, with the crowing bleat of the ptarmigan in the low scrub, are the chance evening sounds of the barrens. Throughout much of the country the hunting-lands have been passed down by customs of inheritance similar to our own. Two days' travel, it may be, in width, by three days' in length, is held by the same family from one generation to another. In the want of a son, a daughter's husband may succeed to the hunting, the daughter's mother perhaps living with the young people. Although the hunting regions of the peninsula afford as much as two or three hundred thousand acres to each lodge, subsistence is nevertheless precarious. In the south some reserve provision is usually taken into the hunting-grounds from the coast. Northward, serious straits and actual starvation are not uncommon. From the St Lawrence region fires have run over immense areas of the inland in dry times, burning the very soil from the rocks. The great fire of the Saguenay ran from near the St Maurice River to the Romaine, 700 miles, sweeping the country from the

18 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Nascaupees in Skin Dress

gulf to the Height of Land.7 With the ruin of the best game districts the caribou diminished greatly, and the people of the plateau were forced to the shores. Hind's account of the misfortune of these refugees is pathetic in the extreme. Failing the air and sunshine of the high interior they passed into gloom and despondency, falling a ready prey to pneumonia, consumption, and the various diseases of an unwonted mode of life. The southern half of the country is occupied by the Montagnais or Mountaineers, a branch of the Cree family. Their dialect is near enough to the Cree to permit convenient intercourse. The Nascaupees,8 who hunt northward into the barrens, are properly Swampy Crees, who very possibly left their ancient home

Introduction by William B. Cabot 19

south-west of Hudson Bay to escape the Iroquois incursions of two or three centuries ago. Something of the old fear of the Iroquois still exists among hunting Indians from the St Lawrence north. The mother still frightens her children with the name. A strange canoe in the distance, a party on the snow, still bring the thought of the dread "Nadowessie." The Mountaineers and some of the northern people are nominally Christians, being under the influence of the Catholic Oblate Fathers on the Gulf, and the Church of England missions on Hudson Bay. Their old beliefs are not wholly relinquished. The pagan Indians of the north often have more than one wife, and their way of living is little changed by contact with the white race. The eastern coast in summer is given over to the fisheries. In 1907 some fortyfour hundred schooners cleared from Newfoundland for the north, practically all for the Labrador cod fishing. Fifty thousand fishermen, perhaps sixty, take the chances of the early ice, and sooner or later either scatter for the short season among the shore stations of the southerly coast, or, fishing as "floaters," enliven the littoral to the latitudes of the walrus and white bear at Nachvack and Chidley. A fixed population occupies sparsely the bays as far as Nain, subsisting by furhunting, sealing and fishing; they shade in complexion from the sea-bronze of the pure white to the uncompromising colour of the wind-blackened Eskimo at Hopedale and Nain, and are referred to sometimes as "livyeres."9 As do the unmixed Eskimo from Nain to the north, they sweep the shores with dogs and komatiks the winter long,10 seal-hunting and visiting, and driving far up the inner bays to the rivers for firewood and the inland game. Scarcity of food occurs often enough, without, however, actual starvation. A few livyeres of Hamilton Inlet hunt far inland, going by water. Lumbering is in progress near the head of the Inlet. Trading posts have been long established at Rigolet and Northwest River, and the population here and in Sandwich Bay adjoining is considerable. Governed, however lightly, by Newfoundland, the fishing-coast is traversed by a mail steamer from St John's to Nain every two or three weeks during open water. A physician, whose dental forceps are no mean part of his really good equipment, treats all comers at the hundred stopping places of the round trip. Well known is the extraordinary establishment of the Deep Sea Mission, with its hospitals, co-operative stores, and, not least, the hospital ship, Strathcona, whose unremitting voyages have gone far to lift from a neglected people the pathetic consciousness of needless suffering. The Mission has risen at the hands of Dr Wilfred Grenfell, who is his own pilot upon the Strathcona, and with something like a charmed life navigates the whole intricate coast.11 While quite a literature has grown up in connection with the Deep Sea Mission, the work of the Moravians remains comparatively unknown to the outer

2o A Woman's Way 77iroug/z Unknown Labrador

world.12 Since the year 1770 they have numbered the Labrador Eskimo among their several aboriginal charges. Missions are now maintained at Mokkovik, Hopedale, Nain, Okkak, Hebron, Ramah, and Killinik. Many natives about the older stations can read their own tongue. They are taught, given medical treatment, and tided over the occasional bad fishing seasons. Deaths from starvation do not now occur. All products of the people are bought at the Mission stores; seal skins and seal boots, blubber, codfish, salmon, trout, caribou meat, and fur. The very existence of these Eskimos as a race depends upon continuance of the present paternal system of missionaries. At the mercy of ordinary traders their end, through poverty and disease, would be speedy. Their ultimate future seems not too bright, yet a race whose courage is tuned to meet indifferently the walrus and white bear with hand weapons, or the dangers of the far-shifting ice edge in winter, is not without claims upon the more fortunate. They number nearly a thousand; a cheerful, well-disposed people, perhaps as far as any from raising the question whether life is worth living. Few missions of all history, perhaps none at the present day, bear stronger witness to the power of religious devotion than this of the north. To surroundings more sternly repelling, refinement and cultivation could not well be consigned. The visible reward is mere existence. In summer the ship comes, though in the north it may fail. There are visits to the cabins in the bays, the services, the dealings at the store - and the years go on. Ninety dollars is the annual salary of the missionary in charge, fifty-five that of the storekeeper, with house-room, but only part of the living. At seven years old the children must go; they must be educated across the sea; they do not return. Yet missionaries are not wanting; enough have the call. Exploration of the peninsula, contrary to prevailing impressions, has been extensive. Disregarding the unrecorded wanderings of the "Coureurs des Bois" of the early French period, and the unmapped and little known journeys of their missionary successors and of a few chance fur-traders in still later years, the accumulation of more or less available material is surprisingly large. From the crossing of the neck of the peninsula to Hudson Bay by Pere Albanel in 1674,13 with his incidental passage of Mistassini, to the now historical voyages of the Hubbards, it is probable that nearly all important features of land and water, excepting in the far north-west, have come under the eye of some intelligent traveller. More than thirty names of explorers of note are listed in Dr Low's report to the Canadian Geological Survey. For many years previous to the great interior work of Dr Low, communicable knowledge of the more remote inland was confined almost wholly to officers of the Hudson's Bay Company, whose plateau trading posts, now only two in number, were reached by river and lake voyages which left few large districts untraversed. The company's established policy of reserve

Introduction by William B. Cabot 21

prevented publication of the extensive information acquired during its operations. From a map made by two of its officers, however, the dotted outlines of the region about Nichicun were transferred to the present map of the Geological Survey by Dr Low [see Figure 4]. An excellent map was made by Pere Babel during his wanderings with the Indians from 1866 to 1870, covering certain waters in the same region.14 The two volumes of Henry Yule Hind, long the standard work of reference on Labrador, brought together a large amount of information which is still interesting. The establishment of Fort Chimo was made by an inland journey in 1827, from Richmond Gulf. This route now appears upon the map as surveyed by Low [see Figure 4]. It was followed by Mr and Mrs Tasker of Philadelphia in 1906, during a daring single-canoe journey in which they were accompanied by Mrs Hubbard's chief men, George Elson and Job Chapies.15 In 1839 John M'Lean, a Hudson's Bay Company's officer, discovered the Grand or M'Lean Falls of the Hamilton.16 These were first measured by Henry G. Bryant of Philadelphia in 1891, their height being a little over 300 feet, and they were visited the same summer by Messrs Gary and Cole of Bowdoin College.17 The first passage from Fort Chimo to Hamilton Inlet, by the Northwest or Nascaupee River, was made by M'Lean in the winter of 1838. With a small party he started from Chimo in January, left Michikamau February 5th, arriving at Northwest River Post, February i6th. Returning he reached "highest land," doubtless somewhere about Michikamau, in fourteen days, taking eighteen days more in Chimo. During recent years Pere Lacasse made the journey in summer with Indians.18 The journey of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., in the same region, followed in 1903. Mrs Hubbard's journey, two years later, took place as the first tracing out of the important stream now locally known as the Nascaupee. The only inland exploration, accompanied by the accurate methods of a full surveying party, was that done by the government expeditions of the Province of Quebec, and of the Canadian Geological Survey. The operations of the former were confined to the southern slope and the neck of the peninsula towards James Bay, a large total of work nevertheless. Systematic explorations of the farther interior were carried out by Dr Low during the years from 1892 to 1895, involving a series of remarkable and successful journeys. Especially notable were the expeditions of 1893 and 1894, covering inland travel amounting to 4,460 miles. From Lake St John he went to Ungava by way of Mistassini, Nichicun, Kaniapiskau and the Koksoak River. On January igth in the next winter he started from Hamilton Inlet, upon snow, hauled canoes and outfit 300 miles before the breaking up of the rivers, spent the open-water season surveying Michikamau and the greater branches of the Hamilton, and descended in the fall to the St Lawrence by the Romaine and St John Rivers. His report on the Labrador

22 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Peninsula, published by the Canadian Geological Survey at Ottawa, is a large, closely-printed book of nearly four hundred pages, treating in detail of the geography, geology, zoology, and botany of the country, together with its history, climate, and inhabitants. The only large scale map of the peninsula now available is that accompanying this report. An exploring or surveying expedition of persons foreign to the country must take provisions for nearly its whole stay inland. The one great difficulty, especially if the party is unused to such travel, is in carrying the necessary supplies over the portages. Even the problem of finding the way would be comparatively unimportant if a party could go light with merely their individual kits. The labour of heavy portaging over rough obstructed ground is quite beyond the strength and endurance of unaccustomed persons. The native Indian can go light, often getting most of his food as he goes, and appearing almost indifferent whether he is carrying his canoe over the trackless hills, or is paddling smoothly over the lakes between portages. On the other hand, Low required a week, even with his Indian crews, in crossing the Ten Mile portage of the Bersimis, which a light party of four Indians and two white men have passed in little more than a half day. The portage includes a mountain upwards of 1,000 feet high. If actual progress is taken account of, the efforts of a fully-equipped party of amateurs over such ground becomes rather a burlesque. A sad handicap, in truth, is the "white man's burden," amusing as it is to the aborigines.19 John M'Lean's winter travel was a fair example of what may be done by professional methods. The summer route up Northwest River is somewhat longer than the winter one. An Indian, with his family, expects to take fifteen or sixteen days in going from Northwest River to Michikamau in summer; a party of Indian men, going light, ten or eleven days. The main question of equipment, of fixed outfit, is almost strangely simple. As it is throughout other parts of Northern Canada, so in the Labrador, the explorer's means of progress are still those of the primitive Indian; and of forms differing but slightly, if at all, from those handed down from time immemorial. In winter the snow-shoe, the tabanask,20 and it may be the dogs; in summer the portable canoe, the paddle and setting-pole, and the portaging strap - these are the long time insignia of the fur countries, indispensables of the northern way, of which it is not too much to say that passing now to serve the sports of our civilisation they will remain the principal legacy to later times of their aboriginal inventors. As to the canoe itself, the substitution of canvas for bark has proved measurably an advantage, as also a metal tip for the setting-pole is often worth its transport. In the matter of clothing, for day or night, little has been gained. Our textiles, if they wash better than skins, wear comparatively ill; and the moccasin,

Introduction by William B. Cabot 23

The White Man's Burden

save for wading stony rivers and like service, remains unequalled. For wading purposes a thick-soled shoe of firm leather with hobnails is excellent, and will serve also to save feet and moccasins on stony portages. For ordinary canoe trips, involving only a quarter or a fifth the total distance in land portaging, strong moccasins last some weeks without repairs. Our vegetable threads rot rapidly when often wet, involving frequent repairs, although the leather may not be affected. The sinew used for sewing by Indians and Eskimo outlasts the other material of the moccasin. Unless one has a spare change of

24 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

footwear mending may become necessary at most inconvenient times. Stout bags, tent cloth, etc.., furnish tolerable material for moccasins. Heavy canvas ones might well be better than those of leather for wading, the latter sort being a source of danger and something like torture when used on slippery round shingle in river-beds. For long trips, summer or winter, woollen foot-wraps - the piuashagan of the Indians - are better than stockings, requiring no repairs and being easily dried.21 To the problem of food supply, the vital one of wilderness travel and existence, our advanced age has contributed but one important agency - the gun. Even this by no means supersedes the native means of taking food. Snares and wooden traps, spears for deer and fish, and above all the gill net, these in the hands of the indigenous race still, in main, supply the living throughout the greater part of the northern inland. In the farther north-east, when fall supplies become exhausted and the long cold of midwinter finds the people in extremity, it is still the old wooden hook to which is committed the sometimes forlorn hope of attracting, in the utmost depths of the lakes, the semi-torpid namaycush from his winter retirement. 22 Beyond the primitive means already mentioned, with of course some form of tent, few appliances could be readily named which in any indispensable way have served the progress of such expeditions as that of Mr Hubbard. Steel axes, knives and hooks may be reckoned - these by the way being improvements on the old stone age implements chiefly in material. The compass has doubtless been essential, even in the presence of Indian companions; likewise the modern means of making fire. At any rate no white traveller should be without matches, watertight in metal case, and he should not only have a pocket compass, but what is not so common a possession, the requisite confidence in its indications. As to the net, it must be said in justice to Mr Hubbard's forethought, that he had by no means planned to make his trip without one. Arriving at Hamilton Inlet, however, at the height of the fishing season, when the netmakers were pursuing night and day their greatest and fleeting opportunity of the year, he was unable to get a new net made, and put up hopefully with what was to be had. Then followed the ascent of the Susan,23 the arduous drawn-out journey across country and the dwindling of physical strength to the point of peril, by reason largely of the failure of ordinary tackle to meet the needs of the party. The doubtless unfortunate mistaking of the Susan River for the larger Nascaupee was partly caused by undue confidence in the official map, supported by the assurances of the shore people that the river came in "at the end of the lake." Probably enough it was the same shore people who furnished Dr Low the descriptions from which his conjectural outlines were afterwards dotted upon the map [see Figure 4]. While blame for the inaccuracy of such broken-line details does not

Introduction by William B. Cabot 25

attach to the map-maker, it reflects little credit upon local sources of information that even Dr Low should have been so considerably misled as to features near and familiar to the life-long dwellers of the inlet. As to inland features it is to be mentioned that the map of the Canadian Geological Survey is the only one here referred to. In it the outline of Grand Lake was not only inaccurate as to the mouth of the Nascaupee, but much out of place and drawn half as long again as it actually is. Likewise upon the Atlantic slope east of the George recent observations have shown the important Barren Grounds River, flowing from south-west, to be little more than imaginary; the drainage system of a large part of its supposed basin being occupied by two rivers which flow from about west for nearly a hundred miles from the coast, and empty at points many miles apart. Neither of these rivers is locally called Barren Grounds River, this name being given by the Indians to what we call the George.24 The uncertainties attending a journey through such a country without guides or maps are evident enough. What might not be so well realised, in the inevitable comparison of Mr Hubbard's frustrated achievements with the successes of Low and others, is that the great work of the Ottawa Survey would have been impossible without native guides, unless by a relatively enormous outlay of time and expense. It is no more than due to those concerned to maintain that the feat of selfsupport over such a route for nearly three months is hardly paralleled in the history of similar unprofessional parties. The month of cold weather, following the long reducing earlier period, found them in a position to tax the resources of the hardiest, most capable natives of the soil. Lest it be thought that a good degree of practical woodsmanship would have kept them from arriving in such straits let it be realised that the little-known history of the dwellers in the country abounds with instances of distress in just such situations, and we of another mode of life - and death - cannot well realise how rarely it is that the hunter of the farther north can feel himself for a whole season secure from starvation. Once cold weather has set in not all the woodcraft of the Americas is sufficient to insure the traveller's subsistence throughout a long cross-country trip in the north-east. Native Indians, settled in well-known and chosen places in advance of cold weather, have an excellent chance of getting along; yet even with these, in the very country where our party turned back, a starving time occurs every few years, and perhaps half the people are dead in their lodges by spring. Such was the end of certain families hunting the middle part of the ground traversed by Hubbard. For twelve years the district remained unhunted. On George River these happenings seem not especially due to modern destruction of the game, but correspond with old conditions which appear to have existed for

26 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

generations. Accordingly John M'Lean's account of his cold weather journey between Ungava and Hamilton Inlet, seventy years ago, is largely a succession of references to narrow escapes and death from starvation.25 The circumstances of this journey from Northwest River post to Chimo are singularly like those of Mr Hubbard. He would surely have died had it not been for an Indian who left him fifty miles out, and fortunately had strength to reach the post and send back relief. Yet M'Lean had followed this life as a profession for many years, had local guides and due equipment. A storm compared with the one which windbound Mr Hubbard's expedition would have sealed his fate, and his "Twenty-five Years in the Hudson Bay Territory" would never have been written. To the south-westward of the region we are concerned with, lies the basin of the great East Main River, many hundreds of miles long, which discharges into Hudson Bay. On this river, for a long term of years, the deaths from starvation were more than from all other causes combined. Southward from East Main River about Mistassini Lake, the Indians could not subsist without the aid of the Hudson's Bay Company according to the formal report of Dr Low to the Geological Survey. In abandoning the canoe and Beaver River Hubbard showed confidence in the remaining strength of the party.26 The land route was known, the Beaver was not; and his experience with unknown rivers had been disheartening. His confidence was justified, if narrowly, as to the others. Few persons are competent medical advisers for themselves, and there is reason for supposing that Hubbard was not one of these. With him the spirit was ever dominant. His remnant of endurance was for the others to estimate. Within but a day's march of safety, for a strong man, the end came. During his last weeks of life the central figure of these events met the sterner tests of manhood as few are given to do. In the presence of his later diary the spirit of unfriendly criticism may well forego its mission. This might be otherwise. Not unnaturally might the party's last period have been marked by surrender to fear, by the selfish disregard of one another's fate, or worse, which has appeared too often in connection with similar straits. Then, as the world goes, the cynic's criticism, the irreverent touch, might be expected. Yet even then it could be urged that judged in such a spirit few expeditions to the north would escape a bad showing. Many expeditions into such countries as northern Labrador have lost men, or escaped doing so by a mere chance. The list is long. In uninhabited regions fate is often near. Few are the travellers of the north who have not chanced upon the day when a "trivial happening" would have led to a tragic end, and they who have known the northern way can best understand how unkind were the happenings which bore against unflinching Hubbard and his companions from the time they resolved on retreat.

Introduction by William B. Cabot 27

Indian Women and Their Home

It fell to Mrs Hubbard, by an impulse which does not need explanation, to complete her husband's work. The final tragedy of his expedition had aroused wide concern as well as interest in the circumstances. The event was followed by much printed comment, which if almost always sympathetic and responsive to Mr Hubbard's elevation of spirit, was often accompanied by criticism of his equipment and capability. It may be said that in no instance did this criticism come from any of the few who by experience or study of the subject of subarctic travel were qualified to pronounce in such a matter. The confidence and freedom of the various writers in their criticism was nearly in proportion to their unfamiliarity with such travel.

28 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

In bringing together for publication the available material bearing upon the expedition it became evident to Mrs Hubbard that only by actual performance of the original undertaking could her husband's name be cleared from the reproach of having entered lightly upon an ill-advised and dangerous project. In the absence of information about the country she could not otherwise qualify herself to impart to others her conviction of the reasonably good conception and management of the venture. So it came that she set forth, with her two canoes, from Hamilton Inlet. She mapped the great Northwest or Nascaupee River, encountered the caribou migration at the Height of Land, observed the primitive Nascaupee Indians of the George, and made her way finally to Ungava Bay on Hudson Straits. These were the objects for which her husband had risked and striven; to her courage and steadfastness nothing that he had hoped for was denied. The most important of the results was the mapping of Northwest River. Its source, as the outlet of Michikamau, had already been astronomically located by Low. Half the length of the river, more or less, had been navigated by the Indians, the other half not even by them. The only known white man who had ever travelled the summer portage route of the Indians was Pere Lacasse. M'Lean, in his winter journeys had not seen the upper course of the river at all. The size and importance of the river made its final establishment upon the map, a contribution much appreciated by geographers, and was one to minister to the pride of any explorer. The approximations of the official map are peculiarly unfortunate in their inaccuracy. Seal Lake is shown upon a branch far from its proper place on the main river.27 The important sweep of the river to the north is a feature wholly unguessed before Mrs Hubbard's return. Her running map of the river, not only in geographical interest, but for the practical purposes of the traveller is as sufficient as if accurately surveyed, and her results from the longer George River, if of necessity somewhat less reliable, are so good as to be indispensable to the future voyager. The migration of the Labrador caribou has been observed by few of our race, and will be seen by few or none in future. The great herds are diminishing. So with the Nascaupees in their hunting grounds, with their skin tents and unchanged ways - all will soon pass. Yet they who read will most linger upon the strength of purpose which underlay the achievement. The husband's spirit descended upon the expedition. Courage and devotion failed not the untried leader, nor skill and faithfulness the men who kept their trust. The long-time traveller of the north must adjust his eyes to a new horizon before seeing as it is this latest picture. The embarkation of a woman, slight, young, with her four Indians, the journey through the ill-omened wastes where

Introduction by William B. Cabot 29

The Fierce Nascaupee

her husband's march had ended; the unfailing thought to fulfil the purpose of him who had gone, to save his memory - these are not the commonplaces of summer trips. The long weeks of delay on the fierce Nascaupee, the voyage through great Michikamau and the vast caribou herds about the Height of Land, the hoped-for meeting with the Mountaineers and Nascaupees upon their "Barren Grounds River," where many have starved, and the entry into the post at Ungava unshaken and unharmed - the tale may but slowly unfold itself to the imagination. Almost six hundred miles was the distance; up the untraversed Nascaupee, swift, wild, and down the almost equally unknown George; from Hamilton Inlet to Ungava, the "farther place" of the Eskimo.

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A WOMAN S WAY THROUGH U N K N O W N LABRADOR

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CHAPTER I

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior

THERE was an unusual excitement and interest in Mr Hubbard's face when he came home one evening in January of 1903. We had just seated ourselves at the dinner-table, when leaning forward he handed me a letter to read. It contained the very pleasing information that we were shortly to receive a, for us, rather large sum of money. It was good news, but it did not quite account for Mr Hubbard's present state of mind, and I looked up enquiringly. "You see, Wife, it means that I can take my Labrador trip whether any one sends me or not," he said triumphantly. His eyes glowed and darkened and in his voice was the ring of a great enthusiasm, for he had seen a Vision, and this trip was a vital part of his dream. The dream had begun years ago, when a boy lay out under the apple trees of a quiet farm in Southern Michigan with elbows resting on the pages of an old school geography, chin in palms and feet in air. The book was open at the map of Canada, and there on the other page were pictures of Indians dressed in skins with war bonnets on their heads; pictures of white hunters also dressed in skins, paddling bark canoes; winter pictures of dog-teams and sledges, the driver on his snow-shoes, his long whip in hand. The boy would have given all the arrowheads he had for just one look at what he saw pictured there. He was born, this boy, of generations of pioneer ancestors, the line on his mother's side running back to Flanders of three hundred years ago, through Michael Paulus Van Der Voort, who came to America from Dendermonde, East Flanders, and whose marriage on November i8th, 1640, to Marie Rappelyea, was the fifth recorded marriage in New Amsterdam, now New York. A branch runs back in England to John Rogers the martyr.1 It is the boast of this family that none of the blood has ever been known to "show the white feather." Among those ancestors of recent date of whose deeds he was specially proud, were the great-grandfather, Samuel Rogers, a pioneer preacher of the Church of Christ among the early settlers of Kentucky and Missouri, and the Grandfather Hub-

34 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

bard who took his part in the Indian fights of Ohio's early history. On both mother's and father's side is a record of brave, high-hearted, clean-living men and women, strong in Christian faith, lovers of nature, all of them, and thus partakers in rich measure of that which ennobles life. The father, Leonidas Hubbard, had come "cross country" from Deerfield, Ohio, with gun on shoulder, when Michigan was still a wilderness, and had chosen this site for his future home. He had taught in a school for a time in his young manhood; but the call of the out-of-doors was too strong, and forth he went again. When the responsibilities of life made it necessary for him to limit his wanderings he had halted here; and here on July 12th, 1872, the son, Leonidas Hubbard, Jr, was born. He began by taking things very much to heart, joys and sorrows alike. In his play he was always setting himself some unaccomplishable task, and then flying into a rage because he could not do it. The first great trouble came with the advent of a baby sister who, some foolish one told him, would steal from him his mother's heart. Passionately he implored a big cousin to "take that little baby out and chop its head off." Later he found it all a mistake, that his mother's heart was still his own, and so he was reconciled. From earliest recollection he had listened with wide eyes through winter evenings, while over a pan of baldwin apples his father talked with some neighbour who had dropped in, of the early days when they had hunted deer and wolves and wild turkeys over this country where were now the thrifty Michigan farms. There were, too, his father's stories of his own adventures as hunter and miner in the mountains of the West. It seemed to him the time would never come when he would be big enough to hunt and trap and travel through the forests as his father had done. He grew so slowly; but the years did pass, and at last one day the boy almost died of gladness when his father told him he was big enough now to learn to trap, and that he should have a lesson tomorrow. It was the first great overwhelming joy. There was also a first great crime. While waiting for this happy time to come he had learned to do other things, among them to throw stones. It was necessary, however, to be careful what was aimed at. The birds made tempting marks; but song-birds were sacred things, and temptation had to be resisted. One day while he played in the yard with his little sister, resentment having turned to devotion, a wren flew down to the wood pile and began its song. It happened at that very moment he had a stone in his hand. He didn't quite have time to think before the stone was gone and the bird dropped dead. Dumb with

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior 35

horror the two gazed at each other. Beyond doubt all he could now expect was to go straight to torment. After one long look they turned and walked silently away in opposite directions. Never afterwards did they mention the incident to each other. A new life began for him with his trapping. He learned to fish as well, for besides being a hunter, his father was an angler of State-wide reputation. The days on which his father accompanied him along the banks of the St Joe, or to some more distant stream, were very specially happy ones. His cup was filled quite full when, on the day he was twelve years old, a rifle all his own was placed in his hands. Father and son then hunted together. While thus growing intimate with the living things of the woods and streams, his question was not so much "What?" as "Why?" As reading came to take a larger part in life and interest to reach out to human beings, again his question was "Why?" So when other heroes took their places beside his father for their share of homage, they were loved and honoured for that which prompted their achievements more than for the deeds themselves. Passionately fond of history, with its natural accompaniment geography, he revelled, as does every normal boy, in stories of the wars, Indian stories and tales of travel and adventure. His imagination kindled by what he had read, and the oft-repeated tales of frontier life in which the courage, endurance, and high honour of his own pioneer forefathers stood out strong and clear, it was but natural that the boy under the apple trees should feel romance in every bit of forest, every stream; that his thoughts should be reaching towards the out-of-the-way places of the earth where life was still that of the pioneer with the untamed wilderness lying across his path, and on into the wilderness itself. Though born with all the instincts of the hunter, he was born also with an exquisitely tender and sympathetic nature, which made him do strange things for a boy. One day a toad hopped into the beeyard and his father was about to kill it. The boy petitioned for its life and carried it away. It came back. Again it was carried away. Again it returned and this time was taken clear to the river. Once a much loved aunt came to visit at his home bringing the little sister a beautiful, new doll. That night she trotted off to bed hugging the new treasure close. The boy did not love dolls; but when he saw the old, rag baby left lonely and forsaken he quietly picked it up and carried it to bed with him. Years afterwards, when on a canoe trip on the Moose River, a disconsolate looking little Indian dog came and sat shyly watching us while we broke camp.2 We learned that the Indian owners had gone to the bush leaving him to fare as he might through the coming winter. When our canoe pushed out into the river

36 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

On into the Wilderness

there was an extra passenger. We brought him home to Congers,3 where he immediately carried consternation into the neighbouring chicken yards, convinced that he had found the finest partridge country on earth. When sixteen the boy went to attend the Angola (Indiana) Normal School. Here his decision for Christ was made. He was baptized and united with the Church of Christ.4 Three years later his teaching took him to Northern Michigan where he found a wider range than he had yet known, and in the great pine forests of that country he did his first real exploring. Here were clear, cold streams with their trout and grayling, and here, when his work admitted, he hunted and fished and dreamed out his plans, his thoughts turning ever more insistently to the big, outside world where his heroes did their work.

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior

37

He entered the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, in 1893. High strung and sensitive, with a driving energy and ambition to have part in the larger work of the world, he suffered during the early part of his course all the agonies that come to those of such a nature while they grope in the dark for that which they are fitted to do. He reached out in many directions in his effort to provide the needful money to enable him to take his course, but without a sense of special fitness in any. It came, however, with his earliest attempts in journalistic work. The discovery, with its measure of self-recognition, brought a thrill that compensated for all the dark hours. He now felt assured of success. His life in the University was one of varied and unceasing activity. In his studies history, literature, psychology claimed his special interest. He was an enthusiast in athletics, and found his field in running and boxing. The contest was as the wine of life to him. He was active in the literary and debating societies, and prominent in the Student's Christian Association, attending and taking part in the work of the local branch of the Church of Christ. His first newspaper work was done as an amateur on the college press. Then came assignments from the local dailies and correspondence for the Detroit papers. He possessed the "news sense" to an unusual degree, delighting to take "beats" from under the very feet of his brother reporters. In 1897 while he was still in Ann Arbor, just before Dr James B. Angell, President of the University, left on his mission to Turkey, a telegram came from a Detroit evening paper directing him to see Dr Angell and ask why he had changed his date of sailing. Dr Angell was not in the habit of telling reporters what he did not wish them to know, and when asked the question replied: "Haven't a word to say. I really don't know anything new at all." Then with a smile, which he fondly believed to be inscrutable, he remarked: "Why, I don't even know whether I'll go to Turkey or not." A few minutes later those last words of the President were reported over the wires, without the sarcasm and without the smile. That very evening, in big headlines on the first page, it was announced that there was some hitch, and that President Angell might not go as Minister to the Court of the Sultan. The correspondents of the morning papers hastened to see President Angell, who insisted that if he had made such a remark it was in fun. But it was unavailing. The despatch had stirred up the officials in Washington, and the morning papers that printed the President's explanation printed over it the official statement, that the Porte was objecting to Dr Angell, on account of his close relationship with the Congregational Missionary Board. After his graduation in 1897, he took a position on the staff of a Detroit evening paper. Much of the two years of his newspaper work there was spent in Lansing

38 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

covering State politics. In this line of work lay his chief interest, though he by no means confined himself to it. His work made it possible for him to indulge his bent for dipping into the byways of human life. Utterly fearless, resolute, persistent, there was yet in his manner a beautiful simplicity, a gentleness and interest that rarely failed to disarm and win admission where he desired to enter. Added to this equipment were a fine sense of humour, a subtle sympathy, and a passionate tenderness for any one or anything lonely or neglected or in trouble. So, as only the few do, he learned "Why." Here, amidst the struggles and temptations, the joys and disappointments, the successes and mistakes of his busy life, one hero rose surely to a place above all others, a place that was never usurped - "the man, Christ Jesus," worshipped in the years that were left, not only as the Redeemer of the world, but as his ideal hero. This was his manliest man, so grandly strong and brave, yet so inexpressibly sweet-spirited and gentle, with a great human heart that, understanding so wholly, was yet so little understood; that in the midst of overwhelming work and care and loneliness hungered for human love and sympathy, giving so generously of its own great store, receiving so little in return. Here he found the strong purpose, the indomitable will, the courage that, accepting the hard things in life, could yet go unfalteringly forward, to the accomplishment of a great work, even though there was ever before Him the consciousness that at the end must come the great sacrifice. In 1899 he decided to launch out into the wider field, which journalistic work in the East offered, and in the summer of that year he came to New York. Many were the predictions of brother reporters and friends that he would starve in the great city. It was a struggle. He knew no one, had letters to no one, but that was rather as he wished it than otherwise. He liked to test his own fitness. It meant risk, but he knew his own capabilities and believed in his own resourcefulness. He had thoroughly convinced himself that the men who achieve are those who do what other men are afraid to do. The difficulty would be to get an opening. That done, he had no fear of what would follow. He began his quest with a capital of less than five dollars. There were many disappointments, much weariness, and a long fast which came near to persuading him that his friends' predictions were perhaps about to be fulfilled. But he got his opening. Staggering with weakness, he had lived for two days in momentary dread of arrest for drunkenness. Then just when it seemed that he could go no farther, a former acquaintance from the West, of whose presence in the city he was unaware, met him. Among the first questions was: "Do you need money?" and forthwith a generous fifteen dollars was placed in his hand. That day one of his

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior 39

special stories was accepted, and only a few days later he was taken on the staff of the Daily News, where soon the best assignments of the paper were given him. "Do you know why you are getting the best work to do here?" asked one of the new friends. "Why?" "It's because your white."* This position he retained until May of the following year, meantime contributing to the editorial page of The Saturday Evening Post. Then an attack of typhoid lost him his position; but he had made loyal friends, who delighted to come to his aid. Something of the quality of his own loyalty is expressed in an entry in his diary shortly after leaving the hospital. "Many good lessons in human nature. Learned much about who are the real friends, who may be trusted to a finish, who are not quitters, but it shall not be written." During the period of his convalescence which he spent among the Shawangunk Mountains of Sullivan County, New York, he decided that if it were possible he would not go back to newspaper work. A friend had sent him a letter of introduction to the editor of Outing, which in August he presented, and was asked to bring in an article on the preservation of the Adirondack Park as a national playground. The article proved acceptable, and thenceforth most of his work was done for that magazine. In September he wrote his friend, Mr James A. Le Roy. "My Dear Jim, - I think that regardless of your frightful neglect I shall be obliged to write another note expressing sense of under-obligationness to you for that letter. It is the best thing I've run up against so to speak. As a result of it I am to have the pleasure of hastening Detroitward. There I shall register at the — House. I shall sit in the window with my feet higher than my head, and wear a one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-week air of nonchalance. When the festive Detroit reporter shys past looking hungrily at the cafe, I'll look at my watch with a wonder-if-its-time-to-dress-for-dinner air and fill his soul with envy. This has been the dream that has haunted me ever since those childhood days when you and I ate at Spaghetti's and then went to the —House to talk it over. I shall carry out the dire scheme and then - well, then, if Fate says for me to hustle across the Great Divide, I'll go with the feeling that life has not been in vain."

Later, January 14th of the following year, to the same friend, who was then in Manila as secretary to Dean Worcester. "You may think it wondrous strange that I should be here in Canada in mid-winter when I could as well be south. There is a mystery, and since you are on the other side of the

Generous and wholly honourable.

40 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador world I don't mind telling. I am here on a filibustering expedition. I made a firm resolution some months ago that a certain portion of Canada should be annexed to the United States. I am here fostering annexation sentiment, and have succeeded so well that the consent is unanimous, and the annexation will occur just as soon as L.H., junior, is able to pay board for two, which will probably be a matter of a few weeks. So don't be surprised if you receive a square envelope containing an announcement which reads something like this: Mr and Mrs —

Of Bewdley, Ontario, announce the — of their daughter to

Mr Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.

On his return to New York, a short time later, he was assigned a trip through the Southern States. Hence a telegram, on January 29th, to a quiet Canadian town.5 On January 31st a quiet wedding in a little church in New York, and then five months in the mountains of Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and among the forests and cotton plantations of Mississippi. Besides the work done for the magazine on this trip, he gave the Atlantic Monthly two articles, "The Moonshiner at Home," and "Barataria: The Ruins of a Pirate Kingdom." During the fall, winter and early spring, our home was in Wurtsboro, Sullivan County, New York, a quaint old village in the beautiful Mamakating valley. Here he hunted and fished and worked. February found him on a snow-shoe trip in Northern Quebec with the Montagnais Indian trappers, the outcome of which was his "Children of the Bush."6 On April ist, 1902, he entered the office as assistant editor of Outing. Here was a new field and another opportunity for testing his fitness. He threw himself into the work with characteristic energy and enthusiasm, and his influence on the magazine was marked from the first. He soon succeeded in projecting into it something of his own passionately human personality. In the fall of that year a noted angler commented to him on the change in it and his responsibility. "When a big salmon comes to the top, there is a great swirl on the water. You don't see the salmon, but you know he is there," he said. Office work left little time for writing; but in the early autumn of that year a vacation trip to the north shore of Lake Superior gave him two articles, "Where Romance Lingers," and "Off-Days on Superior's North Shore."7 In January 1903 the trip to Labrador was decided on, and his preparation for it begun. Before the winter was over his plans were made. On May 13th it was ar-

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior 41

Where Romance Lingers

ranged with the magazine that it should go as an Outing expedition. The preparations held for him the many difficulties and trials common to such undertakings, but also, perhaps, more than the usual pleasures. The big map of Labrador looked back from the wall of the little study in Congers. We stood before it a long time discussing plans and possibilities. Then an eager, happy face was turned to me as he told how he would write the story and how he would have grown when he came home again. On June zoth he sailed from New York with his little party.8 In January following came that short message, "Mr Hubbard died October 18th in the interior of Labrador."9 In March were received the letters containing that final record of his life, which took from the hearts of those who loved him best the intolerable bitterness, because it told that he had not only dreamed his dream - he had attained his Vision. It was a short, full life journey, and a joyous, undaunted heart that traversed it. Almost the most beautiful of its attributes was the joyousness.

42 A Woman s Way Through Unknown Labrador

He was "glad of Life because it gave him a chance to love and to work and to play." He never failed to "look up at the stars." He thought "every day of Christ."10 Sometimes towards evening in dreary November, when the clouds hang heavy and low, covering all the sky, and the hills are solemn and sombre, and the wind is cold, and the lake black and sullen, a break in the dark veil lets through a splash of glorious sunshine. It is so very beautiful as it falls into the gloom that your breath draws in quick and you watch it with a thrill. Then you see that it moves towards you. All at once you are in the midst of it, it is falling round you and seems to have paused as if it meant to stay with you and go no farther. While you revel in this wonderful light that has stopped to enfold you, suddenly it is not falling round you any more, and you see it moving steadily on again, out over the marsh with its bordering evergreens, touching with beauty every place it falls upon, forward up the valley, unwavering, without pause, till you are holding your breath as it begins to climb the hills away yonder. It is gone. The smoke blue clouds hang lower and heavier, the hills stand more grimly solemn and sombre, the wind is cold, the lake darker and more sullen, and the beauty has gone out of the marsh. Then - then it is night. But you do not forget the Light. You know it still shines - somewhere.

CHAPTER II

Slipping Away into the Wilderness

IT was on the 15th of July, 1903, that Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., my husband, with two companions, set out for Northwest River post, near the head of Lake Melville, for a canoe trip into the interior of Labrador, which he hoped would not only afford him an interesting wilderness experience but also an opportunity to explore and map one, and perhaps two, large rivers, the Northwest River draining Lake Michikamau to Lake Melville, and the George River draining the northern slope of the plateau to Ungava Bay. Misled by information obtained at the post, which corresponded with the indications of the map he carried, that of the Geological Survey of Canada, Mr Hubbard took the Susan River, which enters Grand Lake at the head of a bay five miles from its western end. The Susan River led them, not by an open waterway to Lake Michikamau, but up to the edge of the plateau, where they became lost in the maze of its lakes. When within sight of the great lake the party was forced to begin a retreat, which Mr Hubbard did not survive to complete. He died in the far interior, and the object of his expedition was not achieved. It seemed to me fit that my husband's name should reap the fruits of service which had cost him so much, and in the summer of 1905 I myself undertook the conduct of the second Hubbard Expedition, and, with the advantage of the information and experience obtained by the first, a larger crew and a three weeks' earlier start, successfully completed the work undertaken two years before. My decision to undertake the completion of my husband's work was taken one day in January of 1905.1 That evening I began making my plans and preparations for the journey. Towards the end of May they were completed, and on the evening of the 16th of June I sailed from Halifax for the Labrador, arriving at Northwest River post, the real starting-point of my journey, on Sunday morning, June 25th. It was with characteristic courtesy and hospitality that M. Duclos,2 who was in charge of the French trading post, placed himself and his house at my service,

44 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

and our coming was celebrated by a dinner of wild goose, plum pudding, and coffee. After the voyage from Halifax it seemed good to rest a while with the firm earth under foot, and where the walls of one's habitation were still. Through the open windows came the fragrance of the spruce woods, and from the little piazza in front of the house you could look down and across Lake Melville, and away to the blue mountains beyond, where the snow was still lying in white masses. The settlement at Northwest River consists mainly of the two trading posts, the French post with its three buildings - the house, store and oil house - on the right bank of the river, close to its discharge into Lake Melville, and higher up on the opposite shore the line of low, white buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company post. A few tiny planters' homes complete the sum total of its greatness. Monday morning the work of preparation for departure into the wilderness began. My crew numbered four, chief among whom was George Elson, who had loyally served Mr Hubbard in 1903, and who, with rare skill and rarer devotion, had recovered Mr Hubbard's body and his photographic material from the interior in the depths of the following winter.3 The other two men were Joseph Iserhoff, a Russian half-breed, and Job Chapies, a pure blood Cree Indian.4 These three men were expert hunters and canoemen, having been born and brought up in the James Bay country, and they came to me from Missanabie some 700 miles west of Montreal.5 The fourth was Gilbert Blake, a half-breed Eskimo boy trapper, one of the two young lads of the rescue party George Elson had sent back two years before, when his heroic, but unsuccessful, efforts to save Mr Hubbard's life had brought him to Donald Blake's house.6 Through the courtesy of M. Duclos, in whose service he was employed at the time of my arrival, he was released that he might go with me. The men were splendid, capable-looking fellows, with an air of quiet dignity and self-possession about them, which comes from conscious ability and character. Gilbert was a bright-faced, merry-hearted boy, with a reputation for being a willing worker, which he fully lived up to on the journey. All seemed thoroughly to enjoy the prospect of the trip, and their assurance greatly added to my ease of mind. A deeper touch of anxiety was added for me by information obtained at Rigolette to the effect that the Hudson's Bay Company's steamer, Pelican, my only means of return to civilisation before the closing in of winter, would be at the post at Ungava, my destination, the last week in August. That left us two months to make the journey, which, at the shortest, would carry us across 550 miles of Labrador wilderness. It seemed a great deal to expect, but the men were confident and only eager to be started. The task of unpacking, rearranging, and completing my outfit was not accomplished when night came. A number of the things I had counted on procuring at the posts were not to be had - the stores being almost empty of supplies. How-

Slipping Away into the Wilderness

45

ever, M. Duclos and Mr Cotter of the Hudson's Bay Company cheerfully raided their own domiciles to supply my lack;7 substitutes were improvised, and shortly after noon on Tuesday the outfit was completed and loaded into the canoes. To my great satisfaction they were found to carry the load easily, riding well out of the water. There were two canoes, canvas covered and 19 feet long, 13 inches deep, 34 inches wide, and with each of them three paddles and a sponge. The remainder of the outfit consisted of 2 balloon-silk tents, 1 stove, 7 waterproof canvas bags, one dozen 10 Ib. waterproof balloon-silk bags, 3 tarpaulins, 392 Ibs. of flour, 4 Ibs. baking powder, 15 Ibs. rice, 20 cans standard emergency rations, 12 Ibs. tea, 12 Ibs. chocolate, 60 Ibs. sugar, 20 Ibs. erbswurst, 1 oz. crystalose, 4 cans condensed milk, 4 cans condensed soup, 5 Ibs. hard tack, 200 Ibs. bacon, 14 Ibs. salt.8 There were kitchen utensils - 3 small axes, 1 crooked knife, and 2 nets. The outfit of firearms consisted of two rifles, 45-70 with 60 rounds of ammunition, and a 38-55 with 100 rounds. Each of the men had a 22 cal. lo-inch barrel, single shot pistol for partridges and other small game. Each also carried a hunting knife, a pair of light wool camp blankets, and an extra pair of "shoe-packs."9 For myself, I had a revolver, a hunting knife, and some fishing tackle; one three and a quarter by four and a quarter folding pocket kodak, one panoram kodak, a sextant, and artificial horizon, a barometer, a thermometer.10 I wore a short skirt over knickerbockers,11 a short sweater, and a belt to which were attached my cartridge pouch, revolver, and hunting knife. My hat was a rather narrow brimmed soft felt. I had one pair of heavy leather moccasins reaching almost to my knees, one pair of high seal-skin boots, one pair low ones, which M. Duclos had given me, and three pairs of duffel.12 Of underwear I had four suits and five pairs of stockings, all wool. I took also a rubber automobile shirt 13 a long, Swedish dog-skin coat, one pair leather gloves, one pair woollen gloves, and a blouse - for Sundays. For my tent I had an air mattress, crib size, one pair light grey camp blankets, one light wool comfortable 14 weighing 31/2 Ibs., one little feather pillow, and a hot-water bottle. It was 3:15 P.M., July 27th, when the last details of preparation were completed, and we were ready to start with all Northwest River to see us off. "You will be all right, Mrs Hubbard," said Mr Cotter. "At first I did not think you could do it, but I have changed my mind. You can do it, and without any trouble too. Good-bye, and the best of success to you." The farewell wishes of M. Duclos and M. Fournier, his assistant, were not less enthusiastic. M. Duclos ran forward a little, kodak in hand, and as the canoe glided past up the river, he said: "I have ze las' picture, Madame." A few minutes' paddling carried the canoes round the point, and the two posts were lost to sight.

46 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

George Elson

It did not seem strange or unnatural to be setting out as I was on such an errand. Rather there came a sense of unspeakable relief in thus slipping away into the wilderness, with the privilege of attempting the completion of the work my husband had undertaken to do. Everything looked hopeful for my plans, and I was only glad to be really started on my way at last. Behind me in my canoe sat the trusty hero whose courage and honour and fidelity made my venture possible, and who took from my shoulders so much of the responsibility. Through George Elson I engaged and paid the other men of my party, and on him I relied to communicate to them my plans and my directions and desires. It was a perfect day. The air was clear as crystal, and the water, the greenwoods, the hills and mountains with lines and patches of white upon them, the sky with its big, soft clouds made such a combination of green and blue and silver as I had never seen except in Labrador. Before five o'clock we had passed the

Slipping Away into the Wilderness

47

rapid at the head of the three-mile stretch of river draining Grand Lake to Lake Melville, to which alone the natives give the name Northwest River, and turned into Grand Lake. The thought of Grand Lake had troubled me a little. It is forty miles long and four miles wide, and only a little wind is needed to make such a body of water impassable for loaded canoes. M. Duclos had offered his yacht to take us to the mouth of the Nascaupee River, but when we were ready to start there was not enough wind to carry her past the rapid, and we decided not to wait. On entering the lake we turned to the right and landed to put up our first sails. Soon they were caught by the light breeze and, together with the quick paddle strokes, carried the canoes at a rapid pace towards Cape Corbeau, which rose high and commanding twelve miles away.15 At 6 P.M. we landed for supper, hard tack and bacon and tea, and then as quickly as might be were on our way again. There was need to make the most of such perfect conditions for passing Grand Lake. Sunset, and we were nearing Cape Corbeau. Then came twilight which was almost more beautiful, and I sat sometimes thinking my own thoughts, sometimes listening to George and Job as they charted with each other in Indian. Ten o'clock came, and still the dip, dip, of the paddles went on. Now and again they were laid across the canoe, and the pipes came out, or the tired arms rested a little. It was not till eleven that we finally turned in to camp at Silver Pine Lodge, having made twenty-two miles of our journey. The sky was still light in the north-west. The men soon had a roaring camp fire, for it had grown cold after sunset. We had a second supper, and at 12:45 A.M. I made the last entry in my diary and went to my tent. Meanwhile, the light slowly shifted from west to east along the northern sky, but did not fade away. The men did not put up their tent, but lay beside the fire, for we meant to be up betimes and try to make the mouth of the Nascaupee River before the lake, which was already roughening a little, became impassable. At 3 A.M. George called, "All aboard." A quick breakfast, and we were started. Paddling straight towards Berry Head we passed it about six o'clock, and by 8 A.M. were safe on the Nascaupee River, where the winds could not greatly trouble us. The sand-hills stand about the wide-mouthed bay into which the river flows, and many little wooded islands lie at its head, and in the river's mouth, which is entirely obscured by them, so that it is not until you are close upon them that the river can be seen. For a mile we threaded our way among these islands and found ourselves at the mouth of the Crooked River where it enters the Nascaupee on the north. The two river courses lie near together for some distance, separated only by a sandy plateau, in places little more than a mile wide.

48 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

At 10 A.M. we halted for lunch, and after the meal the men lay down in the willows to sleep. I tried to sleep too, but could not. The Susan River had been so rough and hard to travel, and this river was so big, and deep, and fine. The thought of what missing it two years before had cost would not be shut out. After a bite, at 3 P.M. we were off again, and had gone only a little way when George exclaimed, "Who's that? Why, it's a bear." On the farther side of the river walking along the hill was a huge black bear. I had never before seen one anywhere but in the Zoo, and the sight of this big fellow enjoying the freedom of his native country gave me quite a new sensation. At first we decided not to molest him. A full supply of provisions made it unnecessary to secure game now, and at this time of the year the skin would be of no value. The men sent a few rifle shots in his direction, though not with any thought of their hitting him. They had the effect of making him quicken his pace, however, and the trail took him up to the top of the hill where, as he went leisurely along, his big form clearly outlined against the sky, he proved too great a temptation. Suddenly the canoe shot out across the river, and on the other shore ran into the mouth of a little stream at the foot of a big sand-hill. Job hurried off with the rifle, and George and I followed as I was able. We had to cross a broad belt of tangled willows, and to know what that means, one must do it; but the prospect of at least getting on the edge of a bear chase is great inducement when once you become a little excited, and I scrambled through. The hill was steep and thickly strewn with windfalls about which the new growth had sprung up. Its top was like the thin edge of a wedge, and the farther side dropped, a steep sand-bank, to the stream which flowed at its foot. When we were hardly more than half-way up, there was the sound of a shot and a funny, little, shrill cry from Job. Bruin had been climbing the sand-bank, and was nearly at the top when Job fired. The bullet evidently struck him for, doubling up, his head between his legs, he rolled over and over to the foot of the bank. When I reached the top of the hill he was on his feet again and running down along the edge of the stream. There had been only one cartridge in the rifle, and Job rushed down the hill to the canoe for more. Joe and Gilbert had crossed the river meantime and were landing near our canoe. The stream turned abruptly round the foot of the hill close to them, and I wondered what would happen when Bruin appeared suddenly round the bend. Evidently Bruin had the best eyes - or nose - for, on coming to the bend, he turned suddenly and started back up-stream; but again changing his mind he made up over the hill where we had first seen him. I was still panting and trembling with the exertion of my climb, but I took out my revolver and sent a few shots after him. It was hardly needful to say they did not hurt the bear. When Job and Gilbert came up with the rifles to where we were standing he was just disap-

Slipping Away into the Wilderness

49

Job

pearing over the top of the hill, having apparently been little injured, and so the chase was not followed up. Our camp that night was on a high sand-bank on the north shore of the river. The place chosen looked rough and unpromising to me, for the ground was thickly strewn with windfalls. All this part of the country had been burned over many years ago, and was very desolate looking. The men, however, pronounced the place Ma-losh-an! Ma-losh-an! (fine! fine!) and in less than an hour the tents were pitched and made comfortable.16 New experiences seemed to be coming thick and fast, for we had supper of porcupine down on the rocks at the shore. I did not like it. I used my air mattress that night, building it up at the head with my dunnage bag 17 and at the foot with boughs. My hot-water bottle was also called into requisition, for it was cold. They were both better than I had hoped, and I slept as comfortably as if in the most luxurious apartment.

CHAPTER III

Climbing the Rapids

THE call "All aboard," came at about six o'clock on Thursday morning. We had breakfast, and started at 8 A.M. A cold north-west wind was blowing, and an occasional light shower fell. The sand-hills on either side of the river grew higher as we went up, with always the willows along the water edge. Miles ahead we could see Mounts Sawyer and Elizabeth rising blue and fine above the other hills,1 and thus standing up from the desolation of the burnt lands all about; they came as a foreword of what was awaiting us farther on. Not far from camp we took another porcupine. There were beaver signs too, willows cut off and floating down-stream along the shore. Leaning over Job picked one up and handed it back to me to show me how cleverly they do their work. A rabbit ran up from the water edge. Now it was a muskrat lying in among the willows. He was evidently trying to decide which way to go, and in a moment or two began swimming straight towards the pistols that were being loaded for him. I was a little startled and exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter with him? Is he hurt?" Whereupon the men laughed so heartily that the rat almost escaped. I did not understand that it was the swift current which was carrying him against his will directly towards us, and could only think that he must have been sick, or hurt perhaps, to make him do so strange a thing. From that time forward, "What's the matter with him? Is he hurt?" became a byword in camp. Thirteen miles above Grand Lake we reached the portage route by which the Indians avoid the roughest part of the river.2 It leads out on the north bank opposite the mouth of the Red Wine River, passing up to the higher country, through a chain of lakes, and entering the river again at Seal Lake.3 By this route the Indians reach Seal Lake from Northwest River in less than two weeks, taking just twenty-one days to make the journey through to Lake Michikamau. The trappers told us that, going by the river, it would take a month to reach Seal Lake. I wished very much to keep to the river route, because Mr Hubbard would have had to do so had he not missed the way, there being no Indians with-

Climbing the Rapids 51

in reach, at the time he made his journey, from whom he could obtain information. Yet our time was short. From an Indian, whom we found at Northwest River, I had a map of the portage; but it was crude, and we should not be able to make the trip as quickly as the Indians even at best. It was quite possible that a good deal of time might have to be spent looking for the trail, for it was old and would not be easily found. It was hard to decide what was best to do. Going ashore the men hastily examined the trail. The council which followed resulted in a decision to keep to the river. The work would be harder, but we should probably make as good progress and reach Seal Lake as soon as by going through the lakes. Above this point the river swings more to the north and the current grows swifter as you ascend. A little before noon we landed at Point Lucie, a high, sandy point, which stands out into the river at the foot of the first rapid.4 Here the trappers leave their boats and make no attempt to take canoes farther up, but portage their provisions and traps the remaining forty miles to Seal Lake. It seemed quite thrilling to have arrived at the wonderful rapids I had heard so much about. It made me tremble a little to think of sometimes being on them in a canoe, for there was so much water, and the river looked so big. Below Point Lucie a broad bed of loose rocks reached high up at its foot, and in the curve of the point were great sand and gravel-covered hummocks of ice.5 For some distance below us the farther and right bank of the river was lined with huge ice-banks, still ten and twelve feet thick, which extended up almost to where the river came pouring out from the foot of Mount Sawyer, in a leaping, foaming torrent.6 At this point the river spread out over a bed of loose rocks about half a mile wide, which broke the water into channels, the widest, deepest, and swiftest of which flowed along the farther shore. The smaller and shallower ones curved into the bay above Point Lucie. A short distance above us several of these united, and from there the water was deep and swift and poured around Point Lucie with tremendous force. Around the curve of the bay and stranded in the river-bed were more ice-banks. While George, Joe, and Gilbert were busy preparing lunch Job disappeared into the woods. Some time later he came back with four stout dry poles. They were about nine feet long and two and a half inches in diameter at the lower end. After lunch the work of shaving and shoeing them began, and the crooked knife came into use. It was fine to watch Job's quick, deft strokes as he made them ready. The "shods" George had brought from Missanabie. These were made at Moose Factory, and were the kind used throughout the James Bay country. They were hollow cone-shaped pieces of iron a quarter of an inch thick and open down one side, so that they might not break with the strain. They were four

52 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Making Canoe Poles

inches long, rounded and solid at the small end, and on either side, about an inch from the top, was a hole to admit the nail which fastened the pole in place. When finished they looked as if meant for heavy work. All being now ready to proceed George said: "We will get in around the point, Mrs Hubbard." I wondered why, and concluded it must be because the water was so swift at the point. I still wondered why George did not stay to help Job; for as all their

Climbing the Rapids 53

conversations were carried on in Indian, I was in darkness as to what was to happen. In silence I waited for developments. A little distance above the point, near where the water was deeper and not so swift, I looked back, and to my astonishment I saw Job poling the canoe through the swift water alone. But this was mild surprise compared with what was awaiting me. We were soon in the canoe, and for nearly half a mile they poled up the swift current. The water was deep, and sometimes they bent over the poles till their hands dipped into the water. It seemed as if they must certainly fall overboard. I expected every minute to find myself perforce taking a header into the deep water. Sometimes we brushed the edge of a big ice-bank. The moment the poles were lifted the canoe stopped its forward movement, and if they were not quickly set again it began to slip back with the current. At last the water became too shallow and rough and we went ashore. Here the portaging began, and I climbed up over the ice-banks and walked along the shore. Even while ice and snow lingered, the flowers were beginning to bloom, and I found two tiny blue violets. On reaching the deepest part of the bay I turned to look back. Job was bringing one of the canoes up the rapid with two full portage loads in it. I could scarcely believe what I saw, and ran eagerly down to secure a photograph of this wonderful feat. But my powers of astonishment reached their limit when later I saw him calmly bringing the canoe round the bend at the foot of Mount Sawyer and up into the narrower part of the river. Now I was not alone in my wonder. Both George and Joe watched with interest equal to mine, for even they had never seen a canoeman pole in water so rough. Job looked as if in his element. The wilder the rapid the more he seemed to enjoy it. He would stand in the stern of the canoe, right foot back, left forward with leg against the thwart, with set pole holding it steady in the rushing, roaring water while he looked the way over, choosing out his course. Then he would move the canoe forward again, twisting its nose now this way, now that, in the most marvellous fashion, and when he drove it into the rush of water pouring round a big rock the pole would bend and tremble with the weight and strain he put upon it. Sometimes I could hardly breathe while watching him. After taking one canoe some distance above the bend he went back for the second, and all the remainder of the afternoon Job climbed hills of water in the canoes. That evening our camp was again on top of a high bank thirty feet or more above the river. Joe and Gilbert put up the tents, while down at our camp fire at the shore George made the bannocks and Job skinned, dressed, and cooked the porcupine. When it grew so dark that I could not see to write I went to help cook bannocks. It seemed good to be near the fire too, for it was growing cold. George and Job chatted merrily in Indian, Job evidently as fond of fun as George. The fun suddenly came to an end, however, when Gilbert came down to say that the

54 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

tube of my bed-pump was missing. It was too true. The thing was not to be found anywhere. It had been dropped when the stuff was handed down the bank in the morning. It seemed a quite serious matter to me, knowing as I did from past experience that I cannot sleep on the ground long without growing very tired, when I lose my nerve and am afraid to do anything. I did not like to think of the possibility of either growing desperate and wanting to turn back or breaking down under the strain of going on. Some one would have to go back for the tube, and time was precious now. It would be trying to lose a day. While I sat rather disconsolate considering the situation, George conceived the brilliant idea of having Gilbert turn himself into an air-pump, which he did quite cheerfully, and very soon my bed was as tight and firm as need be, and peace reigned again. When at last we assembled for supper it was nearly 10 P.M., and the stars were coming out over Mount Sawyer. The meal was a quiet one, for all were tired, and well content to listen in silence to the music of the river, as softly the night-gloom gathered unto itself the wilderness.

CHAPTER IV

Disaster Which Threatened Defeat

FRIDAY morning was warm and bright. It seemed wonderful to be having so much fine weather in Labrador, and not a fly or mosquito as yet. The one nuisance we had met was mice or lemmings. They had been busy with my hat in the night, and when I came to put it on that morning I found there was a hole eaten in the crown and a meal or two taken out of the brim. There seemed to be thousands of them, and they ran squealing about everywhere, great fat fellows, some of them as big as grey squirrels. The ground was so perforated with their holes that it reminded one of a porous plaster. While the outfit was being brought up I walked along the shore watching the rapids. The men did not like to see me go near the river at all except when in the canoe, and warned me against going to the rapids. I promised to be careful, but not to keep away altogether, for they grew more and more fascinating. I wanted to be near them and watch them all the time. They were so strong, so irresistible. They rushed on so fast, and nothing could stop them. They would find a way over or around every obstacle that might be placed before them. It made one wish that it were possible to join them and share in their strength. About a mile above camp I stepped over on a great boulder close to where they were very heavy. The rock seemed large enough so that I could scarcely fall off if I tried; but when the men came up George said: "Mrs Hubbard, you must not do that." "Why?" "You will get dizzy and fall in." "But I do not get dizzy." "Maybe you think you will not. It is all right when you are looking at the rapid, but it is when you turn that you will fall. It is very dangerous. If you are going to do that we will just turn round and go back to Northwest River." That settled the matter. The river here became impracticable, and Job went forward to hunt out the trail. The sandhills at this point stood back a little from the river. The low-lying

56 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

A Study in Rapids

land between was thickly wooded, but up on the hills the walking was good. So the trail was cut straight up the bank which was eighty feet high and very steep. If any one supposes that cutting a trail means making a nice, smooth little path through the woods, let him revise his ideas. The hill-side was a network of new growth and windfalls. Now and again I made the mistake of calling them deadfalls. Certainly all women, and perhaps a few men, would think the mistake pardonable could they see the trail which led straight over the tangled heaps of fallen tree-trunks. I watched the men carrying the canoes and their heavy loads over these with wonder almost equal to that with which I had looked at Job's work in the rapids. The outfit made about four loads each for them, and when it was all safe on top of the hill, Joe sat down trembling like a leaf. George looked a bit shaky, and Gilbert very hot and tired. Joe said: "In a week George and I will be hardened up so that there won't be any trembling." Job said: "Always hard."

Disaster Which Threatened Defeat 57

By noon it had grown very hot. There was scarcely a stir in the air, and the sun beat down on the sand-hills in no gentle manner. The perspiration ran down the men's faces as they carried, and the flies were beginning to come. After lunch Job set up two impromptu wigwams, stringing a tarpaulin over each, and under these shelters the men rested till 4 P.M. By camping time the outfit had been moved up over the portage about a mile, and I had learned something more about what packing means. All day it had been slow, hot work, and the men were tired. I thought I would take a hand in making camp and getting supper. We had a beautiful campingplace, its only drawback being the distance from the water supply, for we were now 200 feet above the river, and some distance back from it. The ground was dry and moss covered, and the scattered spruce supplied the carpets for the tents which were soon ready for the night. There were bannocks to be made again, and I helped to cook them. It was no small surprise to find how much art there is in doing it. At first I thought I could teach the men a lot of things about cooking bannocks, but it was not long before I began to suspect that I had something to learn. They were made simply with the flour, salt, baking-powder and water, but without any shortening. This made them tough, but they carried better so. As George said: "You can throw them round, or sit on them, or jump on them, and they are just as good after you have done it as before." In cooking them a piece of the dough is taken and worked into a round lump, which is pressed flat into a frying-pan. It is then placed before the fire till the upper side of the bannock is slightly browned, when it is turned and replaced till the other side is browned. As soon as the bannock is stiff enough to stand on its edge it is taken out of the pan to make room for more, and placed before a rock near the fire, or on a pair of forked sticks until it has had time, as nearly as can be calculated, to cook half-way through. Then it is turned again and allowed to cook from the other side. In this process the possibilities in the way of burning hands and face, and of dropping the bannocks into the fire and ashes are great. I seemed to take advantage of them all, but if my efforts were not much help they certainly furnished amusement for the men. The task is a long one too, and it was nine o'clock when supper was ready. Job, who had been absent for some time, returned now with a report that three-quarters of a mile farther on we could again take the river. Despite the day's work he looked all alive with interest and energy. He loved to pole up a rapid or hunt out a trail just as an artist loves to paint. Supper over, we sat at the camp fire for a little while. The sunset light still tinged the sky back of Mount Sawyer, and from its foot came up the roar of the

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rapid. Now and again a bird's evening song came down to us from the woods on the hill above, and in the tent Joe was playing softly on the mouth organ, "Annie Laurie" and "Comin' through the Rye." After I had gone to my tent the men sang, very softly, an Indian "Paddling Song." A stream of bright sunlight on the roof of my tent roused me on Saturday morning, and mingling with the sound of the river came again that of the "Paddling Song." At breakfast all were exclaiming over the wonderful weather, George insisting that he did not believe this could be Labrador at all. That morning I was to make my maiden attempt at following a new trail, and when the last load was ready I went first to try my fortunes. The trail meant just a little snip off the bark of a young tree here, the top of a bush freshly broken there, again a little branch cut showing that the axe had been used. There was not a sign of any path. The way was not always the easiest, and sometimes not the shortest, but it was always the quickest. My heart quite swelled with pride when I reached the river at 8:30 A.M., having missed the trail but once, and having found it again with little delay. Already it had grown hot on the hills, and the mosquitoes were beginning to come, so that it was good to be back at the river again; but before the men went away for more loads I had to promise very solemnly that I would not go on the rocks by the rapids. By noon the whole outfit was at the river, we had lunch, and the men rested an hour and then we were off again. A mile of paddling and two short portages brought us to the head of what the trappers call "Three Mile Rapid." The river was very picturesque here, and in midstream were great swells which curled back like ocean breakers as the torrent of water poured over the boulders of the riverbed. I smile now remembering how I asked George if he thought I should see anything so fine as this rapid on the rest of my journey. Splendid as the rapids were, it was a great relief to reach smooth water again, though the current was still swift. Passing a bend half a mile above we came in sight of a beautiful wooded island, and saw that we had reached the edge of the burned-over country. It would be scarcely possible to convey any adequate idea of the contrast. The country had been grand with a desolate sort of grandeur softened by the sunshine and water and the beautiful skies, but now the river with its darkly-wooded hills was not only grand but was weirdly beautiful as well. When we had passed Mabelle Island1 the hills seemed to close round us and were covered with tall, pointed evergreens, so dark in colour as sometimes to seem almost black. Always these have been beautiful to me, with a mysterious kind of beauty which sends through me feelings akin to those I had when as a child I dreamed over the wonderful pictures the Frost King left in the night on the window panes. The river ahead was too rough to proceed along the south shore, and the men decided to cross. It was very fearsome looking. Through a

Disaster Which Threatened Defeat 59

narrow opening in the hills farther up, the river came pouring from between dark, perpendicular walls of the evergreen in a white, tossing rapid, widening again to one only less turbulent. A heavy cloud hung over us, throwing a deeper shade on the hills and turning the water black save for the white foam of the rapids, while down the narrow valley came a gale of hot wind like a blast from a furnace. We turned out into the river, and all paddled as if for life. The canoe danced among the swells, but in spite of our best efforts the rapid carried us swiftly down. It was a wild ride, though we reached the other shore in safety, and looking up the river I wondered what might be in store for us beyond that narrow gateway. When we passed it would the beyond prove as much like Hades as this was suggestive of it? It seemed as if there we must find ourselves within the OO mysteries. After we landed, George turned, and in mild approving tone said: "I have seen lots of men who would jump out of the canoe if we tried to take them where you have been just now." Job's quick eye had seen that the canoes could be taken through the narrows on the north shore. And when this part of the river was passed all suggestion of Hades vanished. There stretched before us Mountain Cat Lake, for beauty, a gem in its setting of hills.2 It was half a mile wide and two miles long. In the lower part were two small wooded islands, but the upper part was clear. Long spruce covered points reached out into its waters, which still flowed so swiftly that instead of paddling we poled along the shore. It was camping time when we reached the head of the lake, where the river comes down round a fine gravel point in a decided rapid. George remarked: "That would be a fine place for Sunday camp." "Then why not camp there?" I asked. "Oh, no," he replied emphatically; "that would not do at all. There would be no Sunday rest for me. I'd have to be watching you all the time to keep you away from that rapid." A little way up the river we came to another point which seemed even finer than the one at the head of the lake, and on this we made our Sunday camp. There was no noisy rapid here. On the opposite shore a long wooded hill sloped down to a point a mile above camp, round which the river came from the west. The sun was almost touching the hill-top, and below were low, gravel flats covered with fresh spring green and cut by little waterways, still as glass, and reflecting the sunset colours. In the river above us were small wooded islands, and away beyond them the blue ridges. It would have been beautiful at any time, but now in the calm evening, with the sunset light upon it, it was peculiarly so, and seemed in a special way to accord with the thought of the Sabbath rest. There was not a word spoken in reference to it, but about the men and in the way they

60 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

did their work was something which made you feel how glad they were a resting time had come. When the outfit had been landed, and the canoes drawn up on shore, George walked up the bank a little way, and there, with folded arms, stood quite still for some time looking up the river. Presently I asked: "What are you thinking, George?" "I was just thinking how proud I am of this river," he replied. It seemed luxurious on Sunday morning to be able to loiter over washing and dressing, to get into clean clothes, to read a little, and to look at the day itself. I had strained both feet the day before, and they were quite swollen, but did not hurt very much. My hands and face, too, were swollen and sore from the bites of the flies and mosquitoes. Having a rooted dislike to wearing a veil, I had deferred putting one on; but it was plain now that Labrador flies were soon to overrule all objections. When breakfast was announced at 10:30 A.M. the men had been for a swim, and appeared shaved and in clean clothes - Joe and Gilbert in white moleskin trousers. Everything was done in lazy fashion. Every one loitered. It was washing day for all, and by noon the bushes along the shore were decorated in spots in most unwonted fashion. Later, walking up the shore a little way I came upon Gilbert cutting Joe's hair. In the afternoon the men lay in the tent or on the bank under the trees reading their Bibles and singing very softly, almost as if afraid of disturbing the stillness of "the silent places," some of the fine old church hymns. A thunderstorm passed later, but it lasted only a short time, and the evening was fine. Job took a canoe and went up the river scouting. As we sat on the shore by the camp fire, after 9 P.M., and supper just ready, he came floating down again. The river carried him swiftly past us and he called "Good-bye, Good-bye." Then all at once the canoe turned and slipped in below the point. He reported the river rapid as far as he went or could see. Monday we started at 8:30 A.M., crossing to the other shore, where I walked along a bear trail on the flats, while the men brought the canoes up by poling and tracking. The morning was wonderfully clear, and millions of dewdrops glistened on the low growth. The "country," or "Indian," tea which grew in abundance was in blossom, and the air was filled with fragrance. It seemed to me the most beautiful morning we had yet had. As the river grew more and more difficult part of the outfit had to be por-taged. Two miles above camp about half a load was put into one of the canoes, and slipping the noose of a tracking line round the bow George and Gilbert went forward with it, while Job and Joe got into the canoe to pole. Had it not been for my confidence in them I should have been anxious here, for the river was very rough, and close to shore, where they would have to go, was a big rock round

Disaster Which Threatened Defeat 61

Washing-Day

which the water poured in a way that to me looked impassable. But I only thought, "They will know how to manage that," and picking up my kodaks I climbed up the bank to avoid the willows. I had just reached the top when looking round I saw the canoe turn bottom up like a flash, and both men disappeared. I stood unable to move. Almost immediately Joe came up. He had caught the tracking line and held to it. Then I saw Job appear. He had not been able to hold to the canoe. The current had swept him off, and was now carrying him down

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the river. My heart sickened at the sight, and still I could not move. Then an eddy caught him, and he went down out of sight again. Again he appeared, and this time closer to us, for the eddy had somehow thrown him in shore where the water was not so deep. He was on his back now and swimming a little, but could neither get up nor turn over. I wondered why the men stood motionless watching him. Then it dawned on me that George was holding the canoe, and I found my voice to shout: "Run, Joe." Joe's own experience had for the moment dazed him, but now he suddenly came to life. Springing forward, he waded out and caught Job's hand before he was carried into deep water again. As he felt himself safe in Joe's strong grasp, Job asked: "Where is Mrs Hubbard? Is she all right?" At first he did not seem able to get up, but when George, on reaching the canoe, turned it right side up, and to the utter astonishment of every one, it appeared that nearly the whole load was still in it - the sight revived Job. He got up and came ashore to the canoe, which was found still to contain the two tents, one rifle, my fishing-rod, the sextant, and artificial horizon, a box of bakingpowder, a box of chocolate, my sweater, three of the men's coats, and one tarpaulin. It seemed nothing less than miraculous, for the little craft had been bottom up for several minutes. During the reckoning Job heartened rapidly, and was soon making a joke of the experience, though this did not hide the fact that he had been well shaken up. For a time thankfulness at the escape of the men, and that so much of the outfit had been saved, made me oblivious of everything else. Then gradually it came to the minds of the men what was missing, but it was some time before the list was complete, and I knew that we had lost all the axes, all the frying-pans, all the extra pole-shods, one pole, one paddle, the crooked knife, two pack-straps, one sponge, one tarpaulin, my stove, and Job's hat and pipe. The loss of the axes and the pole-shods was the most serious result of the accident, and I wondered how much that would mean, but had not the courage to ask the question. I feared the men would think they could not go on without the axes. Soon they began to upbraid themselves for putting both tents and all the axes into the same canoe; but there was no mention made of turning back. All seemed only thankful that no lives were lost. While Job and Joe were changing their wet clothing, George and Gilbert, as quickly as possible, prepared lunch. Job, however, was very quiet during the meal, and ate almost nothing. Later, however, I could hear George and Joe in fits of laughter. Job was entertaining them with an account of his visit to the fishes. According to his story, he had a most wonderful time down there.

CHAPTER V

To the Bend of the River

BEYOND this point our progress was slow and difficult. There were days when we made less than two miles, and these were the discouraging days for me, because there was ever hanging over me the thought of the necessity of reaching Ungava by the last week in August - if I meant to catch the ship there. However, by poling and tracking, by lifting and dragging the canoe through the shallow waters near the shore, or again by carrying the entire outfit over the sandhills or across boulder-strewn valleys, we won gradually forward. It frightened me often to see the men take their packs where they did. Sometimes it was over a great bed of boulders, where the reindeer moss was growing.1 This moss is a delicate grey-green colour, exquisitely beautiful in form as well, and as a background for the dark spruces is wonderfully effective. We found it growing luxuriantly almost everywhere, except in the burned districts, and in places it is six inches in height. When dry, it is brittle, and may be crumbled to powder in the hands, but when wet is very much the consistency of jelly, and just as slippery. Through the wooded land the soil appeared to be simply a tangle of fallen and decayed tree-trunks grown over with thick moss of another variety, in which you sank ankle deep, while dark perilous looking holes yawned on every side, making you feel that if once you went in you might never appear again. Sometimes our way led along a fine bear trail on a sandy terrace where the wood growth was small and scattered, and where the walking was smooth, and even as that of a city street, but much softer and pleasanter. There were many bear trails through this lower Nascaupee country, though we did not again see any bears, and one might actually think the trails had been chosen with an eye to beauty. The woods were very fine, the spruces towering far above us straight as arrows. They were, many of them, splendid specimens of their kind, and one I measured was nine feet in circumference. Here and there some balsam was found among the spruces. These were true virgin forests, but their extent was limited to the narrow river valleys. Out beyond, the hill-tops rose treeless and barren.

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On the portages the outfit was taken forward by short stages, and I had a good deal of waiting to do. The men did not like to leave me alone lest I might possibly encounter a bear, and I had many warnings to keep my rifle ready, and not to leave my waiting-place. Secretly I rather hoped a bear would come along for I thought I could manage him if he did not take me unawares. Besides the interest of watching for the bear I hoped to meet, I had, while we travelled in the more open parts, the hills both up and down the river to look at, and they were very beautiful with their ever-changing colour. Mount Sawyer and Mount Elizabeth were behind us now, and away ahead were the blue ridges of hills with one high and barren, standing out above the rest, which I named Bald Mountain. 2 1 wondered much what we should find there. What we did find was a very riotous rapid and a very beautiful Sunday camp. Waiting in the lower wooded parts was not as pleasant. Once I announced my intention of setting up my fishing-rod and going down to the river to fish, while the rest of the outfit was being brought up. Sudden consternation overspread the faces of the men. In a tone of mingled alarm, disapproval, suspicion, George exclaimed: "Yes; that is just what I was afraid you would be doing. I think you had better sit right down there by the rifles. There are fresh bear tracks about here, and Job says they run down there by the river." I could not help laughing at the alarm I had created, but obediently sat down on the pile of outfit by the rifles strongly suspecting, however, that the bear tracks were invented, and that the real fear was on account of the river. It began to be somewhat irksome to be so well taken care of. The mosquitoes and flies were now coming thick and fast. I thought them very bad, but George insisted that you could not even call this a beginning. I wore a veil of black silk net, but the mesh was hardly fine enough, and the flies managed to crawl through. They would get their heads in and then kick and struggle and twist till they were all through, when they immediately proceeded to work. The men did not seem to care to put their veils on even when not at work, and I wondered how they could take the little torments so calmly. On the morning of July 6th we reached the Seal Islands expansion. Around these islands the river flows with such force and swiftness that the water can be seen to pile up in ridges in the channel. Here we found Donald Blake's tilt.3 Donald is Gilbert's brother, and in winter they trap together up the Nascaupee valley as far as Seal Lake, which lies 100 miles from Northwest River post. Often in imagination I had pictured these little havens so far in the wilderness and lonely, and now I had come to a real one. It was a tiny log building set near the edge of the river bank among the spruce trees. Around it lay a thick bed of chips, and scattered about were the skeletons of martens of last winter's catch. One had to stoop a good deal to get in at the narrow doorway. It was dark, and not now an

To the Bend of the River

65

Coming Down the Trail with Packs

attractive-looking place; yet as thought flew back to the white wilderness of a few months before, the trapper and his long, solitary journeys in the relentless cold, with at last the wolfish night closing around him, it made all different, and one realised a little how welcome must have seemed the thought and the sight of the tiny shelter. In the tilt there was no window and no floor. All the light came in through the doorway and a small hole in the roof, meant to admit the stove pipe. Hanging on the cross beams were several covered pails containing rice, beans, flour, lard, and near them a little cotton bag with a few candles in it. Thrown across a beam was a piece of deer-skin dressed for making or mending snow-shoes; and on a nail at the farther end was a little seal-skin pouch in which were found needle, thread, and a few buttons. A bunk was built into the side of the room a few feet above the

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ground, and lying in it an old tent. Beside a medley heap of other things piled there, we found a little Testament and a book of Gospel Songs. The latter the men seemed greatly pleased to find, and carried it away with them. We took the candles also, and filled one pail with lard, leaving one of the pieces of bacon in its place. Already we were regretting that we had no lard or candles with us. They had been cut out of the list when we feared the canoes would not hold all the outfit, and later I had forgotten to add them. The men were hungry for fried cakes, and the lard meant a few of these as a treat now and then. Gilbert had hoped to find an axe here, but although he hunted everywhere there was none to be found. He did, however, get his little frying-pan and a small pail which made a welcome addition to our depleted outfit. That day we portaged nearly all the afternoon. It was rough, hard walking, and occasional showers fell which made it worse. There was many a wistful glance cast across to the other shore where we could see a fine sand terrace. There the walking must be smooth and easy; but we could not cross, the rapids were too heavy. During the afternoon we found the first and only fresh caribou tracks seen in the lower Nascaupee valley. Some fish eagles, circling high above us, screamed their disapproval of our presence there. We saw one of their nests at the very top of a dead spruce stub, some sixty feet or more above the ground. This was one of the very many things on the trip which made me wish I were a man. I could have had a closer look at the nest; I think I could have taken a photograph of it too. Now and then came the sweet, plaintive song of the white-throated sparrow. Towards evening it began to rain fast, and as if with the intention of keeping at it; so George called a halt. As I sat down on a pile of outfit he opened up the men's tent, and, spreading it over me, directed me to wait there till my own was ready. George's tone of authority was sometimes amusing. Sometimes I did as I was told, and then again I did not. This time I did, and with my rifle on one side and my fishing-rod on the other, to hold the tent up, I sat and watched them making camp and building the fire. All day the mosquitoes and flies had been bad, but now the rain had coaxed them out in redoubled force, and they were dreadful. I could feel how swollen my neck and ears were, and wondered how I looked; but I was rather glad that I had no mirror with me, and so could not see. Now and then I had spoken of my suspicions as to what a remarkable spectacle I must present. George, manlike, always insisted that I looked "just right"; but that night, in an unguarded moment, he agreed with me that it was a good thing I had not brought a mirror. For the first time we went into a wet camp. It poured steadily all day Friday, and we did not attempt to go forward. I slept again after breakfast, and then did some mending, made veils, and studied a lit-

To the Bend of the River

67

On the Trail

tie. It was very cold and dismal; but the cold was always welcome, for it kept the flies and mosquitoes quiet. Our camp was on high ground, and from the open front of my tent I could look down over a steep bank thirty feet to the river, racing past with its ceaseless roar. Sometimes I wished I could reach out and stop it just for a minute, and then let it go again. I wished rainy days might not come often, though I fully expected that they would. About 3P.M. I heard a stir outside and going out found George and Gilbert making a fire. It was not so simple a matter now without the axes. The small stuff had to be broken, and then whole trees were dragged bodily to the spot and laid on to be burned off a piece at a time. When fallen stuff was scarce, standing dead trees were by hard labour pushed over and brought in. The big fire felt very good that day.

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It was not raining quite so fast now, and after dinner I sat watching George while he mended my moccasin where the mice had eaten it, and sewed the moleskin cartridge pouch to my leather belt. He finished putting the pouch on, and handed the belt back to me with a satisfied smile. Instead of taking it I only laughed at him, when he discovered he had put the pistol-holster and knifesheath on wrong side first. There was no help for it; it had to come off again, for the sheaths would not slip over either buckle or pouch. I comforted him with the assurance that it was good he should have something to do to keep him out of mischief. When the mistake had been remedied he showed me how to make a rabbit-snare. Then the rain drove me to my tent again, and I had supper there while the men made bannocks. It was horrid to eat in the tent alone. The barometer was now rising steadily, and I went to sleep with high hopes of better weather in the morning. When I woke the sun was shining on the hills across the river. How welcome the sight was! Everything was still wet though, and we did not break camp till after dinner. I did some washing and a little mending. The mice had eaten a hole in a small waterproof bag in which I carried my dishes, dish-towel, and bannock, and I mended it with some tent stuff. An electrician's tape scheme, which I had invented for mending a big rent in my rubber shirt, did not work, and so I mended that too with tent stuff. How I did hate these times of inactivity. It was one o'clock when we started forward again, and all afternoon the portaging was exceedingly rough, making it slow, hard work getting the big pile of stuff forward. To add to the difficulties, a very boisterous little river had to be bridged, and when evening came we had gone forward only a short distance. We had come to a rather open space, and here the men proposed making camp. Great smooth-worn boulders lay strewn about as if flung at random from some giant hand. A dry, black, leaflike substance patched their surfaces, and this George told me is the wakwanapsk which the Indians in their extremity of hunger use for broth.4 Though black and leaflike when mature, it is, in its beginning, like a disk of tiny round green spots, and from this it gets its name. Wakwuk - fish roe; wanapisk - a rock. It was a very rough place, very desolate looking, and far from the river. It made me shudder to think of spending Sunday there. So the men were persuaded to try to reach the head of the rapid, which was three-quarters of a mile farther on, taking forward only the camp stuff. We were now travelling along the foot of Bald Mountain seen from the hill on Monday, and passing what is known by the trappers as North Pole Rapid, which was the wildest of the rapids so far. The travelling was still rough, and the men were in a hurry. I could not keep up at all. George wanted to carry my rifle for me, but I would not let him. I was not pleased with him just then.5

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69

We reached the head of the rapid, and it was beautiful there. A long terrace stretched away for miles ahead. It was thinly wooded, as they all were, with spruce and a few poplars, smooth, dry, and mossy, and thirty feet below us was the river with North Pole Brook coming in on the other side. It was an ideal place for Sunday camp. Though it rained hard through the night the morning was beautiful, and again I breathed a little sigh of thankfulness that we were not in the other desolate place farther back. The day would have been a very restful one had it not been for the flies which steadily increased in numbers, coaxed back to life and activity by the warm sunshine. I wanted very much to climb the mountain behind our camp in the afternoon, but I could not go alone, and the men were taking a much needed rest. So I wandered about watching the hills and the river for a while, took a few photographs, and lay in the tent. Towards evening the flies swarmed over its fly front getting in in numbers - one could not tell where or how. Still they were nothing inside to what they were outside. At supper I hated to put up my veil. They were so thick I could hardly eat. Finally George came to the rescue, and waving a bag round my head kept them off till I finished my meal. While we were at supper Job walked silently into camp with a rifle under his arm. He had a way of quietly disappearing. You did not know anything about it till you found he was not there. Then suddenly he would appear again, his eyes shining. He had wonderfully fine eyes, so bright that they startled me sometimes. Full of energy, quick, clever, he went straight to the point in his work always without the slightest hesitation. When you saw these men in the bush you needed no further explanation of their air of quiet self-confidence. Job had been up as far as the bend of the river where we were to leave the Nascaupee for the trappers' cross country route to Seal Lake. A little above this bend the Nascaupee becomes impassable. It was three miles away, but Job reported, "Fine portage all the way to brook." It was just four next morning when I heard voices at the other tent. Then all was quiet again. At six the men went past with their loads. They had brought up the outfit that was left behind on Saturday. The day was fine, and we made good progress. George said; "Oh, it's just fun with this kind of portaging." It was nevertheless hot, hard work. I felt resentful when I looked at the river. It was smooth, and appeared altogether innocent of any extraordinary behaviour; yet for the whole three miles above North Pole Rapid it flowed without a bend so swift and deep that nothing could be done on it in the canoes. All day the flies were fearful. For the first time George admitted that so far as flies were concerned it began to seem like Labrador. We ate lunch with smudges burning on every side, and the fire in the middle.6 I was willing that day almost

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Joe

to choke with smoke to escape flies; but there was no escape. In spite of the smudges there were twenty dead flies on my plate when I had finished lunch, to say nothing of those lying dead on my dress of the large number I had killed. I had to stop caring about seeing them in the food; I took out what could be seen, but did not let my mind dwell on the probability of there being some I did not see. When drinking, even while the cup was held to my lips, they flew into it as if determined to die. Their energy was unbounded, and compelled admiration even while they tortured me. How the men endured them without veils and without words I could not understand. For more than two miles above our camp we kept to a fine bear trail. The walking could not have been better, and was in sharp contrast with what the trail had

To the Bend of the River 71

led us over for the last few days. Then we turned to the right and climbed to another plain above, beyond which rose the mountain. A bear trail led along the edge of the terrace, and while the men carried I waited hopefully rifle in hand. Ever since our bear chase back near Grand Lake my imagination turned every black spot I saw on the hills into a bear, to the great amusement of the men. But no bear appeared. Soon mist gathered on the hills, and the specks on the plain below began to move faster and grow larger. Job led the way with a canoe. He stopped to rest at the foot of the bank, while George came past and up to the top at great speed. "The showers are coming. We shall have to hurry or you will get wet," he said. Every day my admiration and respect for the men grew. They were gentle and considerate, not only of me, but of each other as well. They had jolly good times together, and withal were most efficient. Gilbert was proving a great worker, and enjoyed himself much with the men. He was just a merry, happy-hearted boy. Joe was quiet and thoughtful, with a low, rather musical voice, and a pretty, soft Scotch accent for all his Russian name. He spoke English quite easily and well. Job did not say much in English. He was reserved where I was concerned. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but I did not dare. George was always the gentle, fun-loving, sunny-tempered man my husband had admired. Our camp was perhaps 100 feet above the river which here came down from the north-east round the foot of Bald Mountain, and less than half a mile below us bent away to the south-east. At the bend a tributary stream came in from the north-west to merge itself in the stronger tide, and together they flowed straight on at the foot of a long, dark-wooded ridge. Here at this stream our portage route led out from the river. When the showers had passed we had supper, and as we sat at our meal the sun came out again, throwing a golden glow over all. Clouds lay like delicate veils along the hill-sides, sometimes dipping almost to their feet. Walking back along the edge of the terrace I watched till they gathered thick again and darkness came down over all. It was very wild and beautiful, but as an exquisite, loved form from which the spirit had fled. The sense of life, of mystery, and magic seemed gone, and I wondered if the time could come when beauty would cease to give me pain. When I returned to camp the men had gone to their tent. A tiny fire was still burning, and I sat watching it till the rain came and drove me to my little shelter again.

CHAPTER VI

Cross Country to Seal Lake Waters

IT was still raining Tuesday morning, and camp was not moved till afternoon, when we crossed the river. Though smooth here, it flowed with fearful rapidity, and in mid-stream carried the canoe, as if it had been a feather, at locomotive speed. Three quarters of a mile above where we crossed the course of the river bent away to the east, and we could see the water leaping and tossing in a wild rapid as it came round through the opening in the hills. I had a great wish to see the fifteen miles of it which flows between this point and Seal Lake. I would have given much not to have to leave the river at all, but above that point it could not be travelled in the canoes, and I dared not take the time to portage which indeed would also have been impossible. The region we were now to traverse, I learned from Gilbert, was great marten country, and so I named the tributary stream we followed, Wapustan River.1 Our way led along a continuation of the river terrace we had travelled since leaving the head of North Pole Rapid. During the earliest part of the day's march it was particularly hard work to get over the windfalls.2 At first it seemed as if I could not; but after a struggle they were passed, and we had again a bear trail to follow. On the way we passed great beds of blossoming cloudberries, which with blossoms of the bunchberry, the Labrador tea, and the pale laurel, made up the list of flowers found so far. 3 Towards evening we stopped to make camp at the edge of rougher country, a mile and a quarter up the Wapustan. The map grew slowly during these days, and the desire to reach Seal Lake grew stronger and stronger. Near the camp was a big boulder, and lying round and over it were numbers of wigwam poles. They were very old, and looked as if it might have been many years since they had been used. George said it was a winter camp. In the winter time the Indians, in making their camps, dig down into the snow to a rock to build their fire. At a number of places on our journey we found poles lying round a boulder in this way. When camp was nearly made, Job came in triumphantly waving an axe over his head. He said Joe had taken some of the outfit forward as far as Duncan

Cross Country to Seal Lake Waters 73

M'Lean's tilt, and there had found an axe.4 There was great rejoicing over it. Job said he should carry the axe with the sugar after this. I had been shooting at an owl that afternoon - from a distance that made it quite safe for the owl; and while the men prepared supper I cleaned my revolver. I was greasing it and putting some of the grease into the barrel when George said: "Don't put too much grease in it. If you put too much in the bullet will just slip and -" "Might kill something," I finished for him. Then came George's rare laugh. It is like a baby's in that it expresses such complete abandon of amusement. Presently he asked: "When you were shooting at that bear the other day, where did you aim?" "Oh, any place," I replied; "just at the bear." Peals of uncontrolled laughter greeted this announcement and cooking operations were, for the time being, suspended. When they were able to go on with the preparations for supper I could now and then hear them laughing quietly to themselves. Bed seemed specially good that night, for I was very tired. How long I had been asleep I could not tell; but some time in the night I was awakened by sounds outside my tent, as of someone or something walking about. At first I thought it was one of the men; but presently decided it was not, and became very wide awake. I thought about the bear trail, but did not quite believe it was the bear either. Presently something shook the branches of the tree my tent was tied to, and they rattled fearfully on the tent close to my head. I sprang up, and as I reached for my revolver remembered that there were only two cartridges in it. Quickly filling the empty chambers I waited, ready to give battle to whatever it might be; but the sounds in my tent evidently alarmed the intruder, for there was silence outside after that. I was a good deal disturbed for a while, but growing calm again I finally went to sleep. In the morning the men said it was probably a rabbit jumping through the low branches of the spruce tree. We made a mile and a half that day, and towards evening halted at the edge of a pretty little expansion in the river; it was the most charming camp we had yet found. There were a number of tiny islands here, some with a few trees, and some just the bare rock with fringes of fresh green marking the fissures. The water slipped over ledges into pretty pools, and from our camp to the other side there was a distinct downward slope. My tent was pitched about four feet from the water's edge above a little fall, and directly over an otter landing. George warned me, "You will have to keep your boots on to-night. That otter might come along and get hold of your toes, and drag you into the river." "Would an otter really harm me?" I asked. "Perhaps it might be a bear instead of an otter," he replied, evading my question. "They are all great fellows for any kind of metal. If it's a bear he'll just get

74 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

hold of that screw on your bed and take it right off. You'd better put a bullet inside, and then when he takes off the screw it will blow into his mouth. He'll think a fly flew down his throat, and cough. Then you could run." George's eyes were dancing with amusement at his own pictures. Presently he went on: "I think - oh! you keep a rifle in there though, don't you?" "Yes." "Don't you think you could handle salt a little better than a rifle?" This was insulting; but I was laughing too heartily to be properly indignant, and he continued: "You might put a little salt on his tail. Maybe you could put that otter out of business, too, if you had enough salt." A duck flew past, dropping into the water a little way above our camp, and George sprang for a rifle. He shot, but missed, which I assured him was only proper punishment for the slighting insinuations he had made in regard to my shooting. Job and Joe went fishing after supper - but got nothing. It was a fine evening with a glorious sunset, beautiful evening sky, and a splendid moon. George said: "Fine day and fine breeze to-morrow." My sleep was not disturbed that night by either bear or otter, and we were up and started on our way the next morning at 7:30. A rough portage of three-quarters of a mile was completed some time before noon, and beyond this the canoes were kept in the water most of the day. At lunch Gilbert brought me a dandelion. I was greatly pleased to get it, and later I saw several of them. I found also blue and white violets, one of the blue ones a variety I had never seen before. Towards evening the hills had melted away. We had come up to the top of those which, twenty miles back, had looked high, and now we could look back and down to those which there had also seemed high. A new thrill came with this being up among the hill-tops, and I began to feel like an explorer. The tents were pitched near a pool of smooth water, deep and darkened by shadows of the evergreens on either shore. On the farther side of the river were low, wooded hills, and opposite our camp a brook came tumbling through the wall of evergreens into the river. Just above the brook a high, dead stub, with a big blaze on it, showed where we were to leave the Wapustan to cross Seal Lake. It was not until noon on Saturday, July 1501, that we left our pretty camp, for it rained steadily in the meantime. Then we started on our cross-country trip, working up to the north, from which direction the brook flows. A two-mile carry brought us out on Saturday evening to a lake at its head. After dinner on Sunday we again went forward with a whole mile of paddling to cheer us on our way. From the head of the lake another mile of good portaging brought us at last to waters flowing to Seal Lake, and we were again in the canoes to taste for a little the pleasures of going with the tide. For long we had been going against it - and such a tide!

Cross Country to Seal Lake Waters 75

In the Heart of the Wilderness

76 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Our way now led through three exquisitely beautiful little lakes, to where their waters drop down over rocky ledges in a noisy stream, on their way to the lake we were trying to reach. Here on the left of the outlet we made our camp. On either side rose a high hill only recently burned over - last summer Gilbert said. George, Gilbert and I climbed the hill back of our camp in hopes of catching a first glimpse of Seal Lake, but we could not see it. What we did see was very fine, and I stood watching it for some time after the others had gone back to camp. Eastward the great hills rose rugged and irregular, and farther away in the blue distance the range lying beyond Seal Lake, all touched to beauty by the evening light. Slipping down the hill again, I reached camp just as the supper was ready, and after our meal George, Job, Gilbert, and I crossed to climb the hill on the other side, which rose 540 feet above our camp. It was 7:45 P.M. when we started; but a brisk climb brought us to the top in time to see the sunset, and one of the most magnificent views I had ever beheld. Some miles to the east was the lake winding like a broad river between its hills. In every direction there were hills, and lying among them little lakes that were fairy-like in their beauty. George pointed out the ridge of mountains away to the south-west which he had crossed with Mr Hubbard, and where he thought they had crossed it from the head of Beaver Brook, their "Big River," and I named them Lion Heart Mountains. 5 The wind blew cold on the mountain, and a shower passed over from the north-east; but it was soon gone, and the sun set over the hills in a blaze of red and gold. The way down seemed long, but when we reached camp at 10:15 P.M. it was still quite light. Joe had been fishing, and had four brook trout for my breakfast. Job and Gilbert had gone down the valley prospecting, and soon came in with the information that a mile below camp we could put our canoes in to the water. Beyond, there would be two short portage's, and then we should not again have to take them out of the water before reaching Seal Lake. After I went to my tent there floated out into the quiet night the sound of the men's favourite hymns, "Lead Kindly Light," "There is a Green Hill Far Away," "Abide With Me," and, as always, the singing ended with their Indian "Paddling Song." When I put out my light at n P.M. a full moon was throwing shadows of the spruce boughs on my tent. The view from the mountain-top seemed inspiration to the party, and on Monday morning, shortly after four, I heard Job's axe making ready for the early breakfast. By 5:30 A.M. they were off with their first packs. Then all was quiet again. The tiny mirror-like lake was yet in shadow though sunlight touched the tops of its encircling hills, and I wished that I might wait, till it was time for me to go, on the summit of the one we had climbed last night. When the last load was ready I, too, went forward.

Cross Country to Seal Lake Waters 77

It was a glorious morning, with just such sunshine as one would wish for a day so eventful. The trail led down into a valley opening eastward to Seal Lake, and walled in on three sides by the hills. On either hand reaching up their steep slopes were the spruce woods with beautiful white birches relieving their sombreness, and above - the sheer cliffs. A network of little waterways gave back images of delicate tamaracks* growing on long points between. Not a leaf stirred, and silence, which is music, reigned there. The valley was flooded with golden light, seeming to hold all in a mysterious stillness, the only motion the rapids; the only sound their singing, with now and again the clear call of a bird. After reaching the point where the canoes could again be launched, it was but a few minutes till we were in the rapids. They seem very innocent to me now, but then running rapids was a new experience, and it was tremendously exciting as the canoes sped down the current, the men shouting to each other as we went. Two more short portages, which led down over a fine bear trail cut deep into the white moss; two brisk little runs in the canoes, and we reached smooth water, where, rounding the last bend in the brook, we could look straight away eastward into Seal Lake. A little way below the bend our brook joined a river, coming down from the north-west, which the trappers call Thomas River.6 The lake was little more than a mile wide where we entered it, and extended southward nearly two miles. Gilbert pointed out the opening in the hills to the south-west where the Nascaupee River leaves the lake, and I had George and Job paddle across that I might see it. A continuation of the hills, south of the valley we had passed in the morning, swung round the south shore of the lake and culminated in what I called Santa Glaus Mountain; for the outline of its rugged top looked as if the tired old fellow had there lain down to rest, that he might be ready to start out again on his long winter journey. I knew then that the beautiful valley, through which we had just passed, must be that vale where his fairies dance when it is moonlight. About the outlet the country was wild and rugged, and from the point where the river leaves the lake the water breaks into a tossing foaming rapid. According to the trappers, the river from this point to Bald Mountain rushes down a continuous rocky slope, the hills in many places rising perpendicular from its edge. Turning again we passed northward up the lake. It proved to be a succession of lake expansions, narrowing in one part, where it is bordered by the cliffs, and the current is very rapid. The lake is surrounded by hills of solid rock, some of those on the west rising abrupt and separate, one, Mount Pisa, distinctly leaning towards the east.7 Much of the surrounding country has been burned over, being now grown up with white birch and poplar, and at the narrows the angles in the * Larches.

78 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Solitude (Seal Lake)

cliffs are marked by lines of slender birch reaching from the water's edge to the summit. A short distance above, two large brooks enter from the east. Many of the long, low points which reach out into the lake are spruce covered, but away on the hills could be seen only the more delicate green of the birch and poplar. There are a number of islands lying mainly near the shore; and from its northern extremity an arm, which according to the trappers is thirty miles long, stretches away to the west. The river enters the lake round a low, sandy point, and about the inlet the country is lower and less rugged. On the way up we saw several seals. Gulls, ducks, and geese were there in numbers, and muskrats were plentiful. It was after 7 P.M. when we went into camp, having made nineteen miles since morning, and every foot of the way we had been surrounded by scenes of exquisite beauty; for Seal Lake in the calm of a summer day, with the summer sunshine upon it, and the beautiful Labrador sky above, is altogether lovely. When the day's journey ended I had seen so much that was beautiful, and so varied in its beauty, that I felt confused and bewildered. I had, too, not only seen Seal Lake, I had seen the Nascaupee River flowing out of it; our camp was on the sand-point where the river enters it, and, best of all, there came the full realisation that I was the first in the field, and the honour of exploring the Nascaupee and George Rivers was to fall to me. It was Monday, July iyth, three weeks less a day since we had left Northwest River post. According to the daily estimates about one hundred and fifteen miles of our journey had been accomplished, and now our next objective point was Lake Michikamau.

CHAPTER VII

Off for Michikamau

IT was well for me that a mind at rest, on at least one very important point, was my portion that night, else the night-long fight with the mosquitoes had been horrible indeed. They seemed to come out of the ground. When despair of getting any sleep had taken possession of me, I turned with such calmness as I could muster to the task of killing them off. By diligent application I hoped in the end to secure a little respite. To interest myself I began to count my kill; but when it had reached one hundred and fifty, and yet they came, I gave it up. I was still busy when the morning light came to reveal hundreds of the vicious little beasts clinging to the slope of my tent. At breakfast I learned that the men had fared little better. Usually they had the advantage of me where mosquitoes were concerned, for with four pipes going in the tent the mosquitoes had little chance; but that night pipes were of no avail, and there, too, the mosquitoes were master of the situation. On Tuesday it rained, and we did not break camp till the following morning when at 9 A.M. we were off for Lake Michikamau. Travelling was now much less difficult than it had been, though the river continued rapid. Our course, a few miles above Seal Lake, turned directly west, and as we entered Lake Wachesknipi high hills appeared ahead, showing deepest blue and purple under the cloudy sky.1 Again we made nineteen miles, taking on the way one partridge, two geese, and a muskrat, and camping in the evening at the foot of Red Rock Hill. Here we were destined to remain for two days on account of storms of wind and rain. How I disliked the rainy days, for I was not very patient of delay. There was little one could do in camp, and lounging in a tent when you are not tired has few redeeming features. After noon on Thursday Job set off to climb the hill. In the evening when I went out to supper the ground under the tarpaulins, which were strung up for shelter on either side of the fire, was covered with fresh cut shavings. Job had returned, and was carefully putting the finishing touches to a new axe handle.

80 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

He said he had been up among the clouds, and reported two heavy rapids and a little lake a few miles ahead. The following afternoon albeit it was still raining, the men prepared to climb the hill again, and I wanted to go too. Job, however, assured me that it would be impossible as the hill was altogether too steep and slippery. I was much disappointed. It seemed such an ignominious sort of thing too, to be an explorer, and have one of my party tell me I could not do something he had already done, and was about to do again, just for the mere pleasure of it. That it might not be too trying I had George go with me in the canoe up to the rapids. The first one, Seal Rapid, was almost three miles above our camp, and it came down from the west swinging to the south round a high sand-point and entering a small lake expansion. We landed at the head of a little bay south of the point, and crossed to see the rapids. They were very wild and fine, but fortunately they did not extend far, and about three-quarters of a mile of portaging would put us on smooth water again. Here for the first time we found the rocks along the shore and in the river-bed of varied and beautiful colours. There were among them red and green and blue of many and exquisite shades - the greens being particularly beautiful. From near the head of the bay several small lakes extended westward, and through these we thought the Indians probably made their portages. It was quite late when we returned to camp, the journey back being a rather hard paddle against a strong head wind. The men had already returned from the hill bringing a few partridges with them. It was nearly midday on Saturday when we left Red Rock Camp, and the rain was still falling a little; but the prospects were for a fine evening and a dry camp, so it was decided to push on as already we had been delayed more than half the week. Soon the rain ceased, and, passing the portages round Seal and Cascade Rapids, we found ourselves on smooth water again. The sky cleared as we proceeded, and an occasional gleam of sunshine lent its charm to the scenes of quiet beauty through which we were passing. The river was soft and smooth as satin, with a slightly raised cushion-like appearance, that I had never noticed on smooth water before. About the middle of the afternoon, as we rounded a bend of the river, we saw far ahead on the low drift shore, five large black objects close to the water edge. There could be but one animal of such size and colour in this region, and I became quite stirred up over the prospect of an encounter with what looked like a bear picnic. I watched eagerly as we approached, rather wondering how we were going to manage five of them, when in a most inexplicable manner they dwindled suddenly, and my five bears had become so many ducks. It was the first time I had ever seen so striking an example of mirage. We secured three of the

Off for Michikamau

81

transformed bears, and on Sunday morning had stewed duck and fresh bannocks for breakfast. Owing to the enforced rest through the week we decided to go forward on Sunday. After a late breakfast the task of loading the outfit into the canoes was not yet complete when Gilbert was heard to exclaim: "What's that? A duck? No it's a deer." Immediately all was excitement. Up in the little lake above our camp a caribou was swimming across to the north shore. The movement in camp suddenly became electrical. The last of the load was thrown into the canoe. I stepped in as George cut the rope, which tied it to the willows, and we were off. I was much excited at first, especially as the caribou was a long distance away, and I was sure he would reach land before we could come near enough to shoot him. He was almost ashore, and in my thought I saw him bounding up over the hills away out of reach, and was glad. When George took the rifle to shoot I was not in the least afraid for the caribou, because I knew he would not be hit - and he was not. But, Alas! I soon learned that it was not meant he should be. The bullet dropped, as it was intended to, in front of him, frightened him, and turned him back into the lake. My heart sickened as I realised what it meant. He was so near to safety. If he had only gone on. If he had only known. The men were now almost lifting the canoe with every stroke of the paddles, and she threw the water from her bows like a little steamer. We were soon up with the caribou, and I pulled my hat down over my eyes while the deed was done. We were so close that George thought he would try to kill him with his pistol. When I looked up, after the first shot, the caribou was ploughing through the water just as before. After the second I could see him trembling and blood on the water - but he was still going on. Then I asked George to take his rifle and settle the matter quickly. He did, and the sound of the water as the caribou made his way through it ceased. I did not need to look again to know what had happened. He was towed ashore, skinned and dressed, but how I wished I could think of him as speeding over his native hills, rather than as he was. Yet, too, I knew it was well for us that we had secured the supply of fresh meat, for although we had considerably more than half the original supply of provisions, we were still far from the journey's end. It was a three-year-old stag, Job said, and when the operation of skinning and cutting up had been performed, we had about 250 Ibs. of fresh meat added to our supply. The day was now fine, though occasional light showers passed; but these rather added to the beauty all about us than otherwise. The river was proving a succession of lake expansions, for the most part not more than half a mile wide.

82 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Skinning the Caribou

Rugged, barren mountains rose in all directions, and I had the feeling of being up among the hilltops, as if these were not whole hills, but only their tops. The trip was proving so beautiful and easy that my state of mind was one of continued surprise. I had none of the feeling of loneliness, which I knew every one would expect me to have. I did not feel far from home, but in reality less homeless than I had ever felt anywhere, since I knew my husband was never to come back to me. So far I had encountered none of the real stress of wilderness life, everything had gone well with us, everything was made easy for me; I had had no hardships to bear, and there was the relief of work to do, work which would for ever associate my husband's name with the country where he hoped to begin his explorations. For long months of darkness I had not dreamed that I could ever have the gladness and honour of doing this. Now it seemed that I might almost count on success. As we continued our journey the river grew more and more mysterious, ending apparently in each little lake, and keeping us constantly guessing as to the direction in which our course would next lead us. The inlet in the numerous expansions was unfailingly concealed, so that not until we were almost upon it could it be made out. Most mysterious of all was the last lake of our day's journey, where the rush of the entering river could plainly be seen, but appeared to

Off for Michikamau 83

come pouring forth from a great hold in the side of a mountain. As the current swung round the upper end of the lake it made the last half hour's work decidedly exciting. We landed to camp for the night on the first portage since passing Cascade Rapid, nearly twenty miles back. We had caribou roast for supper, and, to my surprise, I found it one of the most delicious things I had ever eaten, altogether different from any venison I had before tasted. An astonishing amount of that roast was stowed away before the camp was quiet for the night. The northern lights were that evening very brilliant. When I put out my light at bed-time it was as if a bright moon were shining. I looked out, and above were three broad circles of light with long-pointed fingers raying up to the centre directly over my tent as I watched. It seemed like a benediction from the hand of God Himself. Gradually they drew off to the north-west in great, beautiful scrolls. The day following, Monday, July 24th, the river continued most bewildering. Beside the portage at our camp, we had one, about half a mile long, farther up where the old trail was quite well marked, and carried us past a fall of about seven feet with a heavy rapid below. All day our way led among high hills till towards evening, when they spread out to the north and south, and we saw ahead a terraced sand plain, several miles wide, with the hills again beyond. Here, coming in from the north-west, was a brook, where, according to our map, the Indian route again leaves the river. This meant another long stretch of rough water, but our plan was still to keep to the river as far as it was possible, finding our own portage route where necessary. The river's course was now cut deep into the plain, the banks being from thirty to forty feet in height, and the current very swift. The plain had once been sparsely wooded but was burned over and very desolate looking now. Huckleberries, cranberries, and Labrador tea grew in profusion, and were in blossom, while patches of reindeer moss were seen struggling into life where we made our camp. During the last part of the day's journey the current had been increasingly swift, and some distance ahead we could hear the sound of a heavy waterfall. We reached it the following morning about two miles or more above our camp. It was a beauty, about thirty feet in height. The canoes could be taken close to the foot of the fall, and after a short carry over the high, rocky point were put in the water again not twenty feet from the brink of the fall. As the morning was fine, I had walked from camp to the fall while the men brought up the canoes. I was striding along the terrace, not thinking at all about my surroundings, when I suddenly became conscious of a most delightful fragrance and looking down I found myself in the midst of a tangle of the long, trail-

84 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

The Fall

ing vines of the twin flower (Linnea borealis), sweetest of all Labrador flowers, with hundreds of the slender, hair-like stems bearing their delicate pink bells. How delighted I was to find it. Other Labrador flowers were beautiful, but none as lovely as this. Above the falls the river was very rough, and in the next half or three quarters of a mile we made three more portages, and landed a little before noon at a high, rocky point on the south shore, to find ourselves at the edge of the hill country again. Here the river was crowded between high, rocky hills where it flowed too swift and deep for either poles or paddles. We could keep to it no farther, and so made camp, for now some scouting for a portage route would be necessary. While at dinner that day a thunder-shower passed. The thunderstorms of Labrador seem very mild and gentle as compared with those we are accustomed to. Later it settled to steady rain. Job went scouting, and the others lay in the tent most of the afternoon, Joe and Gilbert not feeling very well. Trouble - change of diet with a little too much of it. Job on his return in the evening reported the river bending away to the south-west a few miles farther on, and impassable as far as he could see. There would be a long portage west and south, but the country was not very rough, and a number of small lakes would give some paddling.

Off for Michikamau 85 The following day all the men, except Job, were ill, and camp was not moved till Thursday morning. When evening came, the outfit had been taken forward three and a half miles. The three small lakes we had passed had given about one mile of paddling, and at night our camp was made at the edge of the fourth, a tiny still water pond. The flies were that day worse than I had ever seen them. My veil proving an insufficient protection, I made myself a mask from one of the little waterproof bags, cutting a large hole in front through which I could see and breathe, and sewing over it several thicknesses of black veiling. There were as well two holes cut at the back of the ears for ventilation - these also being covered with the veiling. Pulling it over my head I tied it tight round my neck. It was most fearful and hideous to look upon, but it kept out the flies. The men insisted that I should have to take it off when we came to the Nascaupees else they would certainly shoot me. The flies were in clouds that day, and even their tapping outside of my mask made me shudder. I ached as I watched the men carrying their heavy loads, for it was very, very hot, and they wore no protection whatever. How they endured so uncomplainingly I could not understand, and they rarely wore their veils. It was an unspeakable relief when the clear, cool night closed in, and for a time put an end to the torture.

CHAPTER VIII

Scaring the Guides

I AWOKE on Friday at 2:30 A.M. The morning was clear as diamonds, and from the open front of my tent I could see the eastern sky. It glowed a deep red gold, and I lay watching it. An hour later the sun appeared over the hills touching the peak of my tent with its light, and I got up to look out. The mists had gathered on our little lake, and away in the distance hung white over the river. Gilbert was busy getting wood and preparing the breakfast. Soon I heard him at the door of the men's tent saying, "All aboard." "Any mosquitoes this morning, Gilbert?" "Not a one. Too cold. By Garge, but it's cold this morning! I went down to the lake and tried to wash, but I had to 1'ave off. It was too cold." Shortly I heard them at the fire. The click of the cups told me that they were taking a little tea and bannock before starting to carry. Then all was quiet, and one load had gone forward to the next lake, nearly a half mile ahead. When all but the camp stuff had been taken forward, we had breakfast, and by 7 A.M. we were in the canoes. Our course led us south through two little lakes, with a portage between, for something more than two miles. Here the second lake bent away to the southeast, and we landed on our right at the foot of a low moss-covered ridge. Beyond this we hoped to see the river. As we climbed, new heights appeared before us, and it proved to be about three-quarters of a mile to the top, from which the ridge dropped abruptly on the west, and at its foot was a long, narrow lake. At first I thought it was the river, but, when it became clear that it was not, my heart sank a little. Had we been wrong after all? Had the river bent away to the north instead of the south as we supposed? Job and Gilbert outstripped us in the climb, and now we saw them disappearing across a valley on our left in the direction of a high hill farther south, and we followed them. As before, new heights kept appearing as we went up, and when the real summit came in view we could see Job and Gilbert sitting on its smooth and rounded top looking away westward. How I wondered what they had found.

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When we came up with them there, to the west, around the south end of the opposite ridge, we could see the river flowing dark and deep as before. Above, to the south-west, were two heavy falls, and at the head of the upper and larger one the river widened. There were several islands, and it looked as if we might be coming to the expansions near the upper part of the river. One lake beside that at the foot of the mountain would make the portage route an easy and good one. The view from the mountain top was magnificent in all directions. To the north the hills lay east and west in low, regular ridges, well covered with green woods; and thirty miles away, on a few of the highest of them, were great patches of snow lying. East and west and south were the more irregular hills, and everywhere among them were the lakes. It was very fine; but to my great regret I had left my kodaks in the canoe. The greenwoods interested Gilbert, who was looking for new trapping grounds for himself and Donald Blake. We had come more than fifty miles from Seal Lake, the limit of his present trapping grounds, and he quite seriously considered the question of extending his path up to those hills the following winter. Turning to George, I said: "Why shouldn't I come up here after dinner with my kodaks, and take some pictures while you men are making the portage? The walking is not rough, and I couldn't possibly lose my way if I tried." He looked quite serious about it for a moment, and then said: "Well, I guess you might." Slipping down the south end of the hill a little way to see that there were no rough places where I should be in danger of falling going down, he returned, and with the manner of one who is making a great concession said again: "I guess you can come up here this afternoon. You could go down this way and meet us at this end of the lake. You will be able to see when we come along in the canoes." I was delighted, and after a half hour on the hill-top we started back directly towards the canoes. It was very hot among the lower and more sheltered sandhills, and for a long time there was no running water to be found; but when we did come upon a tiny stream crossing the way, hats were quickly turned into drinking cups for one long, satisfying drink. The miles back to camp had always a way of drawing themselves out to twice the usual length. George insisted that it was but two miles to the canoes, but to me it seemed quite four. Lunch over, we rested a little, and then armed with two kodaks, note-books, revolver and cartridges, bowie knife,1 barometer and compass, I was ready for my climb. Before starting George said: "I think you had better take your rubber shirt. It is going to rain this afternoon." I looked at the sky. It was beautiful, with numbers of silvery clouds floating lazily over the hills. It didn't look like rain to me, and I had something of a load

88 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

as it was. I said: "No, I don't think I shall. I should rather not have any more to carry. It is not going to rain." George said no more, and we started. At the little bay reaching in at the foot of the mountain we parted, and I went on up the hill. It seemed beautiful to be going off without a guard, and to think of spending an hour or two up on the hilltop, quite alone with a glorious sky above, and the beautiful hills and lakes and streams in all directions. I should be able to get some characteristic photographs and it was a perfect day for taking them. No time was wasted on the way, and the two hours proved all I had hoped. The canoes did not come, however, and knowing that the men must have had ample time to make the portage, I decided to go down to the lake. Certainly by the time I reached it they too would be there, for a thunder-shower was coming. When only a little way from the summit, I looked down into the valley and there, quite near where I was to meet the men, I saw something, which looked like a huge, brown bear, lying down. I stopped and watched it for a while, hardly knowing what to do. I had been deceived often, but this was not a mere black spot. It had definite shape and colour. Though I knew but little about the habits of bears, it did not seem the thing one would expect of a bear, to be lying there on the moss and rocks at that time of day. Still I did not know. Finally, I concluded that the quickest way to settle the question was to go and see. I had my revolver, and if it proved a real bear I would not this time aim "any place; just at the bear." I hurried on trying to keep the disturbing object in sight, but I could not. When the valley was reached it was nowhere to be seen, and I concluded I had again been deceived. The storm had now come on, and there was still no sign of the canoes. I decided that if I must be drenched and devoured, for the flies were fearful, I might as well be doing something interesting. I set off for the ridge on the further side of the lake with something of a feeling a child has who runs away from home, for it had been constantly impressed upon me that I must never go away alone, and I recognized the justice of the demand; but I meant to be careful, and probably should not go very far. Wading across the brook, which drains the lake to the river, I climbed up the ridge and was delighted to get a fine view of the falls. I went on to the top, but still there was no sign of the canoes, and I walked northward along the ridge. It was like a great mound of rock set down on the surface of the earth, its top rounded and smooth and bare, while on either side it dropped abruptly almost to the level of the lake, ending in a precipice a mile from where I had climbed it. When I reached its northern end I could see the little bay to which the men had carried the outfit. Imagine my astonishment when, looking across, I saw the two canoes turned upside down over the stuff to keep it dry, and the men around a fire drinking tea.

Scaring the Guides 89

Wild Maid Marion

I was not a little annoyed to find that they were quite so ready to leave me alone in the thunderstorm, knowing that I had nothing to protect me, till suddenly I remembered how I had been advised to take my rubber shirt- and then I thought I understood. I was to have a lesson in taking good advice when I could get it. I laughed a little and thought: "Oh! I know something better than that. This afternoon I shall 'go where I like and do what I please/ like the little fly, and have 'one good time.'"2 Taking out my revolver I fired two shots to let them know where I was, and started back along the top of the ridge to look for a place to climb down. There was a still higher ridge between me and the river, and I knew that from it I could see more. I stopped to take a photograph of a great boulder set on top of some smaller rocks, and while doing so heard two rifle shots from the other shore. Evidently they had just discovered where I was. I fired once more in reply, and then disappeared down the other side of the mountain. It was steep, and I laughed to think how terrified they would be if they could see me; but this afternoon as I had thrown off restraint, I chose the first place

90 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

where descent was possible, and let myself down along a rather wide crevice where some earth had gathered, and a few bushes were growing. I went fast too, for I meant to go just as far as I could, before I was rounded up and brought into camp. Between the two ridges was a bog, and I tried to cross it to save time; but it threatened to let me in too deep, and I had to give it up and go round. I was only a little way up on the other hill when there came the sound of two rifle shots from the lower end of the lake. Evidently the discovery of my whereabouts had aroused very spirited movement. On I went, faster than ever. The flies were desperately thick, and I kept a piece of spruce bough going constantly over my face and neck to keep them from devouring me bodily. I could feel my ears and neck wet and sticky with blood, for some of the bites bleed a good deal. Still what did flies matter when you were free. That afternoon I should go just as far as I thought I could, and get back to camp by dark. To my disappointment, when I reached the top of the ridge I still could not see the river, for it disappeared between high, rocky banks, and could only be seen by walking close to the edge. I decided to go along the ridge as far as I could, and then, slipping down to the river, to return to camp that way. About two miles out on the ridge I sat down to rest and look about a little. The rain passed, and a fine breeze put the flies to rout at this highest point. I had been seated there but a little while when, looking back, I saw one of the men, which proved to be George, running as if for life along the top of the ridge where they had first seen me. I could just make him out against the sky. Then he disappeared, I could not tell where. After a time I began to hear shots. The sounds were very faint, but followed each other in quick succession. I laughed and thought I knew what was happening where they came from. The shots seemed to come from the ridge I was on; but for some time I could not see any one. Finally, I caught sight of one of the men. He was waving his arms about wildly, and I could hear very faintly the sound of shouting. Then another figure appeared, and they started running towards me. Suddenly I became frightened. Perhaps all the excitement was not on my account after all, and I began to wonder if something dreadful had happened. Had any one been hurt, or drowned? I started quickly towards them, but, as soon as they were near enough for me to see their faces plainly, I knew that I had been the sole cause of the trouble. It was George and Job. The perspiration was dripping from their faces, which were pale and filled with an expression, the funniest mixture of indignant resentment, anxiety, and relief, that could possibly be imagined. When they came up I smiled at them, but there was no answering smile. Then George began to remonstrate with me. He stood with folded arms, and serious, reproachful face, and said: "Well, I guess you very near done it this time."

Scaring the Guides 91

"Very near done what?" I asked. "Why, you have just about had us crazy." "Had you crazy! What about?" "Why, we thought you were lost." "Didn't you see me over there on that ridge when I fired those shots?" "Yes, we did; and when we got up to the other end of the lake we fired two shots, and we thought you would come back then. I went up the ridge to meet you, and when I saw you were not there I was sure you went down to the rapids. Then I ran down there, and when I did not find you there I thought you either fell in that rapid, or got lost." "But I promised not to go to that rapid." "Yes, I know you did; but I thought when you went up there on that mountain may be you would go to that rapid any way." "Well," I said, "when I got to the end of the lake, and saw you were not coming, and the thunderstorm was coming on, and the flies were so bad, I thought I might as well be doing something nice while the storm was wetting me, and the flies were eating me." "Yes, that is just what we said. 'Who would ever think of your going up there in that storm?'" I laughed again, and George went on still trying to impress on me the evil of my ways. "Job, too, he was coming running, and he was sure you were lost. When I came to meet you, and could not see you on the ridge, and then went to the rapid and could not see you there, we began to walk faster and faster, and then to run like crazy people. Poor Job, he could hardly speak, and neither could I, and out of breath, and half crying all the time. Oh, we can never trust you to go away alone again." I said: "Very well, George, I'll make a bargain with you. If I can have some one to go with me whenever I want to climb a mountain, or do anything else that I think it is necessary to do in my work, without any fuss about it, I promise not to go away alone again." So the compact was made. As we walked back to camp George talked. "And you did it so quick too. Why I was watching you up on that mountain where you went this afternoon, and you were so busy and running about up there, as busy as a Labrador fly. You looked just like a little girl that was playing at building something, and I thought how you were enjoying yourself. Then the first thing I knew I heard the shots on the other side of the lake. We did not see you at first. We just looked across the lake and could see nothing, and we wondered about those shots, and who could be there. Then Job said: 'Look there, up on the mountain.'

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"Then we saw you, but we never thought it was you. Then Job said: 'Why, it's a woman.' Then we only knew it was you. Even then we could not believe it was you. Who ever would think to see you and the little short steps that you could go away there, and so quick too. Why, we couldn't believe it. The men got on to me too. They said they never saw anything like the way you do. They said they had been on lots of trips before, and where there were women too, and they said to me they never were on a trip before where the women didn't do what they were told." I laughed again, which George seemed to think was very hard hearted. He looked quite as if he could not understand such callousness, and said: "Yes; you don't care a bit. Do you?" whereupon I laughed harder, and this time he did too, a little. Then he went on: "Oh, I just thought I was never going to see you again. I'm never going to forget about it. I was thinking about how you would feel when you knew you were lost. It is an awful thing to be lost. If I had never been lost myself I wouldn't know what it means to be lost. And what would we do if you got lost or fell in that rapid? Just think what could we do? Why, I could never go back again. How could any of us go back without you? We can't ever let you go any place alone after this." Then after a thoughtful pause. "And to see you, too, the way you look. Just as if you would never scare anybody." When we reached camp it was growing dusk. Joe and Gilbert had just finished putting up my tent. They, too, had been out on the ridge. Though I could not help being amused at the unexpected success of my little plan to be even with them for leaving me alone in the storm, I was really sorry. I had not meant to frighten them so much. They were all very quiet, their faces, with the exception of Gilbert's, were distinctly pale, and hands trembled visibly. The brandy bottle had but once before been out, but that night, when my bags were brought in, I handed it to George, that they might have a bracer, and be able to eat supper. Later on I was to learn that the game had not yet been played out. Again the joke was on me. They drank it all!3

C H A P T E R IX

Mount Hubbard and Windbound Lake

THE day following no one was astir early. I think no one slept much. I could hear from the other tent the low hum of the men's voices far into the night. Mosquitoes kept me awake. About 2 A.M. I got up, lighted my candle, and killed all I could find, and after that I had a little peace, but did not sleep much. It was then growing light. There was a general limpness to be observed in camp that morning, aggravated by a steady downpour of rain; but before noon it cleared, and the men took all but the camp stuff forward. We had supper late to avoid the flies, the still night gathering round us as we ate. Rising close above was the dark mass of Lookout Mountain, 1 the lake at its foot stretching away into the gloom, reflecting dimly the tinge of sunset light in the sky above. By the camp fire, after our meal, the men sat telling each other stories till Job and Joe broke the little circle and went to their tent. Then floating out on the solemn, evening silence came the sound of hymns sung in Indian to old, familiar tunes, and last the "Paddling Song." With what an intense love the one who was gone "away" had loved it all. I could not help wondering if sometimes he wished to be with me. It seemed as if he must. On Sunday morning it rained, but cleared before noon, and at 11:30 A.M. we were on the river. That afternoon and the day following we passed the most picturesque part of the river. There were Maid Marion Falls, where the river drops fifty feet into a narrow gorge cut out of the gneiss and schists of the Laurentian rock over which it flows; Gertrude Falls, a direct drop of sixty feet, which for dignity and beauty is unsurpassed by any feature of the Nascaupee; and Isabella Falls, a system of falls and rapids and chutes extending for more than a mile, where the water poured over ledges, flowed in a foaming, roaring torrent round little rocky islands, or rushed madly down a chute.2 About halfway up there was an abrupt, right angle bend in the river, and, standing at the bend looking northward, you could see through the screen of spruce on the islands, high above you

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Gertrude Falls

and Haifa mile away, the beginning of the river's wild mile race, as it took the first flying leap out over a wall of rocks. The rock colouring was a deep red brown, and in some places almost purple. The perpendicular surfaces were patched with close lying grey-green moss, and in places with a variety almost the colour of vermilion. The country was not burned over, and everywhere the beautiful reindeer moss grew luxuriantly, setting off in fine contrast the tall spruces, with occasional balsams growing among them. A mile and a half of very rough portaging brought us at 3 P.M. to the head of the falls, and there we found ourselves on a lake at last. Perhaps few will understand how fine the long stretch of smooth water seemed to us. That day the portaging had been very rough, the way lying over a bed of great, moss-covered boulders that were terribly slippery. The perspiration dripped from the men's faces as they carried, for it was very hot. The big Labrador bulldogs (flies as large as wasps) were out in force that day, as well as the tiny sandflies. One thing we had to be thankful for, was that there were no mosquitoes. The men told me that there are never many where the bulldogs are plentiful, as these big fellows eat the mosquitoes. I did not see them doing it, but certain it is that when they were about in large numbers there were very few mosquitoes. They bit hard, and made the blood run. They were so big and such noisy creatures that their horrible buzzing sent the cold chills chasing over me whenever they made an attack. Still they were not so bad as mosquitoes. And now we were afloat again on beautiful smooth water. The lake stretched away to the south-west six and a half miles. We camped that evening on a rocky ridge stretching out in serpent-like form from the west shore of the lake above. The ridge was not more than fifty feet wide, but it was one mile long. The rocks were grown over with moss, and the willows and a few evergreens added their

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touch of beauty. These long narrow points were a characteristic feature of the lakes of the upper plateau. In this and the lakes above, through which we passed the day following, there were many small, rocky islands, some of them willow covered, some wooded. The shores everywhere were wooded, but the difference in size in the trees was now quite marked. They were much smaller than on the river below. The water was clear, and we could see the lake beds strewn with huge boulders, some of them reaching to very near the surface. Here we began to see signs of the Indians again, occasional standing wigwam poles showing among the green woods. Passing four of these lakes, we came to where the river flows in from the south down three heavy rapids. On the west side of its entrance to the lake we found the old trail. The blazing was weather worn and old, but the trail was a good one, and had been much used in the days long ago. The portage was little more than a quarter of a mile long, and we put our canoes into the water again in a tiny bay above the islands. While the men took their loads forward I set up my fishing-rod for the first time. Every day I had felt ashamed that it had not been done before, but every day I put it off. I never cared greatly for fishing, much as I had loved to be with my husband on the lakes and streams. Mr Hubbard could never understand it, for more than any other inanimate thing on earth he loved a fishing-rod, and to whip a trout stream was to him pure delight. As I made a few casts near the foot of the rapid, my heart grew heavier every minute. I almost hated the rod, and soon I took it down feeling that I could never touch it again. In the bay above the falls we saw a mother duck and her flock of little ones, the first we had seen so far on our trip. In the afternoon we passed up the short reach of river into another lake, the largest we had yet seen, stretching miles away to east and west, we could not tell how far. We could see, the men thought, about ten miles to the east, and twelve to fifteen west. The lake seemed to average about four miles in width. The narrowest part was where we entered it, and on the opposite shore, three miles away, rose a high hill. It seemed as if we might even now be on Michikamau, perhaps shut from the main body of the lake only by the islands. From the hill we should be able to see we thought, and so paddled towards it. The hill was wooded almost to the top, and above the woods was the barren moss-covered summit. The walking was very rough. It seemed to me as we climbed that I should be stifled with the heat, and the flies, and the effort, but most of all with the thoughts that were crowding my mind. Instead of being only glad that we were nearing Michikamau I had been growing more and more to dread the moment when I should first look out over its broad waters. Sometimes I felt that I could never go on to the top - but I did.

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The panorama of mountain, and lake, and island was very impressive. For miles in every direction were the lakes. Countless wooded islands, large and small, dotted their surfaces and westward, beyond the confusion of islands and water around us, lay the great shining Michikamau. Still we could see no open way to reach it. Lying along its eastern shore a low ridge stretched away northward, and east of this again the lakes. We thought perhaps this might be the Indian inland route to George River, which Mr Low speaks of in his report on the survey of Michikamau. 3 Far away in the north were the hills with their snow patches, which we had seen from Lookout Mountain. Turning to the east we could trace the course of the Nascaupee to where we had entered it on Sunday. We could see Lookout Mountain, and away beyond it the irregular tops of the hills we had come through from a little west of Seal Lake. In the south, great rugged hills stood out west towards Michikamau. North and south of the hill we were on were big waters. The one to the south we hoped would lead us out to Michikamau. It emptied into the lake we had just crossed in a broad shallow rapid at the foot of our hill, one and a half miles to the west. George showed me, only a few miles from where we were standing, Mount Hubbard from which Mr Hubbard and he had seen Michikamau; Windbound Lake and the lakes through which they had hoped to find their way to the great lake;4 the dip in the hills to the east through which they had passed on their long portage. He pointed out to me a little dark line on the brow of the hill where the bushes were in which they had shot the rabbit, and on the eastern slope another dark shadow showing where they had shot the ptarmigan. So much of life and its pain can crowd into a few minutes. The whole desperate picture stood out with dread vividness. Yet I had wished very much to see what he had shown me. At the rapid we were but a few minutes poling up to the big water south. Then after two miles of paddling, still southward, we rounded a point and looked westward straight into Michikamau and the sun. It was 5:52 P.M. When the exclamations of delight had subsided Gilbert asked: "Do we have rice pudding for supper to-night, Mrs Hubbard?" That evening we camped in an island flower-garden.

CHAPTER X

Michikamau

IT was the sun that did it, or else it was a scheme on the part of George and Job to work in an extra pudding. However that may have been, we found ourselves on Wednesday morning not yet on Lake Michikamau, and we did not reach it until 5:15 P.M. that day. We started, expecting to paddle straight away west into the great lake. As we glided out on what proved to be, after all, another lake instead of an arm of Michikamau, we saw that land, not water, stretched across the western horizon. South from our island camp the shore of the lake was a low ridge sloping to the water in three distinct terraces, moss-covered and smooth as a carefully kept lawn, with here and there a clump of stunted fir trees. Four miles to the west the ridge terminated in a low point. As we crossed the lake Job remarked that there was some current here. On nearing the point we were startled by a sudden exclamation from him. He had caught sight of a freshly cut chip on the water. We stopped, and the chip was picked up. The two canoes drew together, when it was examined closely, and an animated discussion in Indian went on. It was all interesting to watch, and a revelation to me to see an ordinary little chip create so much excitement. How much a seeming trifle may mean to the "Children of the Bush,"1 or for that matter to any other "children," who see the meaning of things. I could not tell of course what they were saying, but I knew that the question was: "Who, beside ourselves, is in this deep wilderness?" The conclusion reached was that the wind had brought it here in the night from our own camp. Passing the point the canoe again stopped some distance beyond it, and another brisk conversation ensued. I learned they had discovered a current coming from the south, and we turned to meet it. Following it up, one mile south and one mile west, we came to where the river flows in from the south in a rapid. This was really funny. We had comfortably settled ourselves in the belief that the rapids had all been passed. Job and Gilbert had taken off their "shoe-packs" with the prospect of a good day's paddling, and here were the rapids again. Our course for four miles above this point was up a tortuous, rapid river. It seemed to flow

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from all points of the compass, and in almost continuous rapids. They were not rough, but the currents were fearfully swift, and seemed to move in all directions. These are more difficult to understand, and hence more dangerous than many of the rougher rapids. About 2 P. M. we came out upon a lake. It was not very large, and its upper end was crowded with islands. Four miles from the outlet the lake narrowed, and the water flowed down round the islands with tremendous swiftness. Again it widened, and a mile west from the rapids we landed to climb a hill. Everyone went, and by the time I was half-way up, the men were already at the top jumping round and waving their hats and yelling like demons, or men at a polo match. As I came towards them, Gilbert shouted: "Rice pudding for supper tonight, Mrs Hubbard." It was not hard to guess what all the demonstration meant. We could not see all the channel from our hill top, there were so many islands; but it could be seen part of the way and what was most important we could see where it led straight west to Michikamau. Once more in the canoes our way still led among the islands up the swift flowing water. It was not till 5:15 P.M. that we at last reached the point where the Nascaupee River first receives the waters of the great lake. Paddling against a rather strong head wind we continued westward near a long island, landing shortly before 7 P.M. on its outer shore to make our first camp on Lake Michikamau. It was a beautiful place, and had evidently been a favourite with the Indians. There were the remains of many old camps there. Here the flies and mosquitoes were awful. It made me shiver even to feel them creeping over my hands, not to speak of their bites. Nowhere on the whole journey had we found them so thick as they were that night. It was good to escape into the tent. Next morning I rose early. It was cloudy but calm, and Michikamau was like a pond. How I wondered what fortune would be ours in the voyage on this big water. The canoes seemed so tiny here. I called the men at 6:30 A.M., and at nine we were ready to start. Before leaving, Job blazed two trees at the landing, and in one he placed a big flat stone on which I wrote with a piece of flint Joe brought me, HUBBARD EXPEDITION ARRIVED HERE, AUGUST 2ND 1905 Underneath it I wrote the names of all the party.2 Then we embarked and it was "All aboard for George River!" our next objective point. Our way led among the islands through water which seemed to promise good fishing. We put out the trolls, and waited hopefully to see what might be the prospect for testing the namaycush (great lake trout) of Michikamau for lunch. We had not long to wait. Soon I saw Joe in the other canoe hauling in his line,

Michikamau

Breakfast on Michikamau

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and a few minutes after there was a tug at mine. I got a nice little one. I had my line out a second time for just a short while when there was a harder tug on it, and I knew I had a big one. We had no gaff, and Job said we had better go ashore to land him. We did, and I was just pulling him up the beach when he gave one mighty leap and was gone. When my line came in I found the heavy wire which held the hooks had been straightened out, and he had gone off with them in his mouth, joe's fish was a big one, about fifteen pounds, the men thought. Job said mine was bigger. We had lunch on an island that day. The men boiled the whole of the big fish except a little that they fried for me. George ate the head boiled, which he says is the best part. It was all delicious. I cleaned my little one carefully, and placing some willow boughs about it, laid it in the shade until we should be starting. Then after all my care we went away and forgot it. On the island we found the whitened antlers and skull of a young caribou stag. Job cut off one of the points, and I used it after that to wind my trolling line. During the afternoon there was more wind, and the lake grew rougher. It was fine to see the way the men managed the canoes. Sometimes we seemed almost to lose ourselves in the trough of the big waves, but there was not a dipper of water taken in. There was a head wind and hard paddling for a time, but towards evening it grew calmer, and the lake became very beautiful. In the distance we saw several large masses of floating ice, and lying far away in the west were many islands. The sky above was almost covered with big, soft, silver clouds and as the sun sank gradually towards the horizon the lake was like a great field of light. Once we stopped to listen to the loons* calling. They were somewhere out on the glittering water, and far apart. We could not see them, but there were four, and one wild call answering another rang out into the great silence. It was weird and beautiful beyond words; the big, shining lake with its distant blue islands; the sky with its wonderful clouds and colour; two little canoes so deep in the wilderness, and those wild, reverberant voices coming up from invisible beings away in the "long light" which lay across the water. We listened for a long time, then it ceased. We camped early that night south of the bay on the farther side of which the hills reached out to the west, narrowing the lake to about seven miles. The bay was between four and five miles wide, and it was too late to risk crossing it that night. George said if it were still calm in the morning they would take just a bite and a cup of tea, and start. We could have breakfast on the other shore. During the night a north wind sprang up, and though soon calm again the lake was stirred up, and all the rest of the night and the early morning we could * Great Northern Divers.

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101

hear the waves rolling in on the beach. From dawn the men were out, now and again, to see if it were fit to start, but it was 10 A.M. before we were on the water. On one of the islands where we landed during the morning we found the first "bake-apple" berries.3 They were as large as the top of my thumb, and reddened a little. Though still hard they already tasted like apples. We lunched on an island near the north shore of the bay. While at our meal the wind changed and was fair for us, so we started, hoping to make the most of it. Crossing through a shallow which separated what had looked like a long point from the hills, we came out to the narrower part of the lake. Here the hills on the east shore were seen to recede from the lake, stretching away a little east of north, while between, the country was flat and boggy. A short distance further on we landed to put up sails. A ptarmigan and her little family were running about among the bushes, and the men gave chase, coming back shortly afterwards with the mother bird and her little ones. Towards evening we put out our trolls, and I caught one big brook trout, one little namaycush, and a big one - a twenty-pounder. This time he did not get away, though I strongly suspect this may have been because Job landed him. We camped late in a swampy place, and while the men put up camp I cleaned my three fish. The big one was so big that I could hardly manage him. I had just opened him up and taken out the inside and was struggling to cut off the head when somehow my hunting-knife touched his spinal cord in a way that made his tail fly up almost into my face. I sprang up with a shriek but suddenly remembered he really must be dead after all, and returned to my task. Presently Job emerged from the bushes to see what was the trouble. He suggested that I had better let him clean the fish, but I declined. Finally I did get the head off, and soon carried my fish to the camp in triumph. The big one was boiled for supper, and, oh! how good it tasted, for all were desperately hungry. The night was clear and cold, and after supper I sat at the camp fire till quite late - reluctant to leave it. Finally it died down, and leaving the glowing embers to burn themselves out, I went to my tent. We were off early next morning with a fine south-west wind, and were at the head of the lake sooner than we had expected. From here we had to cross almost to the west shore to reach the bay at the north end of the lake. It had grown rough since we left camp, and it did not seern to me that we could get to the point, for it meant running into the wind part of the way. It was an exciting hour's work, and the men were very quiet. There was none of the usual merry chat. Evidently a storm was coming, and unless we could pass that long, rocky point, and win the shelter of the bay beyond, we might be delayed for days. The big waves came rolling up the lake, and as each reached us the bottom of the canoe was tipped towards it a little to prevent its coming over, and George's head turned slightly to

1O2 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

see how it was treating his charge. At the same time I could feel my fingers which were just over the edge on the other side run along the top of the water, and now and then it came over and slipped up my sleeve. It was squally, and anxiously five pairs of eyes watched the sky and the point. It was a relief when the wind dropped a little, but then we could see it had risen again, roughening the water in the distance some minutes before it reached us. As I watched the other canoe slip down the long slope of a big wave I wondered, often, if it would come up again, for it looked as if bound straight for the bottom of the lake. Soon, however, it was on the crest of another wave and ready to dip again. The most exciting part of the experience was watching its motions. The perspective made them seem more remarkable than those of my own, which indeed were startling enough at times. With glad hearts we felt the wind drop a little as we neared the point. Then, bending to their paddles with all the strength of their strong arms, the men carried the canoes beyond the breakers to where we could turn our backs to the wind, and we slipped into the quiet bay.

C H A P T E R XI

Storm-Bound on Michikamats

WE had not reached our haven too soon. Almost immediately the wind rose again, and by noon was blowing so strong that we could have done nothing in any part of Lake Michikamau, not to speak of crossing the upper end in a heavy south wind. Around the point I did not find things look as I expected. It was only a very shallow bay, and where we looked for the islands a long, narrow point of land stretched out from the west shore to the north-east. Flowing round the eastern end of this point was a rapid, some two hundred yards in length, and at the head of this we found a little lake, between two and three miles in length, lying north-east and south-west. All the eastern portion of it was shallow, and it was with considerable difficulty we succeeded in getting the canoes up to the low shore, where we had lunch. I wondered much if this could possibly be Michikamats,1 which is mapped in, in dotted lines, as a lake twenty-five miles long lying north-west. In the afternoon my perplexities were cleared up. A small river, coming down from the north-west, flowed in at the east end of the lake. Three-quarters of a mile of poling, dragging, and lifting brought us up to another lake, and this proved to be Lake Michikamats. For half a mile or more at its lower end the lake is narrow and shoal. Its bed is a mass of jagged rocks, many of which rise so near to the surface that it was a work of art to find a way among them. A low point ran out north on our left, and from this point to the eastern shore stretched a long line of boulders rising at intervals from the water. This line marks the edge of the shallows, and beyond it the lake is deep and broad and stretches away north-east for more than eight miles of its length, when it bends to the north-west. As we entered it we saw that the low range of wooded hills on our left formed the western boundary of the lake, and over the flat wooded shore on the right we could see the tops of big, barren hills of a range stretching northward. These are a continuation of the round-topped hills which border the east shore of Michikamau south of where the lake narrows. For some miles of our journey up northern Michikamau we could see these hills miles back from the low shore-line. Now

104 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

we seemed to be turning towards them again. Beyond a point one mile and a quarter north from where we entered the lake a deep bay runs in to the east, and here the hills came into plain view though they were still far back from the shore. Their rounded tops were covered with moss, and low down on the sides dark patches showed where the green woods were. It was a glorious afternoon, and the canoes scudded at racing pace before a heavy south wind. At a point on the east shore, six miles up the lake, I landed to take bearings. Here we found a peculiar mound of rocks along the edge of the water, which proved to be characteristic of the whole shore-line of the lake. The rocks had been pushed out by the ice, and formed a sort of wall, while over the wall moss and willows grew, with here and there a few stunted evergreens, the whole making an effective screen along the water's edge. Back of this were swamps and bogs with low moss-covered mounds running through them, and grown up with scattered tamarack and spruces. On the west shore the hills reached quite to the wall itself. Behind this wall, at the point, we found a family of ptarmigan. When we appeared the mother bird tried vainly to hurry her flock away to a place of safety. Her mate flew across to an island a short distance north, leaving her alone to her task, but she and her little ones were all taken. Here the first wolf tracks we had seen on the trip were found. After some time spent at the point it was time to camp. We crossed to the island, north, and as we landed a white-winged ptarmigan flew back to where had just been enacted one of the endless succession of wilderness tragedies. I wondered if he would not wish he had stayed to share the fate of his little family, and what he would do with himself now. It was a beautiful camping place we found. The Indians had found it too, and evidently had appreciated its beauty. There were the remains of many old camps there, well-worn paths leading from one to the other. It was the first place we had come upon which gave evidence of having been an abiding place of some permanence. There must have been quite a little community there at one time. The prospect south, west, and north was very beautiful. My tent was pitched in a charming nook among the spruce trees, and had a carpet of boughs all tipped with fresh green. The moss itself was almost too beautiful to cover; but nothing is quite so nice for carpet as the boughs. We were on a tiny ridge sloping to the south shore of the island, and over the screen of willows and evergreens at the water's edge, the wind came in strong enough to drive away the flies and mosquitoes, and leave one free to enjoy the beauty of the outlook. It was an ideal place to spend Sunday, and with a sigh of relief we settled into our island camp. The week had been a wonderfully interesting one; but it had also been an anxious and trying one in a few ways. I was glad to have passed Michika-

Storm-Bound on Michikamats 105

Stormbound

mau so quickly and easily. I wished it might be our good fortune to see some of the Indians. Through the night the south wind rose to a gale, and showers of rain fell. On Sunday morning I was up at 7 A.M., and after a nice, lazy bath, luxuriously dressed myself in clean clothes. Then came a little reading from a tiny book that had been in Labrador before, and a good deal of thinking.2 Just after 9 A.M. I lay down to go to sleep again. I had not realised it before, but I was very tired. My eyes had closed but a moment when rat-a-tat-tat on the mixing pan announced breakfast. Joe had prepared it, and the others came straggling out one by one looking sleepy and happy, enjoying the thought of the day's rest, the more that it was the kind of day to make it impossible to travel. Returning to my tent after the

106 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

meal I lay down to sleep. My head had no sooner touched the pillow than I was asleep, and did not wake till 1:30 P.M. I could hear Gil outside preparing lunch, and went out to see how he was getting on. It was the first time he had attempted anything in the cooking line, and he looked anxious. We were to have fried cakes and tea, and Gil was cooking the fried cakes. They were not much to look at, for the wind had coated them well with ashes; but they tasted good, and the youngster looked quite relieved at the way they disappeared when we began to eat. Michikamats was certainly very picturesque in the gale. The wind had six miles of unbroken sweep, and stirred the lake to wild commotion. Out of shelter I could scarcely stand against it. For a long time I watched two gulls trying to fly into the wind. They were very persistent and made a determined flight, but were at last compelled to give up and drop back to land. I spent nearly the whole afternoon watching the storm, running to cover only while the showers passed. When we gathered for supper in the evening Job was holding a pot over the fire, and did not move to get his plate and cup with the rest. George gave me my plate of soup, and when I had nearly finished it Job set the pot down beside me saying gently: "I just set this right here." In the pot were three fried cakes, crisp and hot and brown, exactly as I liked them. There was much speculation as to what we should find at the head of Lake Michikamats, and I wondered how much scouting there would be to do to find the George River waters. If only we could see the Indians. Time was slipping away all too fast; the last week in August was not far distant, and the George River waters might not be easy to find. The days were becoming increasingly anxious for me. Our caribou meat was nearly gone, and a fresh supply of game would have been very welcome. There would be a chance to put out the nets when we reached the head of the lake, and the scouting had to be done. The nets had not yet touched the water. In the night the wind veered to the north and a steady rain set in, which was still falling when morning came. All were up late for it was too stormy to travel, and rest still seemed very good. While eating breakfast we heard geese calling not far away, and started on a goose hunt. It did not prove very exciting, nor very fruitful of geese. They were at the head of the bay which ran in east of our island. There were a number of small islands in the bay separated by rock-strewn shallows, and having landed Job and Joe on one of the largest of these, George, Gilbert, and I paddled round to the south of the group, and came out in the upper part of the bay. There just over the marsh grass at its head we saw five geese, but they saw us too, and before we could get near them were up and away. On the way back four red-throated loons, two old and two young, and a spruce partridge were taken.

Storm-Bound on Michikamats 107

It was nearly noon when we reached camp again, and the men were in the midst of preparing dinner when they caught sight of a big caribou stag swimming across to the point south of us. In such circumstances Job was indescribable. He seemed as if suddenly inspired with the energy of a flying bullet, and moved almost as silently. There was a spring for the canoe, and in much less time than it takes to tell it, the canoe was in the water with Job, Gilbert, and George plying their paddles with all their strength. As had happened before, the splendid creature almost reached the shore when a bullet dropped in front of him, and he turned back. His efforts were now no match for the swift paddle strokes that sent the canoe lightly towards him, and soon a shot from George's rifle ended the struggle. He was towed ashore, bled and gralloched, and brought to camp in the canoe.3 Most of the afternoon was spent in cutting up the caribou, and putting it on a stage to dry. While they were busy with their task there came again the sound of the wild goose call. Seizing the rifles, George and Gilbert made off across the island, and soon came back with two young geese, and word that there was another there but too far out in the water for them to get it. Whereupon Job and Joe went off in the canoe, and after a short time came back with a third. This made a pretty good day's hunt. George's record was one spruce partridge, two young geese, and one caribou. We had young wild goose for supper that night. I think I never have tasted anything more delicious, and with hot fried cakes it made a supper fit for a king. As we ate the men talked about the calls of the wild birds. George said: "I do like to hear a wild goose call." Certainly no one who heard him say it would doubt his word. After a little he continued: "There is another bird, too, that the Indians call 'ah-ha-way,' that I used to like so much to listen to when I was a boy.4 How I used to listen to that bird call. I tell you if you heard that bird call you could just sit and listen and listen. I don't know the English name for it. It is a very small duck, just a very little bird." Speaking of the loons we had heard calling on Lake Michikamau he said: "You should hear some of the little Indian boys calling the loons. Men's voices are too strong and rough, but some of those little boys, they can do it very well. You will just see the loons come and circle round and round over them when they call." All day long the rain had fallen steadily. I spent most of it in my tent, but the men had been out the whole day and were soaked. Having done their washing on Sunday they had no dry clothes to put on, and so slept wet that night.

CHAPTER XII

The Migrating Caribou

TUESDAY morning, August 8th, dawned clear and calm, and Gilbert came forth to light the fire, singing: "Glory, glory, hallelujah! as we go marching along." Yet before the tents were taken down the wind had sprung up from the south-west, and it was with difficulty that the canoes were launched and loaded. A short distance above our starting-point, we were obliged to run into a sheltered bay, where part of the load was put ashore, and with the canoes thus lightened we crossed to a long, narrow point which reached half-way across from the other side, making an excellent breakwater between the upper and lower parts of the lake. The crossing was accomplished in safety, though it was rough enough to be interesting, and Job and Joe went back for what had been left behind. The point terminated in a low, pebbly beach, but its banks farther up were ten to twelve feet high, and above it was covered with reindeer moss. Towards the outer end there were thickets of dwarf spruce, and throughout its length scattered trees that had bravely held their heads up in spite of the storms of the dread northern winter. To the south of the point was a beautiful little bay, and at its head a high sand mound which we found to be an Indian burying place. There were four graves, one large one with three little ones at its foot, each surrounded by a neatly made paling, while a wooden cross, bearing an inscription in Montagnais, was planted at the head of each moss-covered mound. The inscriptions were worn and old except that on one of the little graves. Here the cross was a new one, and the palings freshly made. Some distance out on the point stood a skeleton wigwam carpeted with boughs that were still green, and lying about outside were the fresh cut shavings telling where the Indians had fashioned the new cross and the enclosure about the grave of his little one. Back of this solitary resting-place were the moss-covered hills with their sombre forests, and as we turned from them we looked out over the bay at our feet, the shining waters of the lake, and beyond it to the blue, round-topped hills reaching upward to blend with exquisite harmony into the blue and silver of the great dome that stooped to

The Migrating Caribou 109

From an Indian Grave

meet them. Who could doubt that romance and poetry dwell in the heart of the Indian who chose this for the resting-place of his dead. Walking back along the point we found it cut by caribou trails, and everywhere the moss was torn and trampled in a way that indicated the presence there of many of the animals but a short time since. Yet it did not occur to me that we might possibly be on the outskirts of the march of the migrating caribou. Ptarmigan were there in numbers, and flew up all along our way. We passed a number of old camps, one a large oblong, sixteen feet in length, with two fireplaces in it, each marked by a ring of small rocks, and a doorway at either end. Near where we landed, close in the shelter of a thicket of dwarf spruce, was a deep bed of boughs, still green, where some wandering aboriginal had spent the night without taking time or trouble to erect his wigwam, and who in passing on had set up three poles pointing northward to tell his message to whoever might come after. The wind continued high, and squalls and heavy showers passed. Nevertheless, when lunch was over we pushed on, keeping close to the west shore of the lake. Little more than a mile further up the men caught sight of deer feeding not far from the water's edge. We landed, and climbing to the top of the rock wall saw a herd of fifteen or more feeding in the swamp. I watched them almost breathless. They were very beautiful, and it was an altogether new and delightful experience to me. Soon they saw us and trotted off into the bush, though without sign of any great alarm. George and Job made off across the swamp to the right to investigate, and not long after returned, their eyes blazing with excitement, to say that there were hundreds of them not far away. Slipping hurriedly back into the canoes we paddled rapidly and silently to near the edge of the swamp. Beyond it was a barren hill, which from near its foot sloped more gradually to the water. Along the bank, where this lower slope dropped to the swamp, lay a number of stags, with antlers so immense that I wondered how they could possibly carry them. Beyond, the lower slope of the hill

no

A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

seemed to be a solid mass of caribou, while its steeper part was dotted over with many feeding on the luxuriant moss. Those lying along the bank got up at sight of us, and withdrew towards the great herd in rather leisurely manner, stopping now and then to watch us curiously. When the herd was reached, and the alarm given, the stags lined themselves up in the front rank and stood facing us, with heads high and a rather defiant air. It was a magnificent sight. They were in summer garb of pretty brown, shading to light grey and white on the under parts. The horns were in velvet, and those of the stags seemed as if they must surely weigh down the heads on which they rested. It was a mixed company, for male and female were already herding together. I started towards the herd, kodak in hand, accompanied by George, while the others remained at the shore. The splendid creatures seemed to grow taller as we approached, and when we were within two hundred and fifty yards of them their defiance took definite form, and with determined step they came towards us. The sight of that advancing army under such leadership was decidedly impressive, recalling vivid mental pictures made by tales of the stampeding wild cattle in the west. It made one feel like getting back to the canoe, and that is what we did. As we ran towards the other men I noticed a peculiar smile on their faces, which had in it a touch of superiority. I understood in part when I turned, for the caribou had stopped their advance, and were again standing watching us. Now the others started towards the herd. Emboldened by their courage, and thinking that perhaps they held the charm that would make a close approach to the herd possible, I accompanied them. Strange to relate it was but a few minutes till we were all getting back to the canoes, and we did not again attempt to brave their battle front. We and the caribou stood watching each other for some time. Then the caribou began to run from either extreme of the herd, some round the south end of the hill, and the others away to the north, the line of stags still maintaining their position. After watching them for some time we again entered the canoes. A short paddle carried us round the point beyond which the lake bent to the north-west, and there we saw them swimming across the lake. Three-quarters of a mile out was an island, a barren ridge standing out of the water, and as they swam they formed a broad unbroken bridge from mainland to island, from the farther end of which they poured in steady stream over the hill top, their flying forms clearly outlined against the sky. How long we watched them I could not say, for I was too excited to take any note of time; but finally the main body had passed. Yet when we landed above the point from which they had crossed, companies of them, eight, ten, fifteen, twenty in a herd, were to be seen in all directions. When I reached the top of the ridge accompanied by George and Gilbert, Job

The Migrating Caribou 111

and Joe were already out on the next hill beyond, and Job was driving one band of a dozen or more toward the water at the foot of the hill, where some had just plunged in to swim across. Eager to secure a photo or two at closer range than any I had yet obtained, I handed George my kodak and started down the hill at a pace which threatened every second to be too fast for my feet, for they were not dressed in the most appropriate running wear. However the foot of the hill was reached in safety. There a bog lay across our way. I succeeded in keeping dry for a few steps, then gave it up and splashed through at top speed. We had just hidden ourselves behind a huge boulder to wait for the coming of the deer, when turning round I saw them up on the hill from which we had just come. While exclaiming over my disappointment I was startled by a sound immediately behind me, and turning saw a splendid stag and three does not twenty feet away. They saw us and turned, and I had scarcely caught my breath after the surprise when they were many more than twenty feet away, and there was barely time to snap my shutter on them before they disappeared over the brow of the hill. The country was literally alive with the beautiful creatures, and they did not seem to be much frightened. They apparently wanted only to keep what seemed to them a safe distance between us, and would stop to watch us curiously within easy rifle shot. Yet I am glad I can record that not a shot was fired at them. Gilbert was wild for he had in him the hunter's instinct in fullest measure. The trigger of Job's rifle clicked longingly, but they never forgot that starvation broods over Labrador, and that the animal they longed to shoot might some time save the life of one in just such extremity as that reached by Mr Hubbard and his party two years before. The enjoyment of the men showed itself in the kindling eyes and faces luminous with pleasure. All his long, wilderness experience had never afforded Job anything to compare with that which this day had brought him. He was like a boy in his abandon and delight, and I am sure that if the caribou had worn such an appendage we should have seen Job running over the hills holding fast to a tail. Before proceeding farther we re-ascended the hill which we first climbed to take a look at the lake. It could be seen almost from end to end. The lower part which we had passed was clear, but above us the lake was a network of islands and water. The hills on either side seemed to taper off to nothing in the north, and I could see where the land appeared to drop away beyond this northern horizon which looked too near to be natural. North of Michikamats were more smaller lakes, and George showed me our probable route to look for "my river."1 Squalls and showers had been passing all the afternoon, and as it drew towards evening fragments of a rainbow could be seen out on the lake or far away on the hills beyond it. Labrador is a land of rainbows and rainbow colours, and nowhere

112 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

A Bit of the Caribou Country

have I ever seen them so brilliant, so frequent, and so variedly manifested. Now the most brilliant one of all appeared close to us, its end resting directly on a rock near the foot of the hill. George never knew before that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I suspect he does not believe it yet for I could not persuade him to run to get it. Gilbert, more credulous, made a determined attempt to secure the treasure, but before he reached the rock the rainbow had moved off and carried the gold to the middle of the lake. Camp was made a little farther up. When it was ready for the night Job and Joe were again off to watch the caribou. They were feeding on the hills and swimming back and forth from islands to mainland, now in companies, now a single deer. Job was so near one as he came out of the water that he could have caught him by the horns. Now and then a distant shout told that Job and the caribou had come to close quarters. While George and Gilbert prepared supper, I sat writing in my diary with feet stretched to the fire, for I was wet and it was cold that night. Suddenly I was startled to hear George exclaim in tragic tones: "Oh! look there! Isn't that too bad!" Looking up quickly to see what was the trouble, I saw him gazing regretfully at a salt shaker which he had just drawn from his pocket. "Just see," he exclaimed, "what I've been carrying round in my pocket all the time you were running after those caribou, and never thought about it at all. Well, I am sorry for that. I could have just given you a bit and you would have been all right." For fifty miles of our journey beyond this point we saw companies of the caribou every day, and sometimes many times a day, though we did not again see them in such numbers. The country was a network of their trails, in the woodlands and bogs cut deep into the soft soil, on the barren hillsides broad, dark bands converging to the crossing place at the river. At the time I made my journey the general movement of the caribou was towards the east; but where they had come from or whither they were going we

The Migrating Caribou 113

could not tell. Piles of white hair which we found later at a deserted camp on Cabot Lake,2 where the Indians had dressed the skins, and the band of white hair clinging to the west bank of the George River, opposite our camp of August 1501, four feet above the then water-level, pointed to an earlier occupation of the country, while the deep cut trails and long piles of whitened antlers, found at intervals along the upper George River, all indicated that this country is favourite ground with them. Yet whether they had been continuously in this territory since the spring months or not I did not ascertain. The Indians whom we found at Resolution Lake knew nothing of their presence so near them.3 Towards the end of August the following year Mr Cabot, while on a trip inland from Davis Inlet, on the east coast, found the caribou in numbers along the Height of Land, and when he joined the Indians there, though the great herd had passed, they had killed near a thousand. It would therefore seem not improbable that at the time I made my journey they were bending their steps in the direction of the high lands between the Atlantic and the George. The movements of the barren ground caribou of Labrador have never been observed in the interior as they have been in the country west of Hudson Bay. So far as I can learn I alone, save the Indians, have witnessed the great migration there; but from such information as I was able to gather later at the coast, their wanderings appear to be as erratic as those of the caribou of northern Canada.* From Mr John Ford,4 the Agent at the Hudson's Bay Company's post at the mouth of the George River, I learned that they cross in the neighbourhood of the post at different times of the year. He has seen them there in July and August, in October and November, in January, February, and March. They are seen only a few days in the summer time, but in winter stay much longer — sometimes two months. In 1903 they were near the post all through February and March. On one occasion in the summer, one of Mr Ford's Eskimo hunters went to look for caribou, and after walking nearly all day turned home, arriving shortly after midnight, but without having found a trace of deer. The next morning at three o'clock they were running about on the hills at the post in such numbers that without trouble as many could be killed as were desired. From the George River post they hunt west for the caribou, which are more often found in the vicinity of Whale River post than at either George River or Fort Chimo to the west.5 For the five years preceding my visit the caribou had crossed regularly in November at Whale River. That is to say they were seen there in great numbers, but no one knew whence they had come, or whither they went. Their coming cannot, however, be counted upon every year.

See Warburton Pike's ("Barren Grounds of Northern Canada").

114 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

In September 1889 the whole band of George River Eskimo went for the annual hunt, by which they expect to supply themselves with winter clothing. Day after day they travelled on without finding the deer. When provisions gave out they were so far away from the post that they dared not turn back. One family after another dropped behind. Finally, the last little company gave up, one young man only having the strength to go any farther. He, too, was about to sink down, when at last he came upon the caribou. He went back to help the others, but in spite of their best efforts twenty-one of the band perished of starvation. That the caribou of Labrador have greatly decreased in numbers seems certain. Mr Peter M'Kenzie,6 Chief Factor of the Hudson's Bay Company in the east, who was a fellow-traveller on my return journey, told me that many years ago while in charge of Fort Chimo he had seen the caribou passing steadily for three days just as I saw them on this 8th of August, not in thousands, but hundreds of thousands. The depletion of the great herds of former days is attributed to the unreasoning slaughter of the animals, at the time of migration, by Indians in the interior and Eskimo of the coast, not only at Ungava, but on the east coast as well, for the caribou sometimes find their way to the Atlantic. The fires also which have swept the country, destroying the moss on which they feed, have had their share in the work of destruction. Only twice during the journey did we find trace of their enemy - the wolves. These hunt the caribou in packs, cutting out a single deer, and following him till his strength is gone, when they jump on him and pull him down. Mr M'Kenzie tells how, when on one of his hunting trips at Fort Chimo, a caribou came over the ridge but a short distance from him, followed by seven wolves. The animal had almost reached the limit of his strength. He ran with head low and tongue hanging out. From cover of a boulder Mr M'Kenzie waited for them to pass, and one after another he dropped four of the wolves. The others taking the hint altered their course, and the victim escaped.

CHAPTER XIII

Across the Divide

THE gale continued all night with passing showers, which threatened to riddle the tent with their force, and it was not till ten the following forenoon that we were able to proceed, hugging the shore as we went. Deer were about in all directions, and as we rounded a point near the head of the lake, George, standing in the bow of the canoe, and looking across to the woods beyond the big marsh, which stretched away northward, said: "The wood over there is just moving with them." Camp was pitched on the point among the spruce and tamarack, preparatory to scouting for George River waters, and lunch over, Job and Joe were off to the task, while George and Gilbert built a stage and put the caribou meat over the fire to smoke and dry again. It was my golden opportunity to air my camp stuff, and bags were emptied and everything spread out in the sunshine and wind. Later my washing, neglected on Sunday on account of the storm, was added to the decorations. How very much I wanted to go scouting with Job and Joe! Here I expected difficulties in finding the way. The map I carried indicated a number of detached lakes stretching miles northward from Lake Michikamats, and to find, among the lakes of this upper plain, the one which should prove the source of the George River, promised to be interesting work. Inwardly impatient I waited for the return of the men. Less than two hours later I saw them come down across the marsh to where they had left the canoe. There, mounting a huge boulder, they sat down to watch the caribou. This was trying, when I had so eagerly waited for the news they were to bring; but a little reflection convinced me that it meant simply - nothing definite about the George River. Otherwise they would have come immediately to camp. The conclusion proved correct, and when towards evening they came in, the report was - more streams and lakes leading northward up the slope of the plateau. We had not yet reached the real head of the Nascaupee River.

116 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Gilbert

Thursday morning, August loth, we began our portage across the marsh. Before leaving, the men had a few ineffectual shots at a crow, which had alighted near the camp, the first of its kind we had seen on the trip. The marsh was one mile wide from east to west, and reached almost two miles northward from the upper end of the lake. It was cut by many little streams, which, issuing from a tiny lake one mile and a half above camp, wound about among the grassy hummocks of the marsh, collecting half a mile below in a small pond, to break again into innumerable tiny channels leading down to Lake Michikamats.

Across the Divide 117

The pond and streams above gave us some paddling. Then came more portaging to the little lake. Below it lay a stretch of higher ground which was a queer sort of collection of moss-covered hummocks, criss-crossed by caribou trails cut deep into the soft soil. Here cloudberries grew in abundance, and though not yet ripe, they were mature enough to taste almost as good as the green apples I used to indulge in surreptitiously in the days of my youth. They seemed a great treat now, for they were the first fruit found in abundance on the trip, though we had seen a few that were nearly ripe on an island in Lake Michikamau, and on the 8th of August Gilbert had gathered a handful of ripe blueberries on Caribou Hill. The lake was about one mile long and two hundred yards wide, and was fed by a good-sized stream coming down from the north in continuous rapids. The stream was deep, and the canoes were poled up with all the outfit in them to the lake above, and on a great bed of huge, packed boulders at the side of the stream we halted for lunch. The quest was becoming more and more interesting. When was our climbing to end? When were we really going to find the headwaters of the Nascaupee, and stand at the summit of the plateau? It was thoroughly exciting work this climbing to the top of things. That afternoon our journey carried us north-west through beautiful Lake Adelaide, where long wooded points and islands cutting off the view ahead, kept me in a constant state of suspense as to what was to come next.1 About 4 P . M . we reached the northern extremity of the lake, where the way seemed closed; but a little searching discovered a tiny stream coming in from the north and west of this the well-marked Indian trail. What a glad and reassuring discovery it was, for it meant that we were on the Indian highway from Lake Michikamau to George River. Perhaps our task would not be so difficult after all. The portage led north one hundred yards to a little lake one mile long and less than one quarter wide, and here we found ourselves at the very head of the Nascaupee River. There was no inlet to the lake, and north of it lay a bog two hundred yards wide which I knew must be the Height of Land, for beyond it stretched a body of water which had none of the appearance of a still water lake, and I felt sure we should find its waters flowing north. It was just 5 P.M when, three hundred miles of my journey into the great, silent wilderness passed, I stepped out of the canoe to stand at last on the summit of the Divide - the first of the white race to trace the Nascaupee River to its source. I had a strange feeling of being at the summit of the world. The country was flat and very sparsely wooded, but I could not see far. It seemed to fall away on every hand, but especially to north and south. The line of the horizon was unnaturally near, and there was more than the usual realising sense of the great space

118 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

between the earth and the sky. This was enhanced by the lifting of a far distant hill-top above the line as if in an attempt to look across the Divide. That morning I had found myself with only a few films left, for the fascination of taking the first photographs of the region traversed had betrayed me into using my material more lavishly than I should; but now I squandered two films in celebration of the achievement, taking one picture looking out over the waters flowing south to Lake Melville and the Atlantic,2 and facing about, but without otherwise changing my position, one over the waters which I felt sure we should find flowing north to Ungava Bay. In a wonderfully short time the outfit had been portaged across, and we were again in the canoes, the quest now being, not for the inlet but for the outlet of the lake, a much less difficult task. Less than an hour's paddling carried us to the point where the George River, as a tiny stream, steals away from its source in Lake Hubbard,3 as if trying to hide in its rocky bed among the willows, to grow in force and volume in its three hundred mile journey to Ungava, till at its discharge there it is a great river three miles in width. Here at its beginning on the boggy margin of the stream we went into camp. Here I saw the sun set and rise again, and as I lay in my tent at dawn, with its wall lifted so that I could look out into the changing red and gold of the eastern sky, I heard a splashing of water near, and looking up saw a little company of caribou cross at the head of the stream and disappear towards the sunrise.

C H A P T E R XIV

Through the Lakes of the Upper George

HOW little I had dreamed when setting out on my journey that it would prove beautiful and of such compelling interest as I had found it. I had not thought of interest - except that of getting the work done - nor of beauty. How could Labrador be beautiful? Weariness and hardship I had looked for, and weariness I had found often and anxiety, which was not yet past in spite of what had been achieved; but of hardship there had been none. Flies and mosquitoes made it uncomfortable sometimes, but not to the extent of hardship. And how beautiful it had been, with a strange, wild beauty, the remembrance of which buries itself silently in the deep parts of one's being. In the beginning there had been no response to it in my heart, but gradually in its silent way it had won, and now was like the strength-giving presence of an understanding friend. The long miles which separated me from the world did not make me feel far away - just far enough to be nice - and many times I found myself wishing I need never have to go back again. But the work could not all be done here. Half the distance across the peninsula had been passed, and now on August nth we were beginning the descent on the George River. Would the Labrador skies continue to smile kindly upon me? It would be almost if not quite a three hundred mile journey to Ungava, and it might be more. Could we make the post by the last week in August? The men appeared confident; but for me the days which followed held anxious hours, and the nights sleepless ones as I tried to make my decision whether, in case it should become evident we could not reach Ungava in time, I should turn back, leaving the work uncompleted, or push on, accepting the consequent long winter journey back across Labrador, or round the coast, and the responsibility of providing for my four guides for perhaps a full year. At least the sun shone on the beginning of the journey, and about nine o'clock, the last pack having gone forward, I set off down the portage below Lake Hubbard, a prayer in my heart that the journey might be swift. The prayer seemed doomed to remain unanswered at first. Before noon of that day the sun was hidden, and for nearly a week we did not again see his face. Vio-

i2O A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

lent storms of wind and rain and snow made progress difficult or impossible, and on August 16th we were camped only thirty miles from the Height of Land. The upper river proved a succession of lake expansions of varying sizes, their waters dropping from one to the other down shallow rapids. At the Height of Land, and for some miles beyond, the country is flat and boggy, and sparsely wooded with tamarack and spruce, many of the tall, slender tops of the former being bent completely over by the storms. The spruce was small and scant, increasing in size and quantity as we descended from the highest levels, but nowhere on the northern slope attaining the size reached in the valley of the Nascaupee. Gradually, low, barren ridges began to appear, their white mossy sides marked by caribou trails which formed a network over the country we were passing through, and all were freshly cut with hoof marks. Every day there were herds or single deer to be seen along the way, and at a number of points we passed long piles of whitened antlers. Other game too, ducks, geese, and ptarmigan, had become plentiful since we entered the caribou country, and now and then a few were taken to vary the monotony of the diet of dried caribou meat. Loons were about us at all hours, and I grew to love their weird call as much almost as the Indians do. We travelled too fast to fish, and it was stormy; but the indications were that in places at least fish were abundant. When we ran down to the little lake, on which our camp of August 12th was pitched, hundreds offish played at its surface, keeping the water in constant commotion. They were in no wise disturbed by our presence and would turn leisurely over within two feet of the canoe. I ran out my troll as we paddled down the lake - but not a nibble did I get. The men said they were white fish. Every day we expected to see or hear something of the wolves, which are said to attend the movements of the caribou; but no sign of them appeared, save the one track found at the point on Lake Michikamats. Signs of the Indians became more numerous, and on a point near the head of Cabot Lake we found a camp but lately deserted, and left, evidently, with the idea of return in the near future. The Indians had been there all through the spring, and we found a strongly built cache, which the men thought probably contained furs, but which we did not, of course, disturb. It was about ten feet long and six feet wide at the base, and built in the form of an A, with the trunks of trees from five to six inches in diameter set up close together and chinked with moss and boughs. There were many of the uncovered wigwams standing about, one a large oblong with three fireplaces in it. Lying near the wigwams were old clothes of a quite civilised fashion, pots, kettles, a wooden tub, paint-cans and brushes, pad-

Through the Lakes of the Upper George 121

The Indians' Cache

dies, a wooden shovel, broken bones, piles of hair from the deer-skins dressed, a skin stretcher. Some steel traps hung in a tree near, and several iron pounders for breaking bones. On a stage, under two deer-skins, were a little rifle, a shot gun, and a piece of dried deer's meat. A long string of the bills of birds taken during the spring, hung on a tree near the water, and beside each of the various wigwams, in the line of them which stretched along the south shore of the point, a whitened bone was set up on a long pole for luck.1 The river gradually increased in volume, and all previous excitement of work in the swift water seemed to grow insignificant when my long course in running

122 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

rapids began. Perhaps it was because the experience was new, and I did not know what to expect; but as the little canoe careered wildly down the slope from one lake to the next with, in the beginning, many a scrape on the rocks of the river bed, my nervous system contracted steadily till, at the foot where we slipped out into smooth water again, it felt as if dipped into an astringent. A few miles below Cabot Lake the river is joined by what we judged to be its south-east branch, almost equal to the middle river in size. This branch, together with a chain of smaller lakes east of Lake Michikamau, once formed the Indian island route from the Nascaupee River to the George, used at times of the year when Lake Michikamau was likely to be impassable on account of the storms. It had been regularly travelled in the old days when the Indians of the interior traded at Northwest River post; but since the diversion of their trade to the St Lawrence it had fallen into disuse. There was much talk of our prospective meeting with the Nascaupees, which I did not understand; and it was not until the evening of August 14th, as I sat after supper at the camp fire, that I became conscious of the real concern with which the men were looking forward to the event. For two precious days we had been unable to move on account of the storms. The rain had fallen steadily all day, changing to snow towards evening, and now, though the downpour had ceased, the black clouds still fled rolling and tossing over head before the gale, which roared through the spruce forest, and sent the smoke of the big camp fire whirling now this way, now that, as it found its way into our sheltered nook. George and Joe were telling amusing stories of their boyhood experiences at Rupert's House,2 the pranks they played on their teacher, their fights, football, and other games, and while they talked I bestowed some special care upon my revolver. Job sat smoking his pipe, listening with a merry light in his gleaming, black eyes, and Gilbert lounged on the opposite side of the fire with openmouthed boyish attention. The talk drifted to stories of the Indians, tributary to Rupert's House, and the practical jokes perpetrated on them while camped about the post to which they brought each spring from the far interior their winter's catch of furs. There were stories of Hannah Bay massacre,3 and the retribution which followed swift and certain; and of their own trips inland, and the hospitality of the Indians. The talk ended with an anxious "If it were only the Hudson Bay Indians we were coming to, there would be no doubt about the welcome we should get." Turning to me, George remarked, "You are giving that revolver a very fine rubbing up to-night." "Yes," I replied, laughing a little; "I am getting ready for the Nascaupees."

Through the Lakes of the Upper George 123

"They would not shoot you/' he said gravely. "It would be us they would kill if they took the notion. Whatever their conjurer tells them to do, they will do." "No," asserted Gilbert, who boasted some traditional knowledge of the Nascaupees, "they would not kill you, Mrs Hubbard. It would be to keep you at their camp that they would kill us." I had been laughing at George a little, but Gilbert's startling announcement induced a sudden sobriety. As I glanced from one to the other, the faces of the men were all unwontedly serious. There was a whirl of thoughts for a moment, and then I asked, "What do you think I shall be doing while they are killing you? You do not need to suppose that because I will not kill rabbits, or ptarmigan, or caribou, I should have any objection to killing a Nascaupee Indian if it were necessary." Nevertheless, the meeting with the Indians had for me assumed a new and more serious aspect, and, remembering their agony of fear lest some harm befall me ere we reached civilisation again, I realised how the situation seemed to the men. When I went to my tent, it was to lie very wide awake, turning over in my mind plans of battle in case we should meet with treachery. The following morning the weather was still bad but we attempted to go forward. Soon a snow squall drove us to the shelter of the woods. When it had passed we were again on the water; but rain came on and a gale of wind drove it into our faces, till they burned as if hot water instead of cold were pelting them. We could make no headway, and so put ashore on the right bank of the river to wait for calmer weather. Camp was made on a tiny moss-covered ridge of rock back of the stretch of swamp along shore, and soon a roaring fire sent out its welcome warmth to the wet and shivering wayfarers crouching near it in the shelter of the spruce. How cold it was! And how slowly we were getting on! The river widened here, and on the left bank, at short intervals broad trails with fresh cut tracks led down to its edge, and along the shore a wide band of white caribou hair clung to the bank four feet above the river, where it had been left by the receding water. So we knew that the caribou had been in possession of the region while shedding their winter coats. We had been sitting by the fire only a little while when Job, who after his usual manner had disappeared, called to us in a low, eager voice from one hundred feet away. He said only one word - "Joe" - but we all knew what it meant and there was a rush in the direction in which he had again disappeared. A herd of fifteen caribou were swimming across from the opposite shore straight to the little bay above our landing. Under cover of the woods and willows we stole down quite close to the water and waited until they came almost to shore. Then springing from our hiding places we shouted at them. The beautiful, frightened crea-

124 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

tures turned and went bounding back through the shallow water, splashing it into clouds of spray, till they sank into the deeper tide and only heads and stubs of tails could be seen as they swam back to the other shore. They were nearly all young ones, some of them little fawns. All day long, at short intervals, companies of them were seen crossing, some one way, some another. Towards evening two herds passed the camp at the same time, one to the east of us but a short distance away, and the other along the foot of the ridge on the west, not fifty feet from our camp. On Wednesday, against the strong north-west wind, we succeeded in making six and a half miles, passing the mouth of the south-west branch of the Upper George River; and when at 3 P.M. we reached the head of Long Lake it was too rough to venture on, and we had to go into camp.4 I felt rather desperate that night, and sick with disappointment. One week of precious time was gone, it was the 16th of the month, and we were only thirty miles, perhaps a little more, from the Height of Land. How was it possible to reach the post in time for the ship now? "We will get you there about two days before the ship arrives," George insisted. "When we get down below the lakes we can make forty miles a day if the weather is good," said Joe. But I was not reassured. When we should get down below the lakes we could travel fast perhaps; but the last one, Indian House Lake, where the old Hudson's Bay Company post had been, was still far, far north of us, and no one knew what lay between. Perhaps there was a bare possibility that we might make the journey in ten days; but I knew I could not count on it. Had I a right to undertake the return journey with its perils? I was not sure. My tent was sweet that night with the fragrance of its carpet of balsam boughs, and a big bunch of twin flowers, which grew in profusion there; but it was late before I slept. Perhaps two hours after, I awoke to find a big moon peering into my face through the open front of my tent. I was startled at first, and instinctively reached for my revolver, not knowing what it was; but when full consciousness had returned, whether it was the effect of the moon or not, the question had somehow been settled. I knew I should go on to Ungava whatever the consequences might be.

C H A P T E R XV

The Montagnais Indians

THE night was very still when I awoke, but it was cold. Frost sparkled in the moonlight on willows and low growth, and when, at first sign of dawn, I reached for my stockings and duffel to put them on, they were frozen stiff. I did not wait to hunt out dry ones, but slipped them on for I was too anxious to be on the march again. I meant to go on to Ungava now, no matter what befell; perhaps we could yet be in time for the ship. She might be delayed. The men were astir early, and at a quarter to six we were off. Already the lake was almost too rough again to go forward. The wind had risen, and blew cold across the water driving the morning mists before it. Now and then they lifted a little, giving a glimpse of the farther shore, or parted overhead where a patch of deep blue could be seen. It was rather shivery, but I loved it. Two hours later the mists were gone, and, for the first time since leaving Lake Hubbard, we saw the sun again. It was a glorious day, the kind which almost all the eventful days of our journey had been. I wanted to compel it to yield me something of value and interest, and it did; for after we had passed down the stretch of river below Long Lake and out into the larger one which I afterwards named Resolution,1 we came upon the first camp of the Indians. When we entered the lake we were surrounded by numbers of islands in its upper extremity, but beyond, it was clear and stretched away northward calm and beautiful after the storm. Its shores were low for the most part, but four miles down the lake a high, sandy point reached far out from the east shore, and it was there we found the Indians. At first, we could see only a shapeless dark mass on the hillside. It moved and swayed now this way, now that, and the first thought was that it was caribou; but when there came the flash of sunlight on metal from the midst of it, and the sound of rifle shots, there was no longer any mistaking it for caribou. As we came towards them the firing continued at intervals, and now and then I sent back an answering shot from my revolver; but it was not without a feeling

126 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

The Camp on the Hill

of uneasiness that we approached. I thought of many things which might happen, and the men paddled very slowly; but our amusement may be imagined when, on drawing nearer, we found that they were all women and children. There was much screaming and shouting from the hill. "Go away, go away," they shrieked. "We are afraid of you. Our husbands are away." Their speech was that of the Montagnais Indians which George understood, having learned to speak it while at Northwest River post in the winter of 1903-4. "Tanta sebo?" (Where is the river?) shouted Job into the din, "Tanta sebo?" When they ceased their screaming to listen, George called to them in Montagnais: "We are strangers and are passing through your country." A swift change followed these words in their own familiar tongue. There was eager talking together, the screams of terror were changed to laughter, and four of the older women ran down to the landing to welcome us. We were greeted with much hand-shaking, and their number was gradually swelled from the camp on the hill. They displayed not the least sign of shyness or embarrassment, being altogether at their ease. Their clothing was of a quite civilised fashion, the dresses being of woollen goods of various colours made with plain bodice and skirt, while on their feet they wore moccasins of dressed deerskin. The jet black hair was parted from forehead to neck, and brought round on either side, where it was wound into a little, hard roll in front of the ear and bound about with

The Montagnais Indians 127

pieces of plain cloth or a pretty beaded band. Each head was adorned with a tuque made from black and red broadcloth, with beaded or braided band around the head.2 Both the manner of wearing the hair and the tuque were exceedingly picturesque and becoming, and the types were various as those to be found in other communities ranging from the sweet and even beautiful face to the grossly animal like. They were not scrupulously clean, but were not dirtier than hundreds of thousands to be found well within the borders of civilisation, and all, even the little children, wore the crucifix. Their men had gone down to Davis Inlet, on the east coast, to trade for winter supplies. They had been away five days and were expected to return soon, the outward trip being made in three or four days while the return requires five. The camp was now eagerly awaiting the arrival of the tea, sugar, and tobacco, the new gowns, the gay shawls and the trinkets, which make the return from the post the great event of the year. As their speech indicated, these people were found to belong to the Montagnais tribe, which is a branch of the Cree Nation, and is tributary to the posts along the St Lawrence. There after the winter's hunt they gather in hundreds at Mingan and Seven Islands,3 and it is then they receive from the Roman Catholic missionaries instruction in the Christian faith. This camp, the only one of the tribe to do so, had for some years traded at Davis Inlet, on the north-east coast. We could gather little from the women about the route to Davis Inlet further than that it is a difficult one, and for this reason they do not accompany the hunters on the yearly journey there. The "Mush-a-wau e-u-its" (Barren Ground People),4 the Nascaupee Indians, whom Mr Hubbard had been so eager to visit, and who also are a branch of the Cree Nation, they informed us, have their hunting grounds farther down the river. "You will sleep twice before coming to their camp," they said. We were assured of a friendly reception there, for the two camps are friendly and sometimes visit each other; but they could tell us little about the river, because in making the journey between the two camps, they use a portage route through lakes to the east of the river. The journey to the George River post at Ungava they thought would take two months. My heart sank as this was interpreted to me. In that case I could no longer entertain any hope of being in time for the ship. It would mean, too, the entire journey back in winter weather. I had counted that even if we missed the ship we could probably reach Lake Michikamau on the return before winter set in; but that also would be impossible. In the midst of the sickening feeling of disappointment and uncertainty, which came with this information, I was conscious of being thankful that the main question had been decided.

128 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Rather disconsolately I went up for a brief look at the camp on the hill. The situation was beautiful, and commanded a view from end to end of Resolution Lake which extended about four miles both north and south of the point, and was divided into two distinct parts, just opposite the camp, by a long island with points of land reaching towards it from north and south. Beyond the island lay a broad sheet of water which seemed equal in size to the one we were on, and along its farther shore low blue ridges stretched away northward. The skies seemed trying to make reparation for the week of storms, and the mood of the camp corresponded with that of the day. Children played about quietly, or clung to their mothers' skirts, as they watched the strangers with curious interest and the mothers were evidently happy in their motherhood as mothers otherwhere. "We are poor," said one, "and we live among the trees, but we have our children." The camp consisted of two wigwams, one a large oblong and the other round. They were covered with dressed deer-skins drawn tight over the poles, blackened round the opening at the top by the smoke of the fires, which are built in the centre within. I was not invited to go into the wigwams, but through the opening, which served as doorway in front of one of them, I had a glimpse of the interior. It seemed quite orderly and clean. Four rifles, which lay on the carpet of balsam boughs, looked clean and well cared for. The dishes, pans, tea-pots, etc., which were mostly of white enamel, with some china of an ordinary sort were clean and shining. Long strings of dressed deer-skin, and a few moccasins hung from the poles round the opening at the top. The moccasins were not decorated in any way, nor were those worn by the women, and I saw no sign of ornamentation of any kind, save the tuques with their beaded or braided bands, and the bands on the hair. Except for their children they were poor indeed now, for there was not a taste of sugar, tea, or tobacco at the camp. They rarely have flour, which with them is not one of the necessities of life. They were living on what fish they could catch while the hunters were away, and were not having the best success with their fishing. They did not know of the presence of the caribou so near them, and I thought regretfully of how easily we could have brought down one or more had we known of their need, and where we should find them. Some six or eight splendid Eskimo dogs prowled about snarling at one another, and occasionally indulging in an ugly fight at which there was a rush for clubs or tent poles to separate them; for unless separated they never stop till the one that goes down is killed. Consequently at whatever hour of the day or night a fight begins, the dogs have to be separated, for the loss of a dog is a calamity in the north countrv.

The Montagnais Indians 129

The Montagnais Boy

While I wandered over the hillside a little, keeping a wary eye on the dogs, the women devoted their attentions to the men. They were anxious to have the visit prolonged, and every inducement was held out even to offering them wives, temporary, if they would remain; but after taking a few pictures, for which they posed easily and without signs of self-consciousness, I bade them farewell and we returned to the canoes. They did not accompany us to the landing. With the prospect of so long a journey before me I had to resist the impulse to share my provisions with them; but before we left George carried a few ounces of tea up the hill. There was a merry chase as each tried to possess herself of the treasure. They were like children in their delight. A pair of moccasins was offered in return; but the gift of tea was too slight and they were not accepted. Soon we were slipping slowly away towards the river with an occasional glance back to the group on the hill. When a few rods from shore, Job, who had the faculty of making his English irresistibly funny whenever he chose, stood up in the stern of the canoe, and taking off his hat to them with a very elaborate bow called, "Good-bye, good-bye, my lady."

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The directions we had received enabled us to find the river without difficulty, and passing down through a succession of small expansions with low, swampy shores where the wood growth was almost altogether tamarack, we camped in the evening ten miles below Resolution Lake, at the point where the river drops down through three rocky gorges to flow with strong, swiff current in a distinct valley. The lakes of the upper country were here left behind, and when we resumed our journey the following morning it was to be carried miles on a current in which the paddles were needed only for steering. Stretches of quiet water were succeeded by boisterous rapids, and sometimes I walked to lighten the canoe where the rapid was shallow. Tributaries entered on either hand, the river increased in force and volume, and when we halted for lunch some ten miles below Canyon Camp, the George had come to be a really great river. We were getting down to the hills now and the country, which had been burned over, was exceedingly barren and desolate. On the slopes, which had been wooded, the grey and blackened tree trunks were still standing like armies of skeletons, and through their ranks the hills of everlasting rock showed grey and stern, stripped even of their covering of reindeer moss. Heavy showers passed during the day, but it was otherwise beautiful and we made good progress. When we camped that evening below Thousand Island Expansion it was with twentytwo miles to our credit. It seemed very fine to have another good day's work behind and I felt less heavy-hearted. Some thinking had convinced me that the two months' estimate for the journey to Ungava was far from correct; but I still feared it was useless to entertain hope of being in time for the ship. Yet one does hope even when it is plainly useless. Nevertheless life had come to be a serious matter with us all now, excepting Gilbert, for the men too were averse to spending a winter in Labrador, and had rather advocated a return by way of Davis Inlet or the Grand River.5 Gilbert alone sang and laughed as merrily as ever, undisturbed by doubts or fears. That evening the sunset was of clear gold and the sudden chill, which in Labrador always follows, sent me shivering to the camp fire where, below the bank, on the solid, smooth-worn rock of the river bed, we had supper of ptarmigan. But neither hunger nor perplexities could shut out the impress of the desolate grandeur of our surroundings. This was the wilderness indeed with only the crystal river and the beautiful skies to make it glad. Only? Or was there more? Or was it glad? Perhaps, yes surely, somewhere within it there was gladness; but everywhere it was beautiful with the beauty which alone, to some hearts, can carry the "still small voice."6 If only it would never say, "What doest thou here?" one must wish to stay and listen to it always.

The Montagnais Indians 131

Through the stillness came up the sound of the rapids below our camp. Above, fish jumped in the quiet water where the after-glow in the sky was given back enriched and deepened. Then came night and the stars - bright northern lights - bright moon - shadows on the tent - dreams. A ptarmigan whirred up from the comer of my tent and I awoke to find the sun shining and everything outside sparkling with frost. The men had already begun portaging, for below camp the rapids were too heavy to take the outfit down; but when breakfast was over and the last load had been taken forward over the half mile portage, the canoes were run down the river. A short distance below, the river drops rapidly round many little islands of pink and white rock by a succession of picturesque falls and rapids and chutes extending for about two miles and here a number of short portages were made. We reached the last of the islands shortly before eleven o'clock and then landed to climb a hill to the east. It rose six hundred and thirty feet above the river, but the view from the top afforded us little satisfaction so far as the route was concerned. The river could be seen for only a few miles ahead, flowing away to the northwest towards higher hills, where we could see patches of snow lying. Some miles to the east was a large lake, its outlet, a river of considerable size, joining the George River three-quarters of a mile north of where we had left the canoes. Below the junction there were many Indian signs along the shores, and we knew that there the portage route of which the Montagnais women had spoken, must lead to the river again. Steadily through the afternoon we approached the higher hills ever on the watch for the Nascaupee camp; but we did not find it. There was a short lift over a direct drop of four or five feet, and two portages of about half a mile past heavy rapids, at the second of which the river drops fifty feet to flow between high, sandy banks, the hills on either side standing back from the river, their broken faces red with a coating of iron rust. The intervening spaces were strewn with boulders of unusual size. Fresh caribou tracks, the only ones seen since leaving the head of Long Lake, were found on the first portage, and on the second I gathered my first mossberries.7 A heavy shower passed late in the afternoon and the sky remained overcast; but we were not delayed, and towards evening arrived at the point, twenty miles below Thousand Island Expansion, where a large tributary comes in from the west, and the George River turns abruptly northward among the higher hills. The proposal to go into camp had already been made when George discovered some ptarmigan high up the bank. There was a brisk hunt and eleven were taken. So again we supped on ptarmigan that night. I took mine in my tent on account of the mosquitoes, which were so thick that, as George expressed it, it was "like walking in a snowstorm" to move about outside.

CHAPTER XVI

The Barren Ground People

ON Sunday morning, August 20th, I awoke in a state of expectancy. We had slept three times since leaving the Montagnais camp, and unless the Barren Ground People were not now in their accustomed camping place, we ought to see them before night. Many thoughts came of how greatly Mr Hubbard had wished to see them, and what a privilege he would have thought it to be able to visit them. It seemed this morning as if something unusual might happen. It was as if we were coming into a hidden country. From where the river turned into the hills it flowed for more than a mile northward through what was like a great magnificent corridor, leading to something larger beyond. When Joe and Gilbert, who were usually the first to get off, slipped away down the river, I realised how swift flowing the water must be. It looked still as glass and very dark, almost black. The quiet surface was disturbed only by the jumping of the fish. We saw the canoe push off and turned to put a few last touches to the loading of our own. When we looked again they were already far away. Soon, however, we had caught them up and together the two canoes ran out into the widening of the river. Here it bent a little to the north-east, but two miles farther on it again bore away to the north. In the distance we could see the mountain tops standing far apart and knew that there, between them, a lake must lie. Could it be Indian House Lake, the Mush-au-wau-ni-pi, or "Barren Ground Water," of the Indians?1 We were still farther south than it was placed on the map I carried. Yet we had passed the full number of lakes given in the map above this water. Even so I did not believe it could be the big lake I had been looking forward to reaching so eagerly. As we paddled on at a rather brisk rate I sat thinking how beautiful the river, the mountains, and the morning were. I had not settled myself to watch seriously for the Nascaupee camp, when suddenly George exclaimed, "There it is." There it was indeed, a covered wigwam, high up on a sandy hill, which sloped to the water edge, and formed the point round which the river flowed to the lake among the mountains. Soon a second wigwam came in sight. We could see no

The Barren Ground People 133 one at the camp at first. Then a figure appeared moving about near one of the wigwams. It was evident that they were still unconscious of our presence; but as we paddled slowly along the figure suddenly stopped, a whole company came running together, and plainly our sudden appearance was causing great excitement. There was a hurried moving to and fro and after a time came the sound of two rifle shots. I replied with my revolver. Again they fired and I replied again. Then more shots from the hill. As we drew slowly near, the men ran down towards the landing, but halted above a narrow belt of trees near the water's edge. There an animated discussion of the new comers took place. We all shouted, "Bo Jou! Bo Jou!" (Bon Jour).2 A chorus of Bo Jous came back from the hill. George called to them in Indian: "We are strangers and are passing through your country." The sound of words in their own tongue reassured them and they ran down to the landing. As we drew near we could hear them talking. I, of course, could not understand a word of it, but I learned later from George what they said. "Who are they?" "See the man steering looks like an Indian." "That surely is an Indian." "Why, there is an English woman." "Where have they come from?" As the canoe glided towards the landing, one, who was evidently the chief, stepped forward while the others remained a little apart. Putting out his hand to catch the canoe as it touched the sand he said, "Of course you have some tobacco?" "Only a little," George replied. "We have come far." Then the hand was given in greeting as we stepped ashore. It was a striking picture they made that quiet Sabbath morning, as they stood there at the shore with the dark greenwoods behind them and all about them the great wilderness of rock and river and lake. You did not see it all, but you felt it. They had markedly Indian faces and those of the older men showed plainly the battle for life they had been fighting. They were tall, lithe, and active looking, with a certain air of self-possession and dignity which almost all Indians seem to have. They wore dressed deer-skin breeches and moccasins and over the breeches were drawn bright red cloth leggings reaching from the ankle to well above the knee, and held in place by straps fastened about the waist. The shirts, some of which were of cloth and some of dressed deer-skin, were worn outside the breeches and over these a white coat bound about the edges with blue or red. Their hair was long and cut straight round below the ears while tied about the

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The Nascaupee Chief and Men

head was a bright coloured kerchief. The faces were full of interest. Up on the hill the women and children and old men stood watching, perhaps waiting till it should appear whether the strangers were friendly or hostile. "Where did you come into the river?" the chief asked. George explained that we had come the whole length of the river, that we had come in to it from Lake Michikamau, which we reached by way of the Nascaupee. He was greatly surprised. He had been at Northwest River and knew the route. Turning to the others he told them of our long journey. Then they came

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forward and gathered eagerly about us. We told them we were going down the river to the post at Ungava. "Oh! you are near now," they said. "You will sleep only five times if you travel fast." My heart bounded as this was interpreted to me, for it meant that we should be at the post before the end of August for this was only the twentieth. There was still a chance that we might be in time for the ship. "Then where is the long lake that is in this river?" George enquired. "It is here," the chief replied. We enquired about the river. All were eager to tell about it, and many expressive gestures were added to their words to tell that the river was rapid all the way. An arm held at an angle showed what we were to expect in the rapids, and a vigorous drop of the hand expressed something about the falls. There would be a few portages but they were not long, and in some places it would be just a short lift over; but it was all rapid nearly. "And when you come to a river coming in on the other side in quite a fall you are not far from the post." There was a tightening in my throat as I thought, "What if I had decided to turn back rather than winter in Labrador!" "Did you see any Indians?" the chief asked. "Yes, we have slept three times since we were at their camp." "Were they getting any caribou?" was the next eager question. "Had they seen any signs of the crossing?" George told them of the great numbers we had seen and there followed an earnest discussion among themselves as to the probability of the caribou passing near them. "Are you going up?" we enquired. They replied, "No, not our country." There were enquiries as to which way the caribou were passing, and again they talked among themselves about their hopes and fears. We learned that, only three days before, they had returned from Davis Inlet where they go to trade for supplies as do the Montagnais. They had come back from their long journey sick at heart to meet empty handed those who waited in glad anticipation of this the great event of the year - the return from the post. The ship had not come, and the post store was empty. As they talked, the group about the canoe was growing larger. The old men had joined the others together with a few old women. As the story of their disappointment was told one old man said, "You see the way we live and you see the way we dress. It is hard for us to live. Sometimes we do not get many caribou. Perhaps they will not cross our country. We can get nothing from the Englishman, not even ammunition. It is hard for us to live."

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All summer they had been taking an occasional caribou, enough for present needs, but little more than that, and the hunters on their return from the coast found the hands at home as empty as their own. Now the long winter stretched before them with all its dread possibilities. We enquired of them how far it was to the coast, and found that they make the outward journey in five days, and the return trip in seven. They informed us that they had this year been accompanied part of the way by an Englishman. All white men are Englishmen to them. As George interpreted to me, he said, "That must be Mr Cabot." Instantly the chief caught at the name and said, "Cabot? Yes, that is the man. He turned back two days' journey from here. He was going away on a ship."3 When during the winter I had talked with Mr Cabot of my trip he had said, "Perhaps we shall meet on the George next summer." Now I felt quite excited to think how near we had come to doing so. How I wished he had sent me a line by the Indians. I wanted to know how the Peace Conference was getting on.41 wondered at first that he had not done so; but after a little, laughed to myself as I thought I could guess why. How envious he would be of me, for I had really found the home camp of his beloved Nascaupees. Meanwhile the old women had gathered about me begging for tobacco. I did not know, of course, what it was they wanted, and when the coveted tobacco did not appear they began to complain bitterly, "She is not giving us any tobacco. See, she does not want to give us any tobacco." George explained to them that I did not smoke and so had no tobacco to give them, but that I had other things I could give them. Now that we were so near the post I could spare some of my provisions, for the supply was considerably more than we should now need to take us to our journey's end. There was one partly used bag of flour which was lifted out of the canoe and laid on the beach. Then Job handed me the tea and rice bags. Two, not very clean, coloured silk handkerchiefs were spread on the beach when I asked for something to put the tea and rice in, and a group of eager faces bent over me as I lifted the precious contents from the bags, leaving only enough tea to take us to the post, and enough rice for one more pudding. An old tin pail lying near was filled with salt, and a piece of bacon completed the list. A few little trinkets were distributed among the women and from the expression on their faces, I judged they had come to the conclusion that I was not so bad after all, even though I did not smoke a pipe and so could not give them any of their precious "Tshishtemau."5 Meantime I had been thinking about my photographs. Taking up one of my kodaks I said to the chief that I should like to take his picture and motioned him to stand apart. He seemed to understand quite readily and stepped lightly to one side of the little company, in a way which showed it was not a new experience to

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him. They had no sort of objection to being snapped, but rather seemed quite eager to pose for me. Then came an invitation to go up to the camp. As George interpreted he did not look at all comfortable, and when he asked if I cared to go I knew he was wishing very much that I would say "No," but I said, "Yes, indeed." So we went up while the other three remained at the canoes. Even in barren Labrador are to be found little touches that go to prove human nature the same the world over. One of the young men, handsomer than the others, and conscious of the fact, had been watching me throughout with evident interest. He was not only handsomer than the others, but his leggings were redder. As we walked up towards the camp he went a little ahead and to one side, managing to watch for the impression he evidently expected to make. A little distance from where we landed was a row of bark canoes turned upside down. As we passed them he turned and, to make sure that those red leggings should not fail of their mission, he put his foot up on one of the canoes pretending, as I passed, to tie his moccasin, the while watching for the effect. It was some little distance up to camp. When we reached it we could see northward down the lake for miles. It lay like a great, broad river guarded on either side by the mountains. The prospect was very beautiful. Everywhere along the way we found the camping places chosen from among the most beautiful spots, and there seemed abundant evidence that in many another Indian breast dwelt the heart of Saltatha,6 Warburton Pike's famous guide, who when the good priest had told him of the beauties of heaven said, "My Father you have spoken well. You have told me that heaven is beautiful. Tell me now one thing more. Is it more beautiful than the land of the musk ox in summer, when sometimes the mist blows over the lakes, and sometimes the waters are blue, and the loons call very often? This is beautiful, my Father. If heaven is more beautiful I shall be content to rest there till I am very old." The camp consisted of two large wigwams, the covers of which were of dressed deer-skins sewed together and drawn tight over the poles, while across the doorway hung an old piece of sacking. The covers were now worn and old and dirtygrey in colour save round the opening at the top, where they were blackened by the smoke from the fire in the centre of the wigwam. Here the younger women and the children were waiting, and some of them had donned their best attire for the occasion of the strangers' visit. Their dresses were of cotton and woollen goods. Few wore skin clothes, and those who did had on a rather long skin shirt with hood attached, but under the shirt were numerous cloth garments. Only the old men and little children were dressed altogether in skins. One young woman appeared in a gorgeous purple dress, and oh her head the black and red tuque with beaded band worn by most of the Montagnais

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women, and I wondered if she had come to the Nascaupee camp the bride of one of its braves. There was about her .an air of conscious difference from the others, but this was unrecognized by them. The faces here were not bright and happy looking as at the Montagnais camp. Nearly all were sad and wistful. The old women seemed the brightest of all and were apparently important people in the camp. Even the little children's faces were sad and old in expression as if they too realised something of the cares of wilderness life. At first they stood about rather shyly watching me, with evident interest, but making no move to greet or welcome me. I did not know how best to approach them. Then seeing a young mother with her babe in her arms standing among the group, near one of the wigwams, I stepped towards her, and touching the little bundle I spoke to her of her child and she held it so that I might see its face. It was a very young baby, born only the day before, I learned later, and the mother herself looked little more than a child. Her face was pale, and she looked weak and sick. Though she held her child towards me there was no lighting up of her face, no sign of responsive interest. Almost immediately, however, I was surrounded by nearly the whole community of women who talked rapidly about the babe and its mother. The little creature had no made garments on, but was simply wrapped about with old cloths leaving only its face and neck bare. The outermost covering was a piece of plaid shawl, and all were held tightly in place by a stout cord passing round the bundle a number of times. It would be quite impossible for the tiny thing to move hand or foot or any part of its body except the face. As one might expect it wore an expression of utter wretchedness though it lay with closed eyes making no sound. I could make almost nothing of what they said, and when I called George to interpret for me they seemed not to want to talk. Taking out my kodaks I set about securing a few photographs. Already the old women were beginning to prepare for the feast they were to have. Two large black pots that stood on three legs were set out, and one of the women went into the tent and brought out a burning brand to light the fire under them. Soon interest was centred on the pots. I had a little group ranged up in front of the wigwams when the lady in purple, whose attention for a time had been turned to the preparations for the feast, seeing what was taking place, came swiftly across and placed herself in the very centre of the group. All apparently understood what was being done and were anxious to be in the picture. During the stay at camp I saw little sign of attempt at ornamentation. The moccasins and skin clothing I saw were unadorned. There was but the one black and red tuque with braided band, and the chiefs daughter alone wore the beaded band on her hair, which was arranged as that of the women in the Montagnais camp. One woman coveted a sweater I wore. It was a rather bright green

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With the Nascaupee Women

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with red cuffs and collar, and the colour had greatly taken her fancy. I wished that I had been able to give it to her, but my wardrobe was as limited as I dared to have it, and so I was obliged to refuse her request. In a way which I had not in the least expected I found these people appealing to me, and myself wishing that I might remain with them for a time, but I could not risk a winter in Labrador for the sake of the longer visit, even had I been able to persuade the men to remain. Already George was showing his anxiety to get away and I realised that it was not yet certain we should be in time for the ship. It might easily be more than five days to the post. I could not know how far the Indian mind had been influenced, in gauging the distance, by a desire to reduce to the smallest possible limit the amount of tobacco the men would need to retain for their own use. It was not far from the last week in August. Now I felt that not simply a day but even an hour might cost me a winter in Labrador. When the word went forth that we were about to leave, all gathered for the parting. Looking about for something which I might carry away with me as a souvenir of the visit, my eyes caught the beaded band, which the chiefs daughter wore on her hair, and stepping towards her I touched it to indicate my wish. She drew sharply away and said something in tones that had a plainly resentful ring. It was, "That is mine." I determined not to be discouraged and made another try. Stretched on a frame to dry was a very pretty deer-skin and I had George ask if I might have that. That seemed to appeal to them as a not unreasonable request, and they suggested that I take one already dressed. The woman who had wanted my sweater went into the wigwam and brought out one. It was very pretty and beautifully soft and white on the inside. She again pleaded for the sweater, and as I could not grant her request I handed her back the skin; but she bade me keep it. They gave George a piece of deer-skin dressed without the hair, "to line a pair of mits," they said. As they stood about during the last few minutes of our stay, the chiefs arm was thrown across his little daughter's shoulders as she leaned confidingly against him. While the parting words were being exchanged he was engaged in a somewhat absent-minded, but none the less successful, examination of her head. Many of the others were similarly occupied. There was no evidence of their being conscious that there was anything extraordinary in what they were doing, nor any attempt at concealing it. Apparently it was as much a matter of course as eating. When I said, "Good-bye," they made no move to accompany me to the canoe. "Good-bye," said George. "Send us a fair wind." Smilingly they assured him that they would. In a minute we were in the canoe and pushing off from shore. As we turned down the lake, all eager to be shortening the distance between us and the post, I looked back. They were still standing

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Nascaupee Little Folk

just as we had left them watching us. Taking out my handkerchief I waved it over my head. Instantly the shawls and kerchiefs flew out as they waved a response, and with this parting look backward to our wilderness friends we turned our faces to Ungava.

CHAPTER XVII

The Race for Ungava

FIVE days to Ungava! Seated in the canoe with time to think I could not seem to realise the situation. Indian House Lake! Five days to Ungava! Oh! how I wanted it to be true. Ungava, in spite of hopes and resolves, had seemed always far away, mysterious, and unattainable, but now it had been suddenly thrust forward almost within my reach. If true, this would mean the well-nigh certain achievement of my heart's desire - the completion of my husband's work. Yet there were the rapids, where the skill and judgment of the men were our safeguards. One little miscalculation and it would take but an instant to whelm us in disaster. Still we had come so far on the way with success, surely it would be given to us to reach the goal in safety. But here inevitably thought flew to one who had been infinitely worthy but who had been denied. Five days to Ungava! And because I so much wished it to be true I was afraid, for the hard things of life will sometimes make cowards of its pilgrims. The Barren Ground Water was very fair in the morning sunshine. It was as if, while exploring some great ruin, we had chanced into a secret, hidden chamber, the most splendid of them all, and when after lunch the promised fair wind sprang up, and the canoes with well-filled sails were speeding northward, the lake and its guardian hills became bluer and more beautiful than ever. Nowhere did we find the lake more than two miles wide. Long points reaching out from either shore cut off the view and seemed to change the course; but in reality they did not, for it was always northward. To left and right there were the hills, now barren altogether, or again with a narrow belt of "greenwoods" spruce, balsam, tamarack - along the shore. In many places skeleton wigwams marked the site of old Nascaupee camps. The hills on the east in places rose abruptly from the water, but on the west they stood a little back with sand-hills on terraces between and an occasional high, wedge-shaped point of sand and loose rock reached almost halfway across the lake. Often as I looked ahead, the lake seemed to end; but, the distant point passed, it stretched on again into the

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north, till with repetition of this experience, it began to seem as if the end would never come. Streams entered through narrow openings between the hills, or roared down their steep sides. At one point the lake narrowed to about a quarter of a mile in width where the current was very swift. Beyond this point we saw the last caribou of the trip. It was a three-year-old doe. She stood at the shore watching us curiously as we came towards her. Then stepping daintily in, she began to swim across. We soon caught her up and after playing round her in the canoe for a time the men with shouts of laughter headed her inshore and George, in the bow, leaning over caught her by the tail and we were towed merrily in the wake. Every minute I expected the canoe to turn over. However, George was soon obliged to relinquish his hold for the doe's feet touched bottom and in a moment she was speeding up the steep hillside stopping now and then to look back with wondering frightened eyes at the strange creatures she had so unexpectedly encountered. Here where the caribou were rare, George River mosquitoes made life miserable for us. The flies, which in the Nascaupee country had been such a trial to me, had not driven the men to the use of their veils except on rare occasions; but now they were being worn even out on the lake where we were still tormented. Backs and hats were brown with the vicious wretches where they could cling waiting for a lull in the wind to swarm about our heads in such numbers that even their war song made one shiver and creep. They were larger by far than any Jersey mosquitoes ever dreamed of being, and their bite was like the touch of a live coal. Sometimes in the tent a continual patter on the roof as they flew against it sounded like a gentle rain. The foot of the lake was finally reached on Monday evening, August 21st, at sunset, and we went into camp fifty-five to sixty miles from where we had entered it, and within sound of the first pitch in the one hundred and thirty miles of almost continuous rapids over which we were to travel. That night Job had a dream of them. He believed in dreams a little and it troubled him. He thought we were running in rapids which were very difficult, and, becoming entrapped in the currents, were carried over the brink of a fall. In the morning he told his dream, and the others were warned of danger ahead.1 My canoe was to lead the way with George in the bow and Job in the stem, while Joe and Gilbert were to follow close behind. When we left our camp an extra paddle was placed within easy reach of each canoe man so that should one snap at a critical moment another could instantly replace it. This was a new attitude towards the work ahead and as we paddled slowly in the direction of the outlet where the hills drew together, as if making ready to surround and imprison us, my mind was full of vague imaginings concerning the river.

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Far beyond my wildest thought, however, was the reality. Immediately at the outlet the canoes were caught by the swift current and for five days we were carried down through almost continuous rapids. There were long stretches of miles where the slope of the river bed was a steep gradient and I held my breath as the canoe shot down at toboggan pace. There was not only the slope down the course of the river but where the water swung past long points of loose rocks, which reach out from either shore, a distinct tilt from one side to the other could be seen, as when an engine rounds a bend. There were foaming, roaring breakers where the river flowed over its bed of boulder shallows, or again the water was smooth and apparently motionless even where the slope downward was clearly marked. Standing in the stern of the canoe, guiding it with firm, unerring hand, Job scanned the river ahead choosing out our course, now shouting his directions to George in the bow, or again to Joe and Gilbert as they followed close behind. Usually we ran in the shallow water near shore where the rocks of the river bed looked perilously near the surface. When the sun shone, sharp points and angles seemed to reach up into the curl of the waves, though in reality they did not, and often it appeared as if we were going straight to destruction as the canoe shot towards them. I used to wish the water were not so crystal clear, so that I might not see the rocks, for I seemed unable to accustom myself to the fact that it was not by seeing the rocks the men chose the course but by the way the water flowed.

Though our course was usually in shallow water near the shore, sometimes for no reason apparent to me, we turned out into the heavier swells of the deeper stronger tide. Then faster, and faster, and faster we flew, Job still standing in the stern shouting his directions louder and louder as the roar of the rapid increased or the way became more perilous, till suddenly, I could feel him drop into his seat behind me as the canoe shot by a group of boulders, and George bending to his paddle with might and main turned the bow inshore again. Quick as the little craft had won out of the wild rush of water pouring round the outer edge of this boulder barrier, Job was on his feet again as we sped onward, still watching the river ahead that we might not become entrapped. Sometimes when it was possible after passing a particularly hard and dangerous place we ran into a quiet spot to watch Joe and Gilbert come through. This was almost more exciting than coming through myself. But more weird and uncanny than wildest cascade or rapid was the dark vision which opened out before us at the head of Slanting Lake.2 The picture in my memory still seems unreal and mysterious, but the actual one was as disturbing as an evil dream.

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Shooting the Rapids

Down, down, down the long slope before us, to where four miles away Hades Hills lifted an uncompromising barrier across the way,3 stretched the lake and river, black as ink now under leaden sky and shadowing hills. The lake, which was three-quarters of a mile wide, dipped not only with the course of the river but appeared to dip also from one side to the other. Not a ripple or touch of white could be seen anywhere. All seemed motionless as if an unseen hand had touched and stilled it. A death-like quiet reigned and as we glided smoothly down with the tide we could see all about us a soft, boiling motion at the surface of this black flood, which gave the sense of treachery as well as mystery. As I looked down the long slope to where the river appeared to lose itself in the side of the mountain it seemed to me that there, if anywhere, the prophecy of Job's dream must be fulfilled. Cerberus might easily be waiting for us there.4 He

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would have scarcely time to fawn upon us till we should go shooting past him into the Pit. But after all the river was not swallowed up in the mountain. It only turned to the west and swifter than ever, we flew down with its current, no longer smooth and dark, but broken into white water over a broader bed of smooth-worn boulders, till three miles below we passed out into a quiet expansion, where the tension relaxed and with minds at ease we could draw in long, satisfying breaths. The travelling day was a short one during this part of the trip, and I wondered often how the men stood the strain. Once I asked Job if running rapids did not tire him very much. He answered, "Yes" with a smile and look of surprise that I should understand such a thing. The nights were made hideous by the mosquitoes, and I slept little. The loss of sleep made rapid running trying, and after a particularly bad night I would sit trembling with excitement as we raced down the slope. It was most difficult to resist the impulse to grasp the sides of the canoe, and to compel myself instead to sit with hands clasped about my knees, and muscles relaxed so that my body might lend itself to the motion of the canoe. Sometimes as we ran towards the west the river glittered so in the afternoon sunshine that it was impossible to tell what the water was doing. This made it necessary to land now and again, so that Job might go forward and look over the course. As the bow of the canoe turned inshore, the current caught the stern and whirled it round with such force and suddenness, that only the quick setting of a paddle on the shoreward side kept the little craft from being dashed to pieces against the rocks. On Thursday, August 24th, I wrote in my diary: — 5 "Such a nice sleep last night albeit blankets and 'comfortable' so wet (the stopper of my hot-water bottle had not been properly screwed in the night before and they were soaked). Beautiful morning. Mountains ahead standing out against the clear sky with delicate clouds of white mist hanging along their sides or veiling the tops. One just at the bend is very, very fine. It reminds me of an Egyptian pyramid. Job is not feeling well this morning and it bothers me. I asked him if it were a case of too many rapids. He smiled and said, 'I don't know,' but as if he thought that might be the trouble. "Later. - Just a little below our camp we found a river coming in with a wild rush from the east.6 It was the largest we had yet seen and we wondered if our reckoning could be so far out that this might be the river 'not far from the post' of which the Nascaupees had told us. Then so anxious for the noon observation and so glad to have a fine day for it. Result 57° 43' 28". That settled it, but all glad to be rapidly lessening the distance between us and Ungava. "After noon, more rapids and I got out above one of them to walk. I climbed up the river wall to the high, sandy terrace above. This great wall of packed boul-

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ders is one of the most characteristic features of the lower river. It is thrown up by the action of ice in the spring floods, and varies all the way from twenty feet at its beginning to fifty and sixty feet farther down. One of the remarkable things about it is that the largest boulders lie at the top, some of them so huge as to weigh tons. On the terrace, moss berries and blue berries were so thick as to make walking slippery. The river grows more magnificent all the time. I took one photograph of the sun's rays slanting down through a rift in the clouds, and lighting up the mountains in the distance. I am feeling wretched over not having more films. I wish I had brought twice as many. "While running the rapid George and Job were nearly wrecked. Job changed his mind about the course a little too late and they had a narrow escape. They were whirled round and banged up against a cliff with the bottom of the canoe tipped to the rock and held there for a while, but fortunately did not turn over, till an unusually tempestuous rush of water reached up and lifted the canoe from its perch down into the water again. Then tying a rope at either end they clambered out to a precarious perch on a slope in the cliff. By careful manoeuvring they succeeded in turning the canoe round and getting in again, thus escaping from the trap. Joe and Gilbert came through without mishap. Practically the whole river from Indian House Lake is like a toboggan slide. I shall be glad for every one, and especially for Job, when we have left the rapids behind. He says he feels better to-night. Saw fresh caribou tracks upon the terrace. Have been finding beautiful bunches of harebell (Comua uniflom) in the clefts of the rocks along the river. They are very lovely. Once today the lonely cry of a wolf came down to us from high up on the mountain side. The mountains are splendid. We are in the midst of scenes which have a decidedly Norwegian look. Have passed one river and several good-sized streams coming in from the east and one of some size from the west, but we have seen nothing from the west which could be called a river. Much more water comes in from the east. "As we turned northward this evening just above camp a wind came up the valley, that felt as if straight from the Arctic. Fire in an open place to-night, and I do not like to go out to supper. It is so cold. Thinking now we may possibly get to the post day after to-morrow. George says he thinks the river must be pretty straight from here. I rather think it will take us a little more than two days. All feel that we may have good hope of catching the steamer. Perhaps we shall get to tide water to-morrow. There have been signs of porcupine along the way today, and one standing wigwam. There is a big bed of moss berries (a small black berry, which grows on a species of moss and is quite palatable) right at my tent door to-night. So strange, almost unbelievable, to think we are coming so near to Ungava. I begin to realise that I have never actually counted on being able to get there."

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Bridgman Mountains

The country grew more and more mountainous and rugged and barren. The wood growth, which is of spruce and tamarack, with here and there a little balsam, was for some distance below the Barren Ground Water rather more abundant than it had been along the lake shores. At best it was but a narrow belt along the water edge covering the hills to a height of perhaps two hundred feet and dwindling gradually toward the north, till in places it was absent altogether and our tents were pitched where no trees grew. The ridges on either side crossed each other almost at right angles, turning the river now to the north-east, again to the north-west. Down the mountain sides, broad bands of white showed where the waters of numberless lakes and streams on the heights came tumbling down to join the river, or again a great gap in the solid mountain of rock let through a rush of blue-green, foaming water. The hills have the characteristic Cambrian outline and it is the opinion of Mr Low that this formation extends continuously eastward from the Kaniapiscau to the George.7 The mountains on the right bank were more rugged and irregular than those on the left,' and Bridgman Mountains OO O O in places stand out to the river quite distinct and separate, like giant forts.8 On the morning of August 24th they had closed round us as if to swallow us up, and gazing back from our lunching place George said, with something of awe in his tone, "It looks as if we had just got out of prison." And still the river roared on down through its narrow valley, at Helen Falls dropping by wild and tempestuous cascades, and then by almost equally wild rapids, to a mile below, where it shoots out into an expansion with such terrific force as to keep this great rush of water above the general level for some distance out into the lake.9 Here we made the longest portage of the journey down the George River, carrying the stuff one mile and a quarter. Below Helen Falls the mountains spread in a wider sweep to the sea, and the river gradually increased in width as it neared Ungava. Still it flowed on in

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rapids. So often we had asked each other, "Will they never end?" However, in the afternoon on August 26th, we reached smooth water, and had a few hours' paddling. Then darkness began to close in. If only we could keep on! I knew from my observation that day we could not be many miles from our journey's end now; but it was not to be that we should reach our destination that night, and camp was pitched at a point, which I thought must be about seven or eight miles above the post. It was very disappointing, and when George said, "If the ship is there they will be sure to try to get off Saturday night," I felt rather desperate. Still it would not do to take chances with the George River in the dark. In spite of anxieties I slept that night but felt quite strung in the morning. At breakfast I used the last of the crystalose in my tea. It seemed very wonderful that the little ounce bottle of this precious sweet had lasted us as long as sixty pounds of sugar. There was just a little of our tea left, and I filled the bottle with it to keep as a souvenir of the trip. The remainder I put into one of the waterproof saltshakers and this I gave to George. I learned later that there was a bit of quiet fun among the men as I did it. They had no great faith in my calculations, and it was their opinion that the tea would probably taste quite good at lunch. After what seemed an unnecessarily long time, the camp things were again in the canoe and we were off. About a mile below camp we found that the rapids were not yet passed. Here a heavy though short one made a portage necessary and then we dropped down to where the river spreads out to two miles or more in width. For several miles we paddled on in smooth water the river swinging a little to the west. How eagerly I watched the point where it turned again to the north for beyond that we should see the post. As we neared the bend there was an exciting escape from running into an unsuspected rapid. Nothing was to be seen ahead but smooth water. The wind was from the south and not a sound was heard till, suddenly, we found ourselves almost upon the brink of the slope, and only by dint of hard paddling reached the shore at its edge. It was the first and only time we had been caught in this way. Again came the question, "Will they never end?" The rapids stretched on before us turbulent and noisy as before, first west then swinging abruptly to the north. Joe and Gilbert decided to portage across the point, but George and Job after much consideration prepared to run down in the canoe while I walked across to the little bay below. As they were starting off I said to George, "When you get out beyond those points you should be able to see the island opposite the post." "All right, I'll watch for it," he replied with a smile, and they started. Pushing off, they worked the canoe cautiously out to where they meant to take the rapid. It was something more of a feat than they had looked for, and sudden-

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ly after strenuous but ineffectual efforts to make the canoe do what they wanted, they dropped into the bottom, and to my amazement I saw it shoot forward stern foremost into the rapid. The men had been quick as the water though, and in dropping to their places had turned about, so that they were not quite helpless. I stood watching them, hardly able to breathe. The canoe danced like an autumn leaf in the swells of the rapid, and Job's excited shouting came faintly over the sound of the water. At what a pace they were going! Was the canoe under control? I could not tell. What would happen when they reached the point where the water swings round to the north again? In an agony of suspense I watched and waited. Now they were nearing the critical point. And - now - they had passed it, and with a wild cry of triumph turned towards the little bay below. As they drew in to where I waited for them, George waved his cap to me and shouted, "I saw the island." We passed out beyond the point below and there it lay some miles away, in the quiet water, with the sunshine of the calm Sabbath morning flooding down upon it. But the post was not yet in sight. Quite out of harmony with the still dignity of the day and the scenes of desolate grandeur about was the mind within me. The excitement at the rapid had seemed to increase the strain I was under, and every moment it became more intense. I did wish that the men would not chat and laugh in the unconcerned way they were doing, and they paddled as leisurely as if I were not in a hurry at all. If only I could reach the post and ask about the ship! If only I might fly out over the water without waiting for these leisurely paddles! And now, from being in an agony of fear for their lives, my strong desire was to take them by their collars and knock their heads together hard. This was not practicable in the canoe, however, and I was fain to control myself as best I might. Once I said to George, "Do hurry a little," and for two minutes he paddled strenuously; but soon it was again the merry chat and the leisurely dip, dip of the paddles. I think they were laughing at me a little and had also in their minds the fun it would be to see me bring out my precious tea again for lunch. Suddenly we descried a white speck on a point some distance away, and drawing nearer saw people moving about. Then we discovered that a boat was out at some nets, and on reaching it found an Eskimo fisherman and his son taking in the catch. The man smiled broadly as he came to the end of his boat to shake hands with us, and my heart sank dully, for his face and manner plainly indicated that he had been expecting us. This could only be explained by the fact that the ship had been to the post bringing with her the news of my attempted crossing. We spoke to him in English, which he seemed to understand, but replied in Eskimo, which we were helpless to make anything of, and after a vain struggle for the much desired news as to the ship, we left him and proceeded on our way.

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The Arrival at Ungava

I sat thinking desperately of the Eskimo, of the way he had received us and its portent. There could be only one explanation. I had no heart now for the competition as to who should first sight the post. Yet how we hope even when there is nothing left to us but the absence of certainty! I could not quite give up yet. Suddenly George exclaimed, "There it is." Somehow he seemed nearly always to see things first. There it was deep in a cove, on the right bank of the river, a little group of tiny buildings nestling in at the foot of the mountain of solid rock. It seemed almost microscopic in the midst of such surroundings. The tide was low and a great, boulder-strewn, mud flat stretched from side to side of the cove. Down from the hills to the east flowed a little stream winding its way through a tortuous channel as it passed out to the river. We turned into it and followed it up, passing between high mud-banks, which the channel bore away to the farther side of the cove. Then to my surprise the men suddenly changed paddles for poles and turning the bows inshore poled right on up over the mud-bank. It was such a funny and novel performance that it snapped the spell for me, and I joined with the men in their shouts of laughter over the antics of the canoe on the slippery mud-bank. When we finally reached the top and slid out on to the flat, we saw a man, who

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we supposed must be Mr Ford, the agent at the post, coming over the mud with his retinue of Eskimo to meet us. We were all on our feet now waiting. When he came within hearing I asked if he were Mr Ford, and told him who I was and how I had come there. Then came the, for me, great question, "Has the ship been here?" He said, "Yes." "And gone again?" "Yes. That is - what ship do you mean? Is there any other ship expected here than the Company's ship." "No, it is the Company's ship I mean, the Pelican. Has she been here?" "Yes," he said, "she was here last September. I expect her in September again, about the middle of the month or later."

CHAPTER X V I I I

The Reckoning

THERE are times when that which constitutes one's inner self seems to cease. So it was with me at the moment Mr Ford uttered those last words. My heart should have swelled with emotion, but it did not. I cannot remember any time in my life when I had less feeling. Mr Ford was asking me to come with him to the post house, and looking at my feet. Then George was seen to rumage in one of the bags and out came my sealskin boots, which I had worn but once, mainly because the woman at Northwest River post who made them had paid me the undeserved compliment of making them too small. My "larigans,"1 which had long ago ceased to have any waterproof qualities, were now exchanged for the seal-skins, and thus fortified I stepped out into the slippery mud. So with a paddle as staff in one hand and Mr Ford supporting me by the other, I completed my journey to the post. At the foot of the hill below the house, Mrs Ford stood waiting. Her eyes shone like stars as she took my hand and said, "You are very welcome, Mrs Hubbard. Your's is the first white woman's face I have seen for two years." We went on up the hill to the house. I do not remember what we talked about. I only remember Mrs Ford's eyes which were very blue and very beautiful now in her excitement. And when we reached the little piazza and I turned to look back, there were the men sitting quietly in the canoes. The Eskimo had drawn canoes, men and outfit across the mud to where a little stream slipped down over a gravelly bed, which offered firmer footing, and were now coming in single file towards the post each with a bag over his shoulder. Why were the men sitting there? Why did they not come too? Suddenly I realised that with our arrival at the post our positions were reversed. They were my charges now. They had completed their task and what a great thing they had done for me. They had brought me safely, triumphantly on my long journey, and not a hair of my head had been harmed. They had done it too with an innate courtesy and gentleness that was beautiful, and I had left them without a word. With a dull feeling of helplessness and limitation I thought of

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how differently another would have done. No matter how I tried, I could never be so generous and self-forgetful as he. In the hour of disappointment and loneliness, even in the hour of death, he had taken thought so generously for his companions. I, in the hour of my triumph, had forgotten mine. We were like the Light and Darkness and with the light gone how deep was the darkness. Once I had thought I stood up beside him, but in what a school had I learned that I only reached to his feet. And now all my effort, though it might achieve that which he would be glad and proud of, could never bring him back. I must go back to the men at once, and leaving Mr and Mrs Ford I slipped down the hill again, and out along the little stream across the cove. They came to meet me when they saw me coming and Heaven alone knows how inadequate were the words with which I tried to thank them. We came up the hill together now, and soon the tents were pitched among the willows. As I watched them from the post window busy about their new camping ground, it was with a feeling of genuine loneliness that I realised that I should not again be one of the little party. Later came the reckoning, which may be summed up as follows: — Length of Journey: - 576 miles from post to post (with 30 miles additional to Ungava Bay, covered later in the post yacht Lily). Time:-June 27th to August 27th). Forty-three days of actual travelling, eighteen days in camp. Provisions: — 750 Ibs. to begin with, 392 Ibs. of which was flour. Surplus, including gifts to Nascaupee Indians, 150 Ibs., 105 Ibs. of which was flour making the average amount consumed by each member of the party, 571/2 Ibs. Results: - The pioneer maps of the Nascaupee and George Rivers, that of the Nascaupee showing Seal Lake and Lake Michikamau to be in the same drainage basin and what geographers had supposed were two distinct rivers, the Northwest and the Nascaupee, to be one and the same, the outlet of Lake Michikamau carrying its waters through Seal Lake and thence to Lake Melville; with some notes by the way on the topography, geology, flora and fauna of the country traversed. It is not generally borne in mind by those who have been interested in Mr Hubbard and his last venture, that he did not plan his outfit for the trip which they made. The failure to find the open waterway to Lake Michikamau, which has already been discussed, made the journey almost one long portage to the great lake. But even so, if the season of unprecedented severity, in which my husband made his journey, could have been exchanged for the more normal one, in which I made mine, he would still have returned safe and triumphant, when there would have been only praises for his courage, fortitude and skill in over-

The Reckoning 155

coming the difficulties which lie across the way of those who would search out the hidden and untrod ways. Nevertheless rising far above either praise or blame stands the beauty of that message which came out from the lonely tent in the wilderness. In utter physical weakness, utter loneliness, in the face of defeat and death, my husband wrote that last record of his life, so triumphantly characteristic, which turned his defeat to a victory immeasurably higher and more beautiful than the success of his exploring venture could ever have been accounted, and thus was compassed the higher purpose of his life. For that it had been given to me to fulfil one of those lesser purposes by which he planned to build up a whole, that would give him the right to stand among those who have done great things worthily, I was deeply grateful. The work was but imperfectly done, yet I did what I could. The hills were white with snow when the ship came to Ungava, and it was not until October 22nd that I said good-bye to my kind friends at the post.2 In ten days the Pelican landed us safe at Rigolette. Here I had the good fortune to be picked up by a steamer bound for Quebec; but the wintry weather was upon us and the voyage dragged itself out to three times its natural length, so that it was the evening of November 2oth, just as the sun sank behind the city, that the little steamer was docked at Quebec, and I stepped from her decks to set foot once again in "God's country."3

Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. From the drawing by J. Syddall.

Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr KEPT D U R I N G H I S E X P E D I T I O N INTO LABRADOR 1

Tuesday, July 7th - Last night moonlight and starry and fine. This morning the shore of Labrador spread out before us in the sunshine. It calls ever so hard, and I am hungry to tackle it. Landed this A.M. at Indian Harbour. George and I went ashore in the canoe; Wallace in ship's boat. Lot of fishermen greeted us. Find all men and women on the coast are Newfoundland men, and "Liveyeres" (Liveheres).2 The former come up to fish in summer and are the aristocrats. The latter are the under-crust. Could not get any one to take us to Rigolett. Spent the afternoon getting outfit together - assorting and packing - weighing it and trying it in the canoe, while line of Newfoundland salts looked on, commented, and asked good-natured questions. Canoe 18 feet, guide's special, Oldtown, canvas. Weight about 80. Tent - miner's tent, pole in front, balloon silk, weight 6 Ibs., dimensions 61/2 x 7. Three pairs 3-lb. blankets; two tarpaulins about 6x7; three pack straps; two 9-inch duck waterproof bags, hold 40 Ibs. each; three 12-inch bags; 31/4 x 41/4 kodak; 30 rolls films, one dozen exposures each, in tin cases with electrician's tape waterproofing; one dozen small waterproof bags of balloon silk, for sugar chocolate, note-books and sundries. Wallace and I each have one extra light weight 45-70 rifle, smokeless powder. Also one pistol each, diamond model, lo-inch barrel, for partridges. For grub we have four 45-lb. sacks of flour; 30 Ibs. bacon; 20 Ibs. lard; 30 Ibs. sugar; 14 Ibs. salt; 3 or 4 Ibs. dried apples from home; 10 Ibs. rice; 20 Ibs. erbswurst; 10 Ibs. pea flower in tins; 10 Ibs. tea; 5 Ibs. coffee; 6 chocolate; 10 hard tack; 10 Ibs. dried milk. Put all in canoe, got in ourselves, and found we could carry it O.K. Wednesday, July 8th - Took observation at noon. Lat. 54° 28'. Steve Newell, a liveyere from Winter's Cove, offered to take us to Rigolett for fifteen dollars. Would I give him $1 to get a bit of grub for his family? Got flour and molasses. Started in the Mayflower, a leaky little craft, about 5 P . M . No wind to speak of. Cold drizzle and fog. About 11 we landed at Winter's Cove. Nasty place to land among the rocks on a desolate point. From a shanty on the beach came a yelling and hallooing from several voices to know who we were and what we were doing.

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Went into cabin, two rooms - one frame and the other sod. Room about 12 x 14 - desolate. Two women like furies - ragged, haggard, brown, hair streaming. One had baby in her arms; two small girls and a boy. One of women Steve's mother. Dirty place, but better than the chilling fog. Glad to get in. Fire started. Stove smoked till room was full. Little old lamp, no chimney. We made coffee and gave coffee and hard tack to all. Women went into other room with children. We spread tarpaulin and blankets, and lay on floor; so did Steve. Women talked loudly. Thursday, July 9th - Started at 5 A.M., launching boat after Steve had said, "Don't know as we can launch 'er, sir." Fog. Offered Steve chart and compass. "Ain't got no learnin' sir. I can't read." So I directed course in fog and Steve steered. Later, clear, fair, high wind. Steve cool, nervy, tireless. He traps foxes and shoots partridges in winter. Buys flour and molasses. Got too windy to travel. Landed at Big Black Island to wait for lower wind. George used up - lumbago.3 Put him to bed and put on mustard plaster. Bought salmon of Joe Lloyd. Lives in 10 x 12 shanty, hole in roof for smoke to escape. Eskimo wife. "Is all the world at peace, sir?" He came from England. Hungry for news. Had trout smoking in chimney. A little wood on this island, and moss, thick and soft. Wind high, and George sick, so did not go on. Gave George two blankets and tarpaulin. Did not pitch tent. Wallace and I threw tent down and lay on it. Pulled his blanket over us and slept. Still sunlight at 11. Whales snorting in the bay. Big gulls croaking. Friday, July loth - Awoke at 1 A.M. Bright moonlight, made coffee and milk. Called men. George very bad. Portaged outfit 200 yards to boat. Found her high. Worked till 4.30 to launch her. Little wind. Made Pompey Island at 11. Saw many whales and seals. Caught caplin on fish-hook tied to stick jerking them.4 Stopped on Pompey for lunch. Mossy island of Laurentian rock. Saw steamer in distance. Put off- fired three or four shots. Got only a salute. Put off in canoe to head her off. She came about. Was the Virginia Lake. Took us on board and brought us to Rigolett. Mr Frazer, H.B.C. Agent here, to whom I had letter from Commissioner Chippman of the H.B.C., took us in as the Company's men always do.5 Made us at home. Seems fine to be on land again at a Company post. George better. Eskimo dogs, Eskimo men and women, breeds lumbermen, trappers, fishermen, two clerks. All kindly - even the dogs. All talkative and hungry for outside visitors. Saturday, July nth - Awoke from bad dream of trouble getting somewhere to realise that I was at a post. Mighty good awakening. George better. Trying to get

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data as to Northwest River. No Indians here. White men and Eskimo know little about it. Capt. Joe Blake says Grand Lake good paddling. Forty miles long. Nascaupee River empties into it. Says Red River comes into it about 15 miles above its mouth. His son Donald came from his traps on Seal Lake to-day.6 Says same. Has crossed it about 50 miles above its mouth in winter. Has heard from some one that Montagnais Indians say it comes from Michikamau. Does not know. Says it is shallow. This seems to be what Low has mapped as Northwest River. Donald says not much game on it. Others who have not been there, say plenty. All report bear. Man who lives on river just above Grand Lake in winter to trap, missing. Supposed drowned. Donald says a chance seal in Seal Lake. Has shot 'em but never killed one. Little game there to eat. May be fish. Does not know. Does not fish himself. Takes flour, pork, tea and "risin."7 Porcupines. We can live on them. Hard to get definite data; but that makes the work bigger. Sunday, July 12th - Birthday. "Bruise" for breakfast.8 Hard tack, fish, pork, boiled together - good. "Two more early risin's, and then duff and bruise," is said to be a Thursday remark of the fishermen.9 The Pelican came in to-day. Stole in in fog, and whistled before flag was up. Good joke on post. Big day. Pelican goes from here to York, stopping at Ungava on way out and comes back again. Brings supplies. Captain Gray came on shore. Has been with company thirty years, in northern waters fifty years. Jolly, cranky, old fellow. "You'll never get back" he says to us. "If you are at Ungava when I get there I'll bring you back." Calder, lumberman on Grand River and Sandwich Bay, here. Says we can't do it. Big salmon stuffed and baked for dinner - bully. George says he is ready to start now. Prophecies that we can't do it, don't worry me. Have heard them before. Can do it. WILL. Monday, July 13th — This noon the Julia Sheridan, Deep Sea Mission Boat, Dr Simpson, came.10 We said good-bye and embarked for Northwest River. Had good informal supper in little cabin. Good easy yachting time. Stopped about 11 P.M. behind St John's Island for the night. Tuesday, July 14th - Landed about 2 P.M. at Northwest River. Thomas M'Kenzie in charge.11 Bully fellow, all alone, lonesome, but does not admit it. Tall, wiry, hospitable in the extreme. Not busy in winter. Traps some. Wishes he could go with us. Would pack up to-night and be ready in the morning. Can get no definite information as to our route. M'Kenzie says we are all right; can make it of course. Gave away bag of flour. Discarded single blanket, 5 Ibs. can lard. Got at Rigolett yesterday, 10 Ibs. sugar, 5 Ibs. dried apples, 41/2 Ibs. tobacco. Bought here 5 Ibs. sugar. M'Kenzie gave us an 8 Ib. 3 in. gill net.

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A Bit of the Coast

Wednesday, July 15th - Wind light, southeast all day, light clouds. Lat. noon 53° 35'. Left Northwest River post 9 A.M. Camped early because of rain and stream which promised trout. No trout caught. Lake looks like Lake George, with lower hills.12 Much iron ore crops from bluffs on south side. Makes me a bit homesick to think of Lake George. Wish I could see my girl for a while and be back here. Would like to drop in at the Michigan farm too.13 Thursday, July 16th - Fair day. Wind southeast. Lat. at noon 53° 45'. Six miles above Grand Lake on Northwest River. Started at 5.30 A.M. At 9 rounded point and saw mouth of river.14 George and I ferried outfit across north-west arm of lake in two loads. Wind too high for whole load. Saw steel trap. Probably belonged to poor M'Lean, who was drowned. Had cup of tea at 10. Stopped at noon three-quarters of an hour for observation. Northwest River runs through spruce covered valley, between high hills, easily seen from lake, but not in river as spruce is too close. In many places high banks, many turns, many little rapids. Water low. Have to pole and track. See that we have our work cut out. Doubt if we can make more than 10 miles a day up this river. I took tracking line; George and Wallace the poles. Sand flies awful - nasty vindictive, bite out chunks, and streak our hands and faces with blood. Mosquitoes positively friendly by contrast. Tried net. Could not see, then tried dope - some help. Eating much and not rustling for fish or game. Want to lighten outfit. Friday, July 17th — Rain and clouds. Rained hard in the night. Awoke dreading to start out in it. Got breakfast to let George sleep. Water so shoal and swift that we would take part of outfit and return for the rest. Most places had to track, I pulling on rope while Wallace and George waded, and pushed and dragged the canoe.

Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr 161

Saturday, July 18th - Bright, clear day. Lat 53° 45' 30". Started out with full load and kept it most of the day. Had to portage half load a few times. Awful work all day. Rapids continuously. I waded with line while George and Wallace dragged and lifted. All enjoyed the forenoon's work, and no one depressed when P.M. weariness began. No game. Bear and some caribou tracks. Have not seen a partridge or porcupine. Seem to be few fish. They come later and farther on. Sunday, July 19th — Minimum temp, last night 38°. Fine day and warm. Stayed in camp all day to rest. I got up at 7 and caught about twenty trout, small. All pretty tired and enjoyed the long sleep. At noon George and I started up the river, following the hills. Found small rocky stream coming in about 1 mile up. Suppose it is the Red Wine River. Two miles up a 2-mile stretch of good water. Best of all the portage route leading in at the foot. We followed this over the hill to the Red Wine River, and found old cuttings. This pleases us a heap. It shows that we are on the old Montagnais trail, that we will probably have their portage routes clear through, and that they probably found lakes and good water farther up, or they would never have fought this bad water. To-morrow we will tackle the 2-mile portage with light hearts. We are 3 miles south of where Low's map places us. Am beginning to suspect that the Nascaupee River, which flows through Seal Lake also comes out of Michikamau, and that Low's map is wrong.15 Bully stunt if it works out that way. Saw lots of caribou and fresh bear tracks. Trout went fine for supper. Flies very bad. Our wrists burn all the time. Monday, July 2oth - Minimum temp, last night 37°. Bright day. Flies awful. I got breakfast while George cut portage through swamp and then we groaned all daythrough the swamp 11/2 miles - across two streams, up steep hill, then along old trail to foot of smooth water above these rapids. Covered route mainly three times. All very tired. George worked like a hero. Tuesday, July 21st - Minimum temp. 36°. Trapped bad three-quarter mile. George and I scouted ahead 6 miles. Climbed hills 600 feet high. Caribou and bear tracks. Crossed two or three creeks. Found old trail and wigwam poles and wood. George says winter camp from size of wood; can't follow it. Tracked quarter mile more, and started on long portage. Went half mile and camped. Flies bad; gets cold after dark, then no flies. Stars, fir tops, crisp air, camp fire, sound of river, hopeful hearts. Nasty hard work, but this pays for it. Wednesday, July 22nd - Minimum temp. 33°, 60° in tent at 6 A.M. Torture. All work to cross 21/2 mile portage. Sun awful. Flies hellish. All too tired to eat at

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noon. Cold tea and cold erbswurst. Cached 80 rounds 45-70 cartridges, 300-22s. Too heavy. Too tired at last to mind flies. Rested hour under tent front, all of us. Diarrhoea got me - too much water drinking yesterday I guess. Shot partridge, first seen on trip. Jumped up on log before me, waited for me to drop pack and load pistol. Camp on partridge point. Bird seasoned a pot of erbswurst. Dreamed about home as I worked and rested. Thursday, July 2yd - George and Wallace scouted for trails and lakes. I lay in tent, diarrhoea. Took Sun Cholera mixture. Tore leaves from Low's book and cover from this diary. These and similar economies lightened my bag about 5 Ibs. New idea dawned on me as I lay here map gazing. Portage route leaves this river and runs into southeast arm of Michikamau. Will see how guess turns out. Heat in tent is awful - at noon 104°; out of tent at 1 P.M. 92°. Diarrhoea continued all day. No food but tea and a bit of hard tack. George back about 7.30. Wallace not back. Not worried. Has probably gone a little too far and will stay out. Has tin cup and erbswurst. George reports branching of river and a good stretch of calm water. Friday, July 24th - George produced yellow-legs shot yesterday.16 He carried pack up river 2 miles. Diarrhoea. In tent I studied how to take time with sextant. Observation failed. Much worried over Wallace till he came in about 7 P . M . Compass went wrong; he lay out overnight. Stewed yellow-legs and pea meal to-night. Saturday, July 25th - Four miles. Weak from diarrhoea. Portaged one load each 4 miles south side of stream to open water. Back to camp. I took another load; George and Wallace followed, trying to drag canoe up river. I made camp. They came in after dark, tired out. Canoe left 2 miles down stream. Wallace shot partridge with pistol. Came near going over falls with pack round his neck. Drizzled all day. Heavy rain to-night. Great relief from heat. Flies very bad in afternoon and evening. Sunday, July 26th - Rain most of the day. Lay in tent in A.M. hoping to be better of diarrhoea. Read Low's report, etc. Trouble better. Monday, July 27th - Spent A.M. and two hours P.M. bringing up canoe, dragging halfway, George carrying rest. Started on at 4. Alternate pools and rapids. Rapids not bad - go up by dragging and tracking. After 11/2 mile camped. Tuesday, July 28th - Temp. 6 A.M. 46°. Three miles. Cool, cloudy, spell of sunshine now and then. Cold, nasty wading all A.M. to make a mile. Fine portaging

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A Rainy Camp

in P.M., just cool enough, no flies. Pretty nearly blue in A.M. over lack of progress. Two miles in P.M. brightened things up. By fire between logs we dry clothes now in evening. All tired out. Low new moon. Wednsday, July 29th - Temp 6 A.M. 58°. Worked 4 miles. Small ponds alternating with rapids. Portage 1 mile in P.M. Very tired. Tea, and finished fine. Thursday, July 30th - Temp 6 A.M. 39°. Paddled through a succession of ponds about a quarter of a mile long each, tracking or dragging over little falls or rapids between. Made portage of 100 rods in P.M. Need fish now. Grub not so heavy as it was. Were starting to dry blankets at fire when rain started. All crawled into tent. Need rain to raise river. Plenty caribou signs - two old wigwams (winter) on rock. No fish but 6-7 inch trout. Bully camp to-night. Friday, July 31st - Temp 6 A.M. 56°. Rain all day. Two rivers puzzled us. Came together just above our camp. One comes over a fall from the south side; other rough, comes from north-west. South branch comes from west, better, more level. Little ponds between falls and short rapids. Scouted. Think south branch

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Low's Northwest River. Wallace caught bully mess of trout while George and I were scouting. George found old wigwam about a quarter of a mile up south branch; also a winter blaze crossing stream north to south, fresh. Trappers line, think. Blake or M'Lean. Wigwam old. Rain bad. River not very good, some ponds, some portage, some dragging. Up south branch three-quarters of a mile stopped for lunch. Stopped after a quarter of a mile portage for a scout. Wallace and I made camp in rain while George scouted. George reports 1 l /2 mile bad river, then level, deep ponds, very good. Caught trout. Rainy camp. Saturday, August 1st - Rained steadily all night and to-day. Tired, chilled, ragged. Wallace not well and things damp. Too much rain. Went out in bare feet and drawers and caught ten trout. Sunday, August 2nd - Cleared this A.M. Boys dried camp while I caught twentyfour trout, some half pounders. Getting bigger, nearer Height of Land we hope reason. Water higher. Will help us. Two cans baking powder spoiled. Good feed of trout. Not a bit tired of trout yet. Observation shows 53° 46' 12" lat. Went 3 miles in P.M. and camped. Monday, August 3rd - Temp. 6A.M. 56°. Big day. At foot of a portage as we were getting ready to pack, I saw four wild geese coming down stream. Grabbed rifle, four cartridges in it. George got Wallace's rifle. All dropped waiting for them to come round bend, 30 ft. away, George and I shot at once, both hitting leader. All started flapping along on top of water, up stream. I emptied my rifle on them going at 40 to 50 yards, killing two more. Drew pistol and ran up and into stream and shot fourth in neck. Got all and threw fits of joy. Need 'em just now badly for grub. Through little lake beginning at head of water, quarter of a mile above, into meadow, fresh beaver house. At foot of rapid water, below junction of two streams, ate lunch. Trout half to three-quarter pounds making water boil. Caught several. From this point to where river branches to two creeks, we scouted. Think found old Montagnais portage. To-night heap big feed. George built fire as for bread-baking. Tuesday, August 4th - Temp. 6 A.M. 56°. Portaged 1 mile to Montagnais Lake. Portage ran through bogs and over low ridges. I sat on edge of lake looking at rod, when a caribou waded into lake, not 100 feet away. Rifle at other end of portage. Hoped to find inlet to lake, but only one ends in bog. Lots of old cuttings at northwest corner of lake; two old wigwams. Troubled to know where to go from here. All scouted whole afternoon. Lake 1 mile west. Old trail runs towards it. George thinks caribou trail, no cuttings found on it yet. I think portage. Looks like portage we have followed and runs in right direction.

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Wednesday, August 5th — Portaged from camp on Montagnais Lake, 1 mile west to another lake. No signs of Indians here. Camped at west end of this. Saw two caribou. Dropped pack and grabbed rifle; was waiting for them 250 yards away when a cussed little long-legged bird scared them. At point near camp where lakes meet, I cast a fly and half pound and pound fontanalis, as fast as I could pull them out.17 What a feed at 2 P.M. lunch! Climbing ridge, saw that lake empties by little strait into another small lake just alongside, at south. Stream flows from that south. Therefore we are on Hamilton River waters. George and I went scouting to bluffs we saw from trees on ridge. Both lost. George got back before dark. I spent night on hill, 2 miles south-west. No matches or grub. Scared a little. Heard big river, found it flows southeast.18 Must go into Hamilton, but it is a big one, several times as big as the Northwest at its biggest. Where does it come from? Can it be Michikamau? Thursday, August 6th - Slept some last night, lying on two dead spruce tops, too wet and cold to sleep very well. Mosquitoes awful. George went to my river. Wallace and I took canoe and went into lake north of here. Cuttings, winter. George found river to be big and deep. Straight, as though from Michikamau. Don't believe this little creek of a Northwest comes from there. Will portage to this river and try it. Friday, August 7th - Portaged 2 miles to river on our south; good paddling save for a rapid now and then. So big we think, Low's map to the contrary, that it comes from Michikamau. Anyway it comes from that way and will carry us a piece toward the big lake. No cuttings. Big trout despite east wind. Caught about fifteen. Cold wind drove away flies. Fire between big rocks. Moon over bluffs beyond. Fine evening. Fine river. Fine world. Life worth living. Saturday, August 8th - Nasty, cold, east wind. Went 41/2 miles through it all in good river with six short portages first three-quarter mile, and stopped about 1 P.M. to make Sunday camp and get fish. Put out net, ate our dried fish and by hard labour got a few more for supper. Only a bit of bread a day now, no grease, save a little bacon. All hungry for flour and meat. Sunday, August 9th - Raining this morning and most of the P.M. Cold, east wind. Caught about forty-five trout by hard effort, several 3/4 lb. each. George made paddle and scouted. Burned his knife. Monday, August loth — Rain and east wind. Caught one big fish before breakfast. Wallace ate it. George and I ate pea meal. On first portage found old summer cuttings and wigwam poles. Feel sure that this was the old Montagnais route.

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Went 3 miles and crossed four portages. Then on strength of being on right road and needing fish, camped before noon. Mother's birthday. Ate some of her dried apples last night with sugar. Tuesday, August11th- East wind. Warmer a little. Just a little rain. No fish biting. Slept late. Climbed ridge and tree. See ridge of high half barren hills away ahead. Think this the ridge east of Michikamau. Hungry all the time. Down to 40 Ibs. of flour, 8 Ibs. tea, about 20 Ibs. pea meal, a bit of sugar, bacon, baking powder and dried apple, just a bit of rice. Saw mountains ahead from a bluff just below our evening camp. River runs north apparently; it must therefore be Low's Northwest River I think. Mountains look high and rugged, 10 to 25 miles away. Ought to get good view of country from there, and get caribou and bear. Moccasins all rotten and full of holes. Need caribou. Need bear for grease. All hungry all day. George weak, Wallace ravenous; lean, gaunt and a bit weak myself. Fish braced us wonderfully. Wednesday, August 12th - Best day of trip. Started late. Cloudy, damp. I took pack over half mile portage and stopped to fish. Fourteen trout. Three portages and then - glory! Open water. Five miles and stopped for lunch, with good water before and behind for first time since Grand Lake. Old wigwam and broken down canoe at lunch place. Ate trout and loaf of bread. Hungry. Started again, hoping for stream to fish in. Made 3 miles. Then a big bull caribou splashed into the water of a bayou 200 yards ahead. Wallace in bow took shot, high and to the left. I raised sights to limit and held high. Did not think of sport, but grub, and was therefore cool. At first shot George said, "Good, you hit him." He started to sink, but walked up a bank very slowly. I shot two more times, Wallace once and missed. George and I landed and started towards spot. Found caribou down, trying to rise. Shot him in breast, cut throat. George made stage for drying. Wallace and I dressed caribou. Wallace put up tent. I started meat from bones in good strips to dry. Then all sat down and roasted steaks on sticks, and drank coffee, and were supremely happy. We will get enough dried meat to give us a good stock. Thursday, August 13th - Worked at getting caribou skin tanned in A.M. Ate steak for breakfast, liver for dinner, ribs for supper. No bread, just meat. Wallace and I started in canoe to look for fish and explore a bit. Found rapid 2 miles above. Very short, good portage, old wigwam, good water ahead. Too cold to fish. Cloudy day, but got blankets aired and dried. River seems to run to north-east of ridge of quite high mountains, 6 to 10 miles ahead. Very tired or lazy to-day. May be meat diet, may be relaxation from month of high tension. Think the

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Drying Caribou Meat and Mixing Bannocks

latter. Mended pants. One leg torn clear down the front. Patched with piece of flour sack. Friday, August 14th - George and Wallace left in canoe with tin cups, tea and some caribou ribs, to scout river above and climb hills. I put some ashes and water on caribou skin. Just starting to shed. Studied map and Low's book. Wish we could descend this river on way out and map it. Saturday, August 15th - Cloudy again this morning. Sprinkle or two. Wallace and George not back. Wallace and George came at dusk; tired out and none too hopeful. Found stream coming from a little lake with two inlets. Followed one west to mountains; it turned to a brook, ended in mountains. Other went so much east they fear it ends in lakes there. Think maybe they lost the river. Hungry as bears. Stayed out to explore this east branch. The three days inaction and their story of doubtful river, depressed me. If the way to Michikamau is still so doubtful, after more than four weeks of back-breaking work, when will we get there, and when to the caribou grounds, and when home? I'd like to be home tonight and see my girl and the people, and eat some bread and real sweet coffee or tea or chocolate. How hungry I am for bread and sweets!

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Sunday, August i6th - Wind has changed at last to north. Not much of it. Clear and bright in early morning. Clouded at noon, so I am not sure my observation was just right, close to it though I think, 53° 46' 30". Have been coming nearly west, an angle to south and another to north. Last observation possible was two weeks ago to-day. Feel fine to-day. Good rest and good weather and grub are bully. Figure that east branch the boys saw must be Low's Northwest River, and must break through the mountains somewhere a little north. Anyway it can't run much east and must take us north and west through lake expansions close to the mountains. Then if it ends, its up to us to portage over to the lake expansions Low sees on his Northwest River flowing out of Michikamau. Scraped flesh from caribou skin. Monday, August 17th - Temp, at 4.30 A.M. 29°. Temp, noon 59°. Ice in cups. First of season. Beautiful clear day, north wind, slight. Flies bad in P.M. Went west of north 3 miles, following river to where it began to expand into lakes. Noon observation 53° 43' 19". Yesterday's observation wrong I think. In A.M. fished few minutes at foot of short rapids. About forty trout, one 16 inches long, biggest yet. Caught most on fins. Ate all for noon lunch, stopping at sandbeach on shore of very pretty little lake expansion. Had coffee too. In P.M. we turned west into some long narrow lakes, that extend into mountains, and have a current coming out. George and Wallace think from a previous look, that here is a portage trail to Michikamau's south-east bay. George explored while I worked at skin. George returned. No good so far as he saw, to cross here, but he did not do the thing thoroughly. However I'll let it drop, for I believe the river goes east and north, and then west and breaks through mountains to Michikamau. Worried some. Time short and, way not clear, but we'll get there if we have to take the canoe apart and walk across. May have to stay late on the George, and have to snow-shoe to Northwest River and then across; but if it comes to that we'll do it. This snow-shoe to Northwest River and then across to the St Lawrence, by Kenamon and St Augustine Rivers appeals to me.19 Lots of old wigwams about, summer and winter. Stove was used in one. I think Indians hunted here. Caribou tracks on barren mountains. Tuesday, August 18th - Temp. 28° at 4 A.M. Clear sky in morning. Much worried last night and this morning, about way to Michikamau. Started early, ready to go at the job harder than ever. Lake expansions, rapids, no signs of Indians. Afraid this a bad stretch which Indians avoided. Stopped at 10 A.M. for tea. Caught fourteen big trout there, in a few minutes. Then river opened into long narrow lakes, and the going was bully. It turned west, or we did (it came from the west) and went into the mountains, and we fairly shouted for joy. George saw caribou. Turned out to be geese. Chased ahead them on bank. Shot old goose as she lay

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low in water, swimming and hiding. Broke old one's wing and took off leg. Then missed four shots. Gander took to woods. George took after young and killed one with pistol. Came and helped get wounded goose. Great chase. Trout, pounders, jumping like greedy hogs to fly. Took about fifty while boys were making two short portages in P.M. Bread, small loaf, coffee, sugar, goose, trout for supper. Big feed in celebration geese and good water. At end of to-day's course turned to right into wrong channel, into little narrow lake half mile long, prettiest I ever saw. Big barren bluff rises from water on north, barren mountains a few miles to west, ridge of green to west, sun setting in faces to contrast and darken, two loons laughing, two otters swimming in lake. One seemed afraid and dived; other more bold, looked at us. Hoped to kill it to settle question of species, but did not get near enough. Good water ahead. Hope we are on the road to Michikamau. Wednesday, August iqth — Noon 53° 50'. Bright clear in A.M South-east wind brought clouds. Began to rain as we went to bed. Spent whole day river hunting, paddling from arm to arm of the lakes. George and I climbed high barren ridge. Red berries and a few blue berries. Flock ptarmigan, rockers. I shot three with pistol, old one, two young, but could fly. Saw more mountains on all sides. Many lakes to east. Failure to find river very depressing to us all. Seems to end in this chain of lakes. Will retrace our way to last rapid to be sure, and failing to find stream, will start west up a creek valley on a long portage to Michikamau. Boys ready for it. I fear it will make us late, but see no other way. Glad Wallace and George are game. A quitter in the crowd would be fierce. Thursday, August 20th - Rain last night. Cloudy in A.M. Rain P.M. and night. Wind south. Stopped to mend moccasins and give caribou a bit more drying before we start to cross mountains. Looked ahead and saw two more lakes. May be a good deal of lake to help us. Mended moccasins with raw caribou skin. While George got lunch I took sixteen trout, fin for bait. In P.M. Wallace and I took canoe and went back over course to last rapid, exploring to see that we had not missed river. Sure now we have not. So it's cross mountains or bust, Michikamau or BUST. Wallace and I came upon two old loons and two young. Old tried to call us from young. Latter dived like fish. Caught one. Let it go again. We caught eighty-one trout at last rapid in about an hour, mostly half-pounders; fifteen about pounders, hung to smoke. Big feed for supper. Rest for to-morrow. Rained good deal. Sat under drying stage with a little fire, tarpaulin over us and had big supper - fried trout, trout roe, loaf of bread, coffee. Last of coffee. Hate to see it go. Little sugar left. A bit in morning and evening cups. Friday, August 21st - Rain all day. Wind changed to north, colder. Portaged to little lake above camp. Found wigwams at each end of portage. Looks like old

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Montagnais trail. Then more lakes and short portages. Made 4 miles very easily, then, after pot of tea and big trout feed, portaged i mile west to another little lake, just over Height of Land. Our stream tumbles off the mountain, and does not come from this last-named lake at all. Little 4 foot ridge turns it. Went into camp very early, chilled through. Saturday, August 22nd - Portaged across Height of Land. Delighted to find on end of lake to westward many Indian signs. Believe this enters south-east bay of Michikamau, or a lake connected with it. Rained hard by spells. West wind. Camped on island early in P.M. after a very short march, to repair canoe, and to wait for head wind to fall. Caribou meat roasted at noon. Two loaves of bread, dried apples and tea - no meat or fish - supper. Sunday, August 23rd - West wind. Rain and clear by spells. Drank last of chocolate - two pots - for breakfast. Dried blankets in a sunny spell, and about 10 A.M. started. Coming to point round which we expected to get view of lake ahead "Like going into a room where there is a Christmas tree," said George. Narrow channel around point 21/2 miles from east end. Thence we saw a long stretch of lake running west. Believe it Michikamau's S.E. bay sure. Mighty glad. Ate boiled dried caribou, pea soup, tea. Dried caribou hurts our teeth badly. Went west 21/2 miles and climbed barren hill on north side of lake. Ate blue berries, bake-apple berries, and moss berries. Saw on north, water in big and little masses, also on N.W. many islands of drift, rocky and spruce clad. One long stretch of lake, like a river, runs east and west, about 2 miles north. Wonder if it is Low's Northwest River. Went west on our lake 3 miles. Caught a fish like pike, with big square head, 31/2 Ibs. Found our lake ends, stream falling in from another lake west. Came back 2 miles to outlet into waters north. Camped. All feel bully. On Michikamau waters sure. Monday, August 24th - Rain, north wind, cold. In camp all day. Bad head wind. George and I scouted. All restless at inactivity but George. He calm, philosophical, cheerful, and hopeful always - a wonderful man. Tuesday, August 24th - Cold N.E. wind. Rain. Made start. Nasty portage into Northwest River (?). Wallace turned round and started to carry his pack back. Wind fair part of time. Part of time dangerously heavy. Landed on point running out from north shore. Wigwam poles. Have diarrhoea. All chilled. Not sure of way ahead, but not worried. Camped at 5 P.M. Nice camp in clump of balsam. Not craving bread so much. Idleness and a chance to think make us hungrier. Flies about gone. Proverb - On a wet day build a big fire.20

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Working up Shallow Water

Wednesday, August 26th - Temp at 5 A.M. 40°. Bright and clear save for one shower in P.M. Started happy. Shot goose with pistol after long chase. Goose would dive repeatedly. Shot several times at rather long range. Paddled 20 to 25 miles on big lake running east and west. No outlet west. Came back blue and discouraged. Passed our camp of last night to climb a mountain on N.E. side. Caught very pretty 2-lb. pike trolling. Wallace and I got supper. George went to climb mountain, found river this side (west) of mountain, running into this lake from N.W. What is it? Low's Northwest River? Can't see what else. Glad again. Very hopeful. Sick and very weak. Diarrhoea. Pea meal and venison and goose liquor. Better. Bright northern lights. Thursday, August 27th - Bright and lightly clouded by spells. No rain. Northwest River panned out only a little stream. N.G. Guess we must portage. Desperate. Late in season and no way to Michikamau. One more try for inlet, and then a long nasty portage for the big lake. See little hope now of getting out before winter. Must live off country and take big chances. Camping near where we camped last night. Going up Northwest River and hunting outlets some more, took our time. Ran across geese this A.M. I went ashore and George and Wallace chased them close by. Shot leader with rifle. Then two young ones head close in shore.

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I killed one with pistol and two others started to flop away on top of water. Missed one with pistol, and killed other. While exploring a bay to N.W., we landed to climb ridge. George found three partridges. I shot one, wounded another, pistol. Camped to-night cheerful but desperate. All firm on progress to Michikamau. All willing to try a return in winter. Discussed it to-night from all sides. Must get a good place for fish and caribou and then freeze up, make snow-shoes and toboggans and moccasins and go. Late home and they will worry. Hungry for bread, pork and sugar. How I like to think at night of what I'll eat, when I get home and what a quiet restful time I'll have. Flies bad by spells to-day. Friday, August 28th - Temp. 6 A.M. 56°. Back to north-west end of lake where bay runs north. Portaged to small shoal lakes and camped on north side, ready to start in A.M. Fixed moccasins in preparation for long portage. Made observation of sun and moon to-night, hoping to get longitude. All very tired, but feel better now. No bread to-day. No sugar. Don't miss latter much, but hungry for bread. Good weather. Shower or two. Writing by camp fire. Saturday, August 29th - Temp. 6 A . M . 38°. Am writing a starter here, before beginning our march north. Wallace and George at breakfast now. I'm not. Sick of goose and don't want it. Ate my third of a loaf of bread lumpy without grease and soggy, but like Huyler's bonbons to our hungry palates. Dreamed of being home last night, and hated to wake. Jumped up at first light, called boys and built fire, and put on kettles. We must be moving with more ginger. It is a nasty feeling to see the days slipping by and note the sun's lower declination, and still not know our way. Outlet hunting is hell on nerves, temper and equanimity. You paddle miles and miles, into bay after bay, bay after bay, with maybe no result till you are hopeless. Ugh! This is a great relief to be about to start north through the woods - fairly high ground to start with - on a hunt for Michikamau. Hope we will not have swamps. Lakes will probably stop us and make us bring up the canoe. Good evening and we are happy, despite fact that grub is short and we don't know our way and all that. Sunday, August 30th - Beautiful clear Sunday, but no Sunday rest for us. I jumped up early, called George, and built fire. Started at 5.54 A.M., portaging from little lake to little lake, north and west, to where we know Michikamau must lie, somewhere. For two days we have heard geese flying. Thought our goose chases over, but to-day five walked down bank into water ahead of canoe on a small lake. Wounded two at one shot with rifle. Two old ones flew. Left wounded to chase third young one. Shot and killed it with pistol. Could not find wounded. Made 3 miles before dinner. Good. In P.M. about 11/ 4 miles more.

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Then reached range of semi-barren ridges, running east and west, and seeming to reach to barren mountains north. George and I climbed first ridge from a little lake, with blue-green, ocean-coloured water. Heard stream ahead. Little river running through ponds. George went back for outfit and Wallace. These are trying days. We are not quite up to normal strength. I think too much routine of diet, lack grease, sugar and grain foods. The feeling of not knowing where we are or how to get out adds to our weakness still we are all cheerful and hopeful and without fear. Glad all of us to be here. How we will appreciate home and grub when we get out. I crawl into blankets while the boys smoke their evening pipe. Then I think of M. and our home at Congers, and plan how she and I will go to Canada or Michigan or somewhere, for a two week's vacation when I get home. I wonder when that will be. Monday, August 31st - Ice on cups this morning. Thermometer out of order. Lat. 53° 57'. I hate to see August end with us so far from the George River, or so perplexed as to the road. We are in camp now, on the stream we reached last night. I am writing and figuring in the early morning. The whole character of our country changes here. Ridges and hills extending into mountains on the north. Must know what lies there before we proceed. George will scout. Wallace and I will dry fish. While George was scouting, I lay in tent awhile, too weak to fish even. Fish not biting though. Oh but I'll be happy to see Michikamau! George returned late. Climbed mountains to north. Reports fair line of travel to northwest, long lakes and tolerable portages. Will go that way, I think. Wallace got a few trout. George killed two partridges with my pistol. Tuesday, September 1st — West wind. Fair, warm. Very weak to-day. Our stuff so light now we can take all but canoe at one trip over portage. Have just crossed portage from lake by yesterday's camp, to other lakelet N.W. Boys gone back for canoe. I sit here and write. Very rough portaging here, all rocks and knolls. Little clear lakes between. Have to put canoe into water every 40 rods or so. Shot a plover with pistol to cook with George's partridges. Later. Made about 41/2 miles. Caught about thirty-five trout at edge of lake where stream empties. Wednesday, September 2nd - West wind. Fixed moccasins in A.M. and started portage west. Camped in swamp. Thursday, September yd - Rain all day by spells. Wind west. Got up in rain, hating to leave blankets. At breakfast, bread and tea and venison. I took no tea. Am trying now just venison and fish broth. May agree with me better than tea. Don't miss sugar much any more, though I do plan little sweet feeds when I am out.

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Very nasty work in rain. Am well again and strong. Worked well. Portaged and paddled west 41/2 miles. Wallace turned round again and carried pack back to starting point. George and I carried canoe. Sky cleared in evening. Saw all day big spruce trees. Country here not burned I think. Friday, September 4.th - Rain. West wind. Portaged west 11/2 miles, with two little lakes to help. Rain all time. Stopped to let George scout best way to big lake ahead. Thinks it is 3 miles away. Hope it leads to Michikamau. George and Wallace mending moccasins. George reports big water about 3 miles ahead. Hope Low's Northwest River lake expansions. Cannot be far now from Michikamau. Spent much time over map in P.M. Think we must start back ist October to the St Lawrence, if we can get guides. Otherwise to Northwest River and then snowshoe out. Saturday, September 5th - Rain by spells. West wind, cold. Awoke in rain. Last three nights have been clear as crystal, beautiful moon. Then rain in the morning. Very disappointing. We waited a little while about getting up, hoping rain would stop. Slackened, and we started. Poor day's work. Portaged about 21/2 miles west. Came out on barrens and ate a lot of blue berries. Saw big waters to west, big blue hill, blue sky-line where we hope Michikamau lies hidden. Pint berries raw for supper. Otherwise, venison and broth, thickened with three spoonfulls of flour, each meal. Sunday, September 6th - Temp, at 5A.M., 38°. First snow came, mixed with nasty cold rain. Nasty, raw, west wind. Worked in it most of day, portaging 2l/2 miles N.W. Tried carrying all stuff at one trip. Grub low. Big water ahead. Believe this big water will lead to Michikamau. Almost a desperate hope. If it does not and we find no water route, I scarcely see how we can reach the caribou grounds in time to see the crossing and meet the Nascaupees. Without that I am doubtful of the success of this trip, and failure makes me shudder. Besides it is liable to make us all very hungry. We must push on harder, that's all. Monday, September 7th - Temp, at 5A.M., 48°. N.W. wind, slight. Rain by showers. On portage crossed worst swamp of trip. In to my knees and fell down with heavy pack on my back. Floundered out in nasty shape. Found small stream flowing N.W. toward our big water. I caught about thirty trout, not big, while Wallace and George brought up outfit and canoe by stream. Very slow work. All very hungry in P.M. Stopped for pot of soup. Found it getting dark and stopped to camp. Last meal of venison in bag. Must get fish. Ate half our trout to-night,

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boiled and thickened with flour. Drank last bit of cocoa. No sugar. Boys rtot scared. No talk of quitting. Don't just see where we are coming out. Tuesday, September 8th - Cold raw N.W. wind, no rain, partly clear. Observation noon, 54° \ 21". Aired and dried blankets. Followed stream down to very shoal bay of our big water, which like the will-o'-wisp has led us on. Only ten trout, mostly small. Weather too raw. Very depressing to have it so when meat is out. On to caribou grounds is the watchword. Gave up trouting and started west on our big lake. Stopped to climb mountain. Ate some cranberries. Saw a few old caribou tracks. Big mountain to west of us. Islands or something between, many, low, flat, wooded. Wednesday, September 9th - BIG DAY. Warm, clear. Temp. 5 A.M. 29°. Ice in cups. Slept without sweater or socks last night. Cold but slept well. Beautiful cold crisp morning. Up at first dawn. Inspiring, this good weather. George boiled a little bacon and rice together, and a little flour made sort of porridge for breakfast. Very very good. No fish or game ahead. Went to big hill mentioned yesterday. George and I walked about 4 miles and back getting to its top through spruce burnings. Awful walking. Very tired when about to top. Wondering about next meal and thinness of soup mostly to blame, I guess. Then things began to get good. First we ran across a flock often ptarmigan. They were in the burnedover semi-barren of the hill-top. They seem to lack entirely the instinct to preserve themselves by flying. Only ran ahead, squatting in apparent terror every few feet. We followed with our pistols. I killed eight and George one, my last was the old bird, which for a time kept away from us, running harder than the rest, trying to hide among the Arctic shrubs. George says they are always tame on a calm day. Their wings are white, but the rest is summer's garb. "Not rockers, but the real kind." Says George. Then we went on across the mountain top and looked west. There was MICHIKAMAU! And that's what made it a BIG DAY. A series of lake expansions runs east from it. We can see them among flat drift islands, cedar covered, and a ridge south, and a hill and the high lands north, and apparently a little river coming from the north, and pouring into the lake expansions some miles east of Michikamau. There is one main channel running east and south, in this expansion. It is north of the waters we are now in, and we can see no connection. However, there looks as if there might be one about 5 miles east of our big hill. Behind some barren ridges, about 50' high. So we are making for them to see what we can find. If no connection, we must portage, but we will not mind a little portage now, with Michikamau waters just over it. Westward from our hill are dozens of

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Great Michikamau

little lakes, and a good deal of low burned land. S.E. more lakes. Must be an easy portage from the lakes on which we were muddled two weeks ago. That's where we missed it, in not finding that portage. Thursday, September loth - Wind west, cloudy. Temp. 5 A.M. 46°. Rain in evening. Cut legs from old drawers and pulled them over pants as leggings. Went east looking for opening in N.W. [North West] River. Think we saw it in ridge to north-east, came S.W. Believe that we saw also opening into Michikamau's Bay which runs out of lake on S.E. side. Wind delayed, and we only got to foot of mountain from which we expect to see it. Camped. Rain commenced. While scouting I shot a large spruce partridge with pistol. Friday, September 11th - Raining in morning. Wind south-west. Temp. 49°. Ate last meal of mother's sweet dried apples. We are on the verge of success apparently, in sight of Michikamau from which it is not far to the caribou grounds and the Nascaupees. Yet we are sick at heart at this long delay and the season's lateness and our barefoot condition. Yet no one hints at turning back. We could do so, and catch fish and eat our meal, for we know the way to within easy walking distance of Grand Lake, but the boys are game. If we only had a fish net we would be O.K. My plan is to get a few fish if possible, push on at once to Michikamau somehow. Get to the George River, and find the Nascaupees. Then if the caribou migration is not over, we will kill some of the animals, dry them up and get as far back as possible before freezing up and leaving the canoe. Then, unless we can get some one to show us to the St Lawrence, we will probably go to Northwest River post, get dogs and provisions, and snowshoe S.W. to Natishquan or some such point. If we don't get to the caribou grounds in time - well, we'll have to get some fish ahead, or use our pea meal in a dash for the George River H.B.C. post. After breakfast George and I went in rain to climb mountain. No water into S.W. bay of our lake as we hoped. Trolling back, I caught one small

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namaycush. Then we all started to hunt for a rapid we heard on the south side of this lake. Caught one 2l/2 Ib. namaycush. Found rapid. Good sized stream falling in from south. Big hopes, but too shoal and rapid, no pools. Only one mess of trout. Very much disappointed. While Wallace and I fish, George gone to troll. When he gets back, we will go to look for inlet into Low's "Northwest River." Not finding that we will start on a portage for it in the morning. Later by camp fire. Weather has cleared. All bright and starry. Caught a 7-lb. namaycush and so we eat to-night. Saturday, September \2th - Temp. 38°. High N.W. wind. Clouds and clear by spells. Dashes of snow. We camped on a little island not far from the N.E. main land where we hope inlet is, just at dusk. Ate big namaycush and were ready to push on early this morning. Two meals of trout ahead. Awoke this A.M. to find awful gale stirring the lake to fury. No leaving. Wallace and I stayed in tent mending. I made pair of moccasins out of a pair of seal mittens and some old sacking. Patched a pair of socks with duffel. Not comfortable, but will do. George went to canoe to get fish. "That's too bad," said he. "What?" I asked. "Somebody's taken the trout." "Who?" "Don't know. Otter or carcajou, maybe."21 And sure enough they were gone - our day's grub. We all laughed - there was nothing else to do. So we had some thin soup, made with three thin slices of bacon in a big pot of water and just a bit of flour and rice stirred in. One felt rather hungrier after eating it, but then we did not suffer or get weak. It is very disappointing to be delayed like this; but we can only make the most of it and wait.22 No game or fish on this island and no hopes of getting off till it calms. So we are cheerful, and make the most of a good rest and a chance to mend; and we need both, though perhaps we need progress more. Sunday, Septembe13th — Temp. 39° 5A.M. High N.W. wind in A.M. Clear, rain, sleet by spells. Heavy wind continued this A.M. Some more rice and bacon soup for breakfast. Read Philemon aloud and told story of it.23 Also ist and 9st Psalm. Found blue berries, and all ate. At about one o'clock, wind dropped somewhat. We started to hunt outlet into N.W. [North West] River, supposed to be N . E . of island. N.G. Shot at goose - missed. Hooked big namaycush - lost it. Caught another 6 Ibs. Ate it for lunch about 4 P . M . Picked gallon of cranberries. Ate a potful stewed with a little flour for supper. Enough for two meals left. Not very satisfactory, but lots better than nothing. Sat long by camp fire. Monday, September iqth - Temp 40° 5 A.M. High N.W. wind, clear and showers by spells. Very much disappointed to find heavy gale blowing. Could not leave shore. Had breakfast of very thin soup. Then all slept till nearly noon. I dreamed

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again of being home. Hungry all day. George and I have decided that we must not start this way home before freezing up time. Might get caught again by bad winds. Better freeze on the George River with the Indians, save grub if we get any, and then snowshoe clear out. Later by camp fire. Hard to keep off depression to-night. Wind continues and all hungry. Tuesday, September 15th - Temp. 31° 5 A.M. West wind, spits of sleet, and fair. Wind continued hard all day. Could not leave shore. I lay awake all last night thinking over situation. George is worried and talks of Indians who starve. Tries to be cheerful but finds it hard. Here we are, wind bound, long way from Michikamau, no hopes of wind abating. The caribou migration is due to begin, yet we can't start and are at least two weeks from their grounds, with no grub and no prospect of good weather. Our grub is 18 Ibs. peameal, to be held for emergency and 2 Ibs. of flour, i pint rice, 3 Ibs. bacon. To go on is certain failure to reach the caribou killing, and probable starvation. If we turn back we must stop and get grub then cross our long portage, then hunt more grub, and finally freeze up preparatory to a sled dash for Northwest River. That will make us late for boat, but we can snowshoe to the St Lawrence. All this, with what we have done so far, will make a bully story. I don't see anything better to do. I asked Wallace. He opposed and then said it was best. I said to George, "Would you rather go on or turn back?" "I came to go with you, and I want to do what you do." When I said we will turn back he was very greatly pleased. Now my job is to get the party back to Northwest River, getting grub as we go. We will take the back track to some good fishing grounds, catch fish, try to kill a caribou, and wait for freeze. We can't take the canoe down the Nascaupee. Hence the need of freezing. Stayed in camp all day. Could not launch canoe. No place to fish or hunt. Feel better now that the decision is made. Ate very thin rice and bacon soup and drank tea. Long chat with Wallace. Feeling good in spite of short grub. George is telling again how he will visit his sister at Flying Post and what he will eat. We are talking of plans for our home-going, and are happy despite impending hunger. Wednesday, September i6th - Temp. 29° 6A.M. Wind N.W. Shifting to N.E. Little rain. Moved to rapid on south shore where there is some trout fishing, and hard place to be wind bound. Must fish a few days and get grub ahead for our long portage back to Namaycush Lake.24 Ate last bit of bacon at noon, cut in three pieces and boiled with rice and a little flour. Boys trolled in P.M. I made camp and fished brook. Too cold. They lost two good namaycush. I took two 10inch trout. Boiled these into a mush and put last handful of rice and a little flour into pot with them. Good soup. Made us feel stronger.

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Thursday, September ijth - Temp. 33° 6 A.M. Rained all last night and all this P.M. For breakfast a whisky jack, stewed with flour and about two spoonfuls of erbswurst. Good. Wallace and I each had half a bird. If we get enough fish ahead to take us across this portage, our peameal and what fish we can get on river will see us to the post. Hoping weather will improve so we can make a good haul. Disheartening in extreme to be working all the time in rain and wind and cold. I made a map this A.M. of our long portage - about 30 miles. Will require about seven days. Wallace and I stretched tarpaulin by fire and sat long beneath it chatting. Wallace is a great comfort these evenings. There has been no friction this trip whatever. I think I'll get a bully story out of it despite our failure to find the Nascaupees. I'll get more in freezing up, more in Northwest River people and more in the winter journey to God's country. Friday, September i8th-Temp. 38° 6 A.M. S.E. wind, turning to N.w. gale about noon. Raw and snow by spells. Caught three namaycush in A.M., then wind bound by fierce N.W. gale at camp. Wallace caught 2^/2 Ib. trout. I caught i Ib. Namaycush heads and guts and my trout for supper. Boiled with last of flour. Hungry and a bit weak, but all cheerful. Sat late by roaring camp fire. Very depressing this, getting wind bound so often just when we are trying to get fish ahead for our long portage towards home. Have thought a good deal about home. It seems to me I'll never be willing to leave it again. I don't believe I'll want any more trips too hard for M. to share. Her companionship and our home life are better than a great trip. So it seems to me. Saturday, September 19th - Rain and snow last night, temp 32°. Gale from northwest all day. Wind bound in camp all day. Lay in tent almost all the time. Spits of snow. No breakfast. Bit offish and its liquor for lunch. Same with a dash of peameal at night. Oh! to be away from this lake and its gales and to be started home! Last night we quit rolling in blankets and made bed to keep warm. All three crawled in. Warmer than other way. Quite comfortable all night. Plan a great deal for future. I am planning to give more time to home. Less fretting and more home life. I've let my ambitions worry me. More time for my meals when I get home and more for my wife and our friends. I want to give one or two little dinners in the woods when we get back and while George is there. A turkey roast like a goose. Stuffed. Potatoes, bannocks, made while the turkey is roasting, one of George's puddings, coffee and maple cream. Sunday, September 2oth - Temp. 6 A.M. 29°. Morning bright and clear. Light N.W. wind. Showers in P.M. Squally. To-night we are starting for Northwest

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Carrying the Canoe up the Hill on the Portage

River post. When we reach the big river we can I think nearly live on the fish we get there. From there too, there are more signs of caribou. About four days more and we ought to reach a remnant of flour we threw away. It was wet and lumpy, but we will welcome it now. It, if it is usable, will see us to the head of Grand Lake, where Skipper Blake has a cache, I think, in a winter hunting shanty.25 It promises to be a hungry trip, but it is a man's game. Now that we are starting home I am content with the trip and the material. We've done all we could. Our minds turn to home even more and we are anxious to be back. So hungry to see all the old friends. Tuesday, September 22nd - Temp. 38°. N. w. wind. Rain in morning and by spells all day. All feel stronger to-day than yesterday. Tried to stalk goose in bad swamp. Missed at long range. Waded above knees in mud and water to get shot. Portaged all day mostly through low or swampy ground. Happy to be going home. Camped to-night on second old camping-ground. George and Wallace brought up outfit while I made camp and got wood. Wednesday, September 2^rd -Rain by spells. W. wind. Clear in evening and cold. Portaged all day. Crossed barren ridge. Had big feed of mossberries and cran-

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berries. Wallace had apparent tea sickness and vomited. Erbswurst same as yesterday. Feel quite weak to-night. Had carried canoe a good deal. A good deal depressed till camp fire. Then good again. Bright, crisp night. Dried clothing and got warm. Talked long by fire of home. Blankets very damp. Hard time keeping warm at night. Thursday, September 24th - Temp. 28°. N.E. wind. Snowing in morning. Quite cold last night, but clear and crisp till toward morning when it snowed. Blankets very damp, but by drying clothes at fire and getting good and warm, we slept warm and well. Dreamed M. and I were at Missanabie.26 How I do wish I could see her again at home. Thinking too much maybe, about home now. Makes too big contrast. Snow covered ground by noon. Disagreeable morning, but a little crisp wintriness helped it some. Plodded along on a pea soup breakfast, wondering what the outcome will be - a little. Nasty weather makes one wonder - and thinking of M. and home. Then came a happy event. George had said last night he could kill a wild goose this A.M. if I would let him take rifle. Did so, half convinced by his confidence, and knowing he was a big goose shooter down on "The Bay."27 He had started ahead. Had seen flock light in pond ahead. Wallace and I heard four shots. Came to where George had left pack. He was coming with no goose. "You can kick me," said he, "but I got a goose." We took canoe to his pond. He had killed one goose, which was drifting ashore, and wounded another, which sat on shore and let George end it with a pistol. Never was goose more gladly received I'll venture. I promised George two cook-books and a dinner as a reward. Friday, September 25th - Temp. 28°. Wind N.E. Snow squalls. Half goose breakfast. Pea soup, thin, for dinner. Half goose, supper. Goose is bully. When done eating we burn the bones and chew them. Nasty day. Portaged to old camp on small lake and stopped. All day I have been thinking about childhood things and the country. I want to get into touch with it again. I want to go to Canada, if possible, for Christmas. I want to go somewhere in sugar making. So home sick for my sweetheart. Fairly strong despite short grub. Saturday, September 26th - Temp. 28°. Wind N.E. Rain in early morning, cold wind, warming in late P.M. Clear at mid-day. Dried blankets. Travelled over our old course to our "long-lake-that-looks-like-a-river." Shot a large duck's head off with rifle. Had hopes of a few fish at place where we found them spawning on our westward way, but was fearful of the cold. Left George cooking and went to try with Wallace's rod, not over hopeful, as water was very high and weather cold. Delighted to catch twenty very fair ones while lunch was cooking. In P.M. took

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ninety-five more. Estimated weight of catch 70 pounds. We will stay here to-morrow and dry fish for journey. This is a wonderful relief. It means enough fish to put us through to our big lake, or nearly so. We had no hopes of such a catch, and would have been delighted with just a meal or two. Then it means, I hope that we will find the trout biting at other spawning places, and catch enough to live on in spite of the cold weather. We are happier than for weeks before for we believe this almost guarantees our safe return home. Rain drove us from our camp-fire just after George had declared, "Now we'll talk about French toast, and what we'll eat when we get to New York." So we all crawled into blankets and did plan and plan good dinners. Sunday, September 27th - Warm day, partly clear, wind S. W. Ate last of goose for breakfast. Bully. Monday, September 28th - Snow and clear by spells. Stayed in camp to rest and feed up. Were all weak as cats when we relaxed from the grub strain. We kept smoke going under stage and lay in tent most of day. Boiled fish for breakfast, roast smoked fish for other meals. Like them rather better the latter way. Tuesday, September 2tyth - Temp. 24°. Snow by squalls all day. Wind W. Caught twelve good trout while boys were breaking camp. Diarrhoea, which attacked me yesterday, came back when I started to carry the canoe. Had to drop it and became very weak. Boys went on with it about i*/4 miles and came back. We camped on long lake. I huddled by fire and wrote when it was not snowing. We can catch up to our schedule if I am able to travel to-morrow for it is only an easy march, covered in less than a day before. All talking about home, all happy to be going there. Wednesday, September 30th - Boys carried canoe nearly to Pike Lake, while I made camp and went back and forth three times to bring up packs. Then a happy camp nearer home. Tonight we planned, in case we have a long wait in St John's to get rooms for light housekeeping and not go to hotel. Then we can cook what we want and need and live high - beef bones for caribou, cereals with real cream, rich muscle-making stews of rice, beef etc., tomatoes etc. Thursday, October ist - Temp. 40°. Crossed to Pike Lake this A.M. Lunch on west side, last of fish. Nothing now left but pea meal. Crossed lake, no trail on east side, hoping to get trout where I took a mess in outlet coming up. Not a nibble. Too cold or something. Camped in lee of trees. Boys had feed of blue berries

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In the Nascaupee Valley

while I fished. Ate half stick of erbswurst. Good camp fire, but I rather blue and no one talkative. So hungry for home - and fish. Friday, October 2nd - Cold west wind. Temp. 30°. Cold - snowed a bit in the evening. Took packs early in day and hurried across to tamarack pole fishing place. Only two trout before noon. Ate them with pea meal and boys went back for the canoe. Only two days, and easy ones, to our big lake. Then only two days to the river with its good fishing. That makes us feel good. It means a good piece nearer home.

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Saturday, October yd - Bright crisp morning. Temp. 21°. Snow squalls. Left tamarack pole place and portaged south over old route, crossing lakes etc., to our camp of 29th August, on little pond. Wet feet and cold, but not a bad day. I lugged all the packs and boys canoe. Beautiful moon and clear night. All sat late by camp fire talking and thinking of home. Pleased to have another fair march back of us - happy. Sunday, October qth - Temp. 10°. Bright clear cold A.M. everything frozen in morning. Pond frozen over. Two trout left. One for breakfast, boiled with erbswurst. Portaged to lake about three quarter mile away. Crossed it. Some ice to annoy. George borrowed Wallace's pistol saying he saw a partridge. He killed four. Lord's with us. We need 'em bad. I'm weak and nervous. Must have vacation. Wallace notices it. Have not taken bath for two weeks, ashamed of my ribs which stick out like skeleton's. Monday, October 5th - Temp. 30°. Wind S.E. Snow on the ground. Up late. Waited Wallace to mend moccasins. Late start. Crossed bad swamp to big lake, wading icy water. Dried feet and drank cup soup. Stopped island in P.M. to get berries. All talk much of home now. At camp fire George told me of his plans to get married and his love story. Tuesday, October 6th - Temp. 48°. Rain and snow in A.M. George shot partridge before breakfast. Rained most of night. Started expecting to portage to lake first west of Height of Land. Got into rough sea, exciting time. Found river of considerable size emptying into that lake. Ran into it and prepared to finish in the morning. George and I ran on rock shooting rapid. Beautiful night — cold. Feel all cold. Wednesday, October 7th - Thermometer out of order. Heavy frost. Ran down river into lake, west of barren mountain, climbed to scout on day after entering lake W. of Height of Land. Stopped and fed well on our moss berries and cranberries. Took some along. Started Height of Land portage. Happy to be back. Very thin pea soup breakfast. Some with berries for lunch. Weak. Thursday, October 8th - Thermometer N.G. Very frosty. Dreamed last night we were going out of bush, very weak and hungry. Came to our old Michigan Farm and found mother. Wonder where mother is now. Do want a vacation at home or in Canada. May be won't need it after ride on steamer. Finished Height of Land portage and came on to place where we dried caribou (second time), at head of Ptarmigan Lake. I caught four fish, small trout, while Wallace was going

Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr 185

back for rifle, which he had left at far end of small lake. Wallace came back with partridge. This delayed us and we did not reach good fishing rapid. Hoped to get trout there. Did catch a few before - failed to-night. Bright crisp day too. George very blue in consequence. Wallace and I not worried. Pea meal down to less than two pounds. No other food save tea. Thinking much of home and M., and our plans and old friends. I want to keep better in touch with relatives everywhere and the country. How I wish for that vacation in Michigan or Canada! or a good quiet time at Congers, and I am aching to write home sketches and stories that have come to my mind. We talk much of future plans, and the camp fire continues to be a glorious meeting place. Friday, October qth - Reached good fishing hole at rapid where we caught so many trout on way up. Got about fifty in P.M. Glorious, crisp fall day. Dried blankets. Fifteen trout lunch; twelve supper; then six roast before bed-time. Disappointing. Hoped for some to dry. Only one day's slim fish ahead - one and a half pounds pea meal. No hopes of getting ahead fish to freeze up. Must get out to civilisation. Pretty weak all of us. Saturday, October loth - From rapid about halfway to Camp Caribou. Boys shot rapids while I fished. Beautiful day till about noon. Then cloudy and cold west wind. Cheerful carnpfire as always. About twenty trout, nine boiled for supper. Same for lunch. Much talk of grub and restaurants, and our home going, much of George's room in New York, of good days in Congers. I want to go to Michigan and Canada and to Wurtsboro .28 Oh, to see my sweetheart and be home again! Sunday, October 11th - Beautiful, clear day, cold. Off day for grub. George shot three times at ducks and I fished at rapids. No fish - no ducks. Nine small trout breakfast, eight lunch. No supper ahead save what George hoped to find at Camp Caribou. Arrived there tired and weak about an hour before sunset. George gathered bones and two hoofs. Pounded part of them up. Maggots on hoofs. We did not mind. Boiled two kettlefuls of hoofs and bones. Made a good greasy broth. We had three cupfuls each and sat about gnawing bones. Got a good deal of gristle from the bones, and some tough hide and gristly stuff from hoofs. I enjoyed it and felt like a square meal. Ate long, as it is a slow tough job. Saved the bones to boil over. Monday, October 12th - Made about 9 miles to-day. Several bad rapids. Shot them. George and I nearly came to grief in one. My fault. Beautiful day. Fished a little, but no fish bit. Hope to leave stream to-morrow, and that makes us happy.

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For breakfast bones of caribou boiled to make greasy broth. Quite supply of grease in it. Hoofs boiled too. Some gristle to these that was good. Strong, rancid taste, but we relished it. Roasted hard part of hoofs in fire, ate them. Half rubber, half leather, but heap better than nothing. For lunch the same with skin from velvet horns added. Latter boiled up and was very good. At night some bones boiled to make broth, skin from head added. Part of mine I could eat boiled. Part from nose very thick and had to be roasted first. Good. Sat by camp fire long time. Very sleepy. Talked of home and friends and grub and plans. Tuesday, October 13th - Lightened our packs a bit, throwing away more or less useless stuff at old shack, where we had a rainy night. Pot of tea at Rainy Sunday Camp. All very hungry and weak. Camped below Rainy Sunday Camp. Tried wenastica, not bad.29 Not much taste to it. Thinking all time of home and M. and parents and Congers and Wurtsboro' and childhood and country. Wednesday, October 14th - Caribou bones, boiled into broth for breakfast. Then George shot a duck. Came back. "Lord surely guided that bullet," said he reverently. He had killed a wonderfully fat duck. Oh! but it was good and greasy. Made bully lunch boiled, and good pot of broth. Left river where we entered it. Left canoe, sextant box, artificial horizon and my fishing-rod. Packs still too heavy for our strength. Little progress. Reached old camp where we left lakes for big river. Hoped fish. No bites. Cold east wind. Big fire. All cheerful. Just bone broth and a bit of wenastica for supper. Must lighten packs to limit. Count on bit of flour 22 miles from here. Here George found two old goose heads and some old bones we left. Saved them for breakfast. All gnawed some charred bones. George found three tiny slices of bacon in old lard can we left — one each. How good they were. The scrapings of lard he melted for the broth pot. We have 11/6 Ibs. pea meal left. No other grub but tea. We think this will take us to our bit of flour, if it is still left, and Blake has a cache, we think, at the head of Grand Lake about 24 miles beyond that. Hope to get out O.K. Count on berries to help us. Had some moss berries to-day. Thursday, October 15th - Dreamed last night came to New York, found M. and had my first meal with her. How I hated to find it a dream. Lightened packs a good deal. Left Wallace's rifle, cartridges, rod, my cleaning rod, my sextant and 15 films and other things, cached in bushes at left side of little stream between two lakes. Wallace hated to leave his rifle, I hated to leave other stuff. Spent most of forenoon getting ready. Ate for breakfast bit of skin from old caribou head, boiled with bone broth. At lunch on Montagnais Lake, same, but skin was from old caribou hide, which we had carried to mend moccasins. Were almost to our

Diary of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr 187

second camp where we ate first goose, when I got shaky and busted and had to stop. Wallace came back and got my pack and I walked to camp unloaded. In P.M. George shot three partridges which jumped up before us in a swamp. Killed them with my pistol. Made us very happy. Ate one for supper, OH! how good. In spite of my weakness I was happy to-night. I remember a similar happiness once after I went to New York. I got caught in rain, had no car fare, got soaked, spent last 10 cents for rolls and crullers, then crawled into bed to get dry and eat, not knowing where the next meal would come from.30 Talk of home. George not thinking now of eating of recent years, but just the things his mother used to make for him as a child. Same way with Wallace and me, save that I think of what M. and I have eaten that she made. Sunday, October 18th -Alone in camp - junction of Nascaupee and some other stream - estimated (overestimated I hope) distance above head of Grand Lake, 33 miles. For two days past we have travelled down our old trail with light packs. We left a lot of flour wet - about 11 miles below here, 12 miles (approximately) below that about a pound of milk powder, 4 miles below that about 4 pounds of lard. We counted on all these to help us in our effort to reach the head of Grand Lake, where we hoped to find Skipper Tom Blake's trapping camp and cache. On Thursday as stated, I busted. Friday and Saturday it was the same. I saw it was probably useless for me to try to go farther with the boys, so we counselled last night, and decided they should take merely half a blanket each, socks, etc., some tea, tea pail, cups and the pistols, and go on. They will try to reach the flour tomorrow. Then Wallace will bring a little and come back to me. George will go on to the milk and lard and to Skipper Blake if he can, and send or lead help to us. I want to say here that they are two of the very best, bravest, and grandest men I ever knew, and if I die it will not be because they did not put forth their best efforts. Our past two days have been trying ones. I have not written my diary because so very weak. Day before yesterday we caught sight of a caribou, but it was on our lee, and, winding us, got away before a shot could be fired. Yesterday at an old camp, we found the end we had cut from a flour bag. It had a bit of flour sticking to it. We boiled it with our old caribou bones and it thickened the broth a little. We also found a can of mustard we had thrown away. I sat and held it in my hand a long time, thinking how it came from Congers and our home, and what a happy home it was. Then I took a bite of it and it was very good. We mixed some in our bone broth and it seemed to stimulate us. We had a bit of caribou skin in the same pot. It swelled up thick and was very good. Last night I fell asleep while the boys were reading to me. This morning I was very, very sleepy. After the boys left - they left me tea, the caribou bones, and another end of flour sack found here, a raw hide caribou moccasin, and some yeast cakes

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- I drank a cup of strong tea and some bone broth. I also ate some of the really delicious rawhide, boiled with the bones, and it made me stronger - strong to write this. The boys have only tea and one half pound pea meal (erbswurst). Our parting was most affecting. I did not feel so bad. George said, "The Lord help us, Hubbard. With His help I'll save you if I can get out." Then he cried. So did Wallace. Wallace stooped and kissed my cheek with his poor, sunken, bearded lips several times - and I kissed his. George did the same, and I kissed his cheek. Then they went away. God bless and help them. I am not so greatly in doubt as to the outcome. I believe they will reach the flour and be strengthened, that Wallace will reach me, that George will find Blake's cache and camp and send help. So I believe we will all get out. My tent is pitched in open tent style in front of a big rock. The rock reflects the fire, but now it is going out because of the rain. I think I shall let it go and close the tent, till the rain is over, thus keeping out wind and saving wood. Tonight or to-morrow perhaps the weather will improve so I can build a fire, eat the rest of my moccasins and have some bone broth. Then I can boil my belt and oiltanned moccasins and a pair of cowhide mittens. They ought to help some. I am not suffering. The acute pangs of hunger have given way to indifference. I am sleepy. I think death from starvation is not so bad. But let no one suppose that I expect it. I am prepared that is all. I think the boys will be able with the Lord's help to save me.

NARRATIVE BY G E O R G E ELSON

Last Days Together1

Friday, October 9th - We got up good and early. Only tea we had, expecting when we got to our rapid to have something to eat. After going about 2 miles we came to our old camp where we camped on our way up where we had a goose that Mr Hubbard had killed. I also had killed one. We went ashore to see if we could find some of the old bones. We gathered all we could find and ate them all. Mr. Hubbard said, "I often have seen dogs eating bones and thought it was pretty hard lines for them, but it must be only fun for them." Before coming to our rapid, the rapid we had always talked about where we thought we would get lots of fish, I told Mr Hubbard and Wallace my dream I had that night. It did not seem like a dream but more like some one talking to me. When travelling this summer when we began to be out of grub, if we dreamt of having a good meal at some restaurant we often told it to each other the next morning. This morning my dream was: — A man came to me and told me, "You will get to the rapid to-day and I cannot spare you more than two or three meals offish, and do not waste much time there. Go right on and don't leave the river, but follow the river on. It is only the way you can save your lives. Follow the river down." We got to the rapid about noon, all feeling very, very weak. I started a fire. By the time I got some wood and had my fire started they had already enough fish for a pretty fair meal and, of course, you can imagine how glad we were and did not delay much time but got our fish for lunch. It was nice to have something to eat again. We were pretty sure of getting lots more. After lunch Mr Hubbard and Wallace fished. It was good signs of caribou round there. I took the rifle and tracked up the caribou, but I saw nothing. It was late when I got back. The boys were still fishing. They had caught about sixty more little trout. We felt as if we could eat all those fish in one meal, but seeing they were so scarce we had to try and save some for the next day.

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Launching

Saturday, October loth - We fished all before noon and did not get any at all. So we had to start off from there, seeing it was no use in trying to fish any more. We came to some more rapids in the afternoon. Wallace and I ran some with empty canoe, and then went back for our dunnage, while Mr Hubbard would fish. It got very cold in the afternoon. Mr Hubbard caught about twenty little trout. Looking forward we hoped next day to get to our old camp, Camp Caribou, where we killed our caribou August 12th. We thought that may be we will find some of the old bones so as to make some broth, thinking it would help us some. We camped just near the river where we could get lots of wood, and have a good camp fire so we could sit beside the camp fire and have a good talk about home.

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Mr Hubbard tells me he will get a room for me in New York. He again that night asked me to stay with him a couple of months in Congers before I go home to Missanabie, and also to pay him a visit real often, and also that he would never go out doing any travelling without me. He said, "I am sure Mrs Hubbard will not be able to do enough for you, especially when she knows how good you have been to me. I would like to have you come with me to Michigan. I am sure my sister would like to have you tell them the story about our trip." Sunday, October 11th - Had four small trout for lunch, only little larger than a sardine. Late in the evening we came to our old camp, where we had the caribou. Most of the bones were carried off by some animals. Picked up all we could find and made some broth, and very, very strong broth too, which I suppose no one could hardly believe that any human being could eat. The bones were full of maggots, and when it boiled for some time the maggots would boil out. It just looked like if it had been little rice in it. We drunk it up maggots and all. It was pretty high, but found it good. Nothing was too bad for us to eat. Monday, October 12th - Fine day. In the morning we had bone broth again and tea. We started off carrying all the bones we could find in our pail, also taking the caribou horns with us. At noon we had broth and piece of the hide we got off from the caribou horns. In the evening we came to a rapid. Hubbard and I nearly swamped the canoe, and part of the rapid was too rough to run. It was only just a short lift over, about 100 feet. The three of us took the canoe, and before getting over we dropped it. We were getting so weak that it took the three of us to carry the canoe, and yet we couldn't even that distance. We looked at each other, but none complained of his weakness. We found we could not go any farther without something to eat. We ate one of Mr Hubbard's old moccasins, made out of caribou skin, that he made himself. We boiled it in the frying pan, till it got kind of soft, and we shared in three parts. Each had his share and found it good, and also drank up the water where it was boiled in. At night we had some tea, and it freshened us up some. Tuesday, October 13th - Wind raw and cold. We came to a little fall we had to carry over, quite short, about 40 feet portage, but our canoe we hadn't the strength to carry. We had to drag it over the rocks. I shot a whisky jack, and we had it along with our bone broth and tea. Not knowing what our next meal would be, or whether we will ever have the pleasure of enjoying another meal, it looked very much like starvation.

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My back was aching quite a bit that day. Touch of lumbago. It made things worse for me. I thought it would be impossible for me to try and go any farther. So I told Mr Hubbard that if I did not feel any better in the morning, they could go on and try to make their way out and leave me behind, because I did not want to delay them in the least. For all, I was sure they would never make their way out: but I thought they might try anyway. Mr Hubbard was very, very sorry about it; but he said he hoped I'd be better in the morning. Wednesday, October 14th - The boys were up before me and had a fire on. It was some time before I could get up: but I was feeling better than I did the night before. Before noon I shot a duck with the rifle. We were very happy boys. At noon we came to the place where we had planned some time ago to leave the canoe and cross over to the Nascaupee again. We had our nice duck for lunch, and enjoyed it very much. Mr Hubbard then asked me if I could find the flour we had thrown away some time in July, along the Nascaupee. "Yes," I said, "if no animal has carried it away. It is over 20 miles from here." "Then," he said, "I think we better leave the canoe and march over to the Nascaupee." And the reason why I did not try and persuade him more than I did for us not to leave the Big River was, we thought perhaps there would be lots of places where we could not run our canoe in some wild rapids, and would have to carry our canoe. I knew the last two days how we were when trying to carry our canoe, and we also thought that if we were travelling through the bush we would surely come across some partridges, and help us to the flour, and the flour would help us to the lard, about three pounds, and some milk and coffee 3 miles from Grand Lake. Also as we only know the river above there, of course, we did not know where the river ran to. The boys thought it ran out to Goose Bay, as Low's map showed only the one river running into Grand Lake. Also at Rigolett, trying to find out all we could, and at Northwest River too, nobody ever said about any river but the Nascaupee. Still I said it might run out in to Grand Lake. So the canoe, one axe, the sextant box, and the rest of the caribou horns we left; but the bones we carried with us in our pail, which we boiled over and over to make broth. The bones, since we had them, we would scorch in the fire at night, and chew away at them. Was pretty hard chewing. I told the boys when we decided to leave the canoe, that we had better leave every thing we have, so we would make better time; but we didn't want to waste any time after our nice duck, but go right on while we have yet some strength from it. So we didn't wait to overhaul our stuff. We travelled 2 miles from the Big River that afternoon. We found our packs too heavy to carry, and decided to lighten up in the morning.

Narrative by George Elson 193 That evening Mr Hubbard said, "Mrs Hubbard this evening will be now at dinner, and after her meal will finish with lot more on the table. Oh if she could only hand me a piece of bread!" Thursday morning, October 15th - We threw away lots of dunnage, also some films and one rifle. Mr Hubbard was very sorry to leave his flask. He had often spoken of it being a present from Mrs Hubbard. I shot three partridges after noon with the pistol. We were so glad. Mr Hubbard was more than glad. He came and shook hands with me. We were trying to reach our old camping place on our way up, Goose Camp we called it, but we were all feeling so very weak especially Mr Hubbard. At last he could not go any farther. I told him it was about 40 yards to where our old camp was. So we made him leave his load and he followed us. I, with the greatest hurry, started a fire and made him a cup of tea. We as usual sat up near our fire for some time, trying to encourage each other about what good things we would have, after we got to New York. Friday, October 16th - For breakfast we ate one partridge leaving the other for lunch. Threw more things away, one blanket and more films, and at noon more things left behind. I had a good suit of underwear with me, saving it till cold weather, but that day at noon I left everything belonging to me. I was too weak to take off the bad and put on the good. Also left some films and - came to the Nascaupee. That day just before noon, we came to a place where Mr Hubbard had caught some fish when we were going up, and we thought that perhaps we could get some fish there again, but the little stream was nearly dry. We sat down and had a rest. A little lake about 400 yards from us on our way. This little stream ran in to the lake. Just near the lake I saw a caribou coming along following this little river to where we were. I told the boys, "There's a caribou coming along." We all fell flat on the ground; but he was on the lee side of us and soon found out we were there. He stood - behind some little trees and had his head up looking towards where we were, and all of a sudden he was gone, and we didn't have the chance to fire. I got up. A swamp I knew of. I made for that swamp thinking I would cut across him. I tried to run, yet I was so very, very weak. Oh! how hard I tried to run. But when I got out there he was across on the other side. I was away for some time, yet when I came to the boys, they were still lain the same way, and their faces to the ground, and did not move till I spoke to them. We were more than sorry about the caribou, and each one said what he would do, and how

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much we could eat if we killed that caribou, and that we would stay right there for a few days till we got a little stronger. Though I was feeling so very weak myself, when we would have nothing else but tea, as we often just had tea, nothing else, when I would hand the boys a cup of tea each, I would ask them to pass it back, as I would pretend I'd forgotten to put any sugar in. They would pretend that they didn't care for sugar, and refuse to have some. Then I would ask them if they would have some bread or some pie. Mr Hubbard would say, "PIE! What is pie? What do they use it for? Do they eat it?" This I did often to encourage them and myself, that we might forget the danger ahead; but it was something impossible to forget, as the hunger and weakness pained us, and I thought we would not be able to go many more days if we don't succeed in killing anything. That evening we hadn't the strength of chopping our wood. Just gathered the small, dry pieces we found near our camp. We also put up our camp in an easy way we thought. Three little poles were required to keep up our tent. They were quite handy; but it took me some time before I could cut them down. That day at noon, when I left my dunnage bag with lots of films in, and hung the bag on a short stump, Mr Hubbard told me, "if we get out safe to Northwest River, I think you or I might stay there this winter, and try and get out some of the things we are leaving, especially the films. If we could get out in time of the last trip of the Virginia Lake,2 Wallace and you could go home. Or if you would stay, Wallace and I could go home." I told him I would be very much in a hurry to go home, and wouldn't wish to stay out here for the winter. "But if you wish, and rather have me stay, I will stay for the winter and try and get the things out for you." He was so glad about it and said, "It will be better, of course, if you would stay, as you could make a better guess for the things than I would." Saturday, October 17th - We followed the river, and without anything to eat all day. Only tea we had. Sometimes we would be completely done out. Then we would make some tea and help us some and start on again. This we kept on doing all day. That evening we came to the junction of the river where it branches off. About half an hour before we came to the branch we had a fire, as Mr Hubbard was feeling cold and chilly all day. Just at the forks we found a few red berries, and to see if I could find some more I just went about 20 yards from them. When I found none and returned to see them, Mr Hubbard was lying down on the damp rocks and moss. He looked so pitiful and Wallace sitting near him. I told him not to lie on the damp moss, and asked him if I'd better make him a cup of tea.

Narrative by George Elson 195

"Yes," he said. "I think if I had a cup of hot tea I'd feel better and then go on again." He could hardly speak. I knew he was very weak. I asked him if he could get to where we camped before going up, where it was nice and dry, about 20 yards. He said he would try. I took his and my pack and he followed us. He could just barely walk. We made him a place near the fire, and gave him a cup of hot tea, and made him a cup of pea meal. We put the camp up the best way we could and gathered enough wood to last all night. The flour we were coming for was yet 10 miles away, and the advance in covering so many miles each day, became less and less each day. So after we had some tea and bone broth, I thought, seeing it was no use trying to keep it to ourselves any longer, the danger before us, I would tell them what was in my mind (not about restaurants this time) before it was too late. Seeing that death was just near, which anyone else, if in our place, would expect nothing else but death, they were quite satisfied and each did the same. Mr Hubbard talked about Mrs Hubbard, and his father and mother, and his brother and sister, but most about Mrs Hubbard. Wallace talked of his sisters and I did the same, especially my youngest brother, as my father and mother died some years ago and he was left under my care. It was quite a different talk beside the other nights' talk, as we never let a night pass without being talking about good restaurants, and what we would do when we got home. About 10 miles from there the flour was we were looking forward to. So I told Mr Hubbard to see what he would think. If he couldn't really have the strength of going any farther, that Wallace and I would try and go and find the flour, and if we found it one would return and bring some of the flour to him, and the other would try and make his way out to Northwest River, as it is nearly 80 miles to Northwest River post, and may be I might come across some trappers and be able to help him. He at first said it was no use of trying, as he knew how weak we were and that we would only be scattered abroad. "Should a relief party be sent out to look for us, they will find us here in our camp; but if you wish to try all right. You are more than trying to save me. I never came across a man so brave as you are. Still I may feel better in the morning, and I will not carry anything. Now I see that you were right when we left the canoe. You wanted to leave everything and go out light. "If you get to the flour, you must take most of the flour and Wallace will bring the rest. As we will be staying in one place we will not require as much as you will, because if you fail on the way, it will mean sure death to us too. And if you happen to come on some trappers, just send them with grub, and don't come up yourself as you will be too weak. Or if you get to Northwest River, Mr M'Kenzie

196 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador will find men to send, and you will stay there. If I should starve and you get out, Mr M'Kenzie will help you in all you need, and will keep you there this winter. By the first boat you will go to New York, and my diary don't give to anyone but to Mrs Hubbard. Tell her how things happened, and that I don't suffer now as I did at first, only so very, very weak, and I think starvation is an easy death to die. "I wish you could only see my father and mother, or my sister, so as to tell them about our trip. I wish I could tell them how good you were to me. But you must go to Mrs Hubbard. "I am sorry boys. It is my work the reason why you are out here. If I did not come out here you would have been at your home and having all that you need and would not meet death so soon." I told him not to be troubled by that. "If we didn't want to come we would have stayed at home. So don't put the blame on yourself." He also told Wallace if he got out to write the story for Mrs Hubbard. Mr Hubbard was very sleepy. So we did not sit up so long as we have done before. Mr Wallace read three chapters to us. Mr Hubbard chose thirteenth chapter First Corinthians, and I the seventeenth chapter St John's Gospel, and Mr Wallace fourteenth chapter St John. Mr Hubbard fell asleep when Mr Wallace was nearly through reading the second chapter, that is, the seventeenth chapter. Mr Hubbard slept good all night, and hardly ever moved till morning, when I wakened him and gave him a cup of hot tea and some bone broth. I also slept good all night and didn't hardly wake up till just before daylight. Mr Wallace kept on a fire all night and wrote a farewell letter to his sisters. Sunday morning, October 18th, I got up and boiled those bones again, putting in just a little of the pea meal in the broth, and also tea we had for breakfast. We had yet a half pound of the pea meal that we had carried for some time. We were to start early, and seeing Mr Hubbard still weaker than he was last night, and was not able to go any farther, it was late when we started. We were so sorry to part, and almost discouraged to try and go any farther, but we thought we would try our best any way to help him. We were only going to take a cup each and a little tea pail. No blanket. Found too weak to carry anything, but Mr Hubbard made us take a part of a blanket each. We only had two pair blankets. My blanket I had left behind a few days ago. So Mr Hubbard told Mr Wallace, "If you don't want to tear your blankets, you can tear my blankets in half, and each have a piece. It will be only one and a half pound each to carry. Then I can use your blankets while you're away." Then we tore Mr Hubbard's blankets, and Wallace and I took each a piece. Also he made us take the rest of the pea meal and little tea. We left him little tea and the bones and piece of flour bag we found, with little mouldy lumps of flour sticking to the bag, and the neighbour of the other moccasin we had eaten.

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Mr Hubbard said, "After you go I will do some writing and will write a letter to Mrs Hubbard." Mr Hubbard took his pistol off from his belt and gave me to take along. He also handed me his knife and told me to leave the crooked knife I had to him. I didn't want to take his pistol. I was thinking about a pistol too. I thought when Wallace and I parted I could ask him for his pistol; but Mr Hubbard told me, "You must take the pistol. The rifle will be here, and I can use the rifle if I have anything to shoot. You must take the pistol." So I took the pistol; but the knife I did not take. Just before starting Mr Wallace says that he is going to read a chapter before starting. Mr Hubbard asked him to read the thirteenth chapter First Corinthians, and so he did.3 It was time to start. Mr Wallace went to Mr Hubbard and said, "Good-bye, I'll try and come back soon." Then I went to him and tried to be as brave as Wallace. When I took his hand he said, "God bless you George," and held my hand for some time. I said, "The Lord help us Hubbard. With His help I save you if I can get out." Then I cried like a child. Hubbard said, "If it was your father, George, you couldn't try harder to save." Wallace came back to Hubbard again, and cried like a child and kissed him; and again I went to him and kissed him and he kissed me, and said again, "The Lord help you George." He was then so weak that he could hardly speak. We came away. TRYING TO GET H E L P When we left Mr Hubbard an east and raw wind was blowing, and soon rain began, and heavy rain all day, and were soaked to the skin, and made poor time. We followed the river as it ran out into Grand Lake. The least thing we tripped on we would fall, and it would be some time before we could get up. Or we went too near a tree, that a branch would catch on us, would pull us down. At dark we stopped for the night. The trees were very small, and we couldn't get any shelter at all, and hard to get wood with no axe. We pulled together some half rotten lain trees. Our fire wouldn't burn hardly, and couldn't dry our things, and had to sit up all night with wet clothes on, near our fire, or rather near our smoke, as the wood being too rotten that it wouldn't burn. About two o'clock the wind turned westward, the rain ceased, but it began to snow very hard. The night was long and my mind on Hubbard all the time could not forget him.

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In the morning, Monday Oct. igth, the snow nearly up to our knees. We started early. Our eyes were quite dim with the smoke and everything looked blue. It troubled us all day. Before noon I tracked up a partridge. Oh how I wished to get him! I came to the place where he had flying away and hunted for him quite a while. At last he flew off. I was just near him and yet did not see him, about 4 feet over my head; but I saw where he perched. I didn't want to go too near him for fear he might fly away before I could shoot him. I was so particular. I rested my pistol on a tree to make a sure shot, and took a good aim, but only scraped him, and he nearly fell too, but after all got off. I cannot tell how sorry I was; and about noon we had to cross this river because the flour was on the opposite side. It was quite a rapid and I knew farther down that we could not get across, as I remembered from this rapid to where the flour is, it was deep. So we went into the cold, icy water up to our waists. We got across and made a fire, and had a cup of tea. It was yet a long way from the flour. We started off as soon as we could. It cleared up in the afternoon, and only drifting and freezing very hard, was getting colder and colder towards evening. Mr Wallace I knew was near his finish; but I would not say or ask him about it. I thought I would scare him, and he would scare me too if he told me he could not go any farther. I was getting so very, very weak myself. The sun was getting low and I could yet walk lots faster than Wallace, and had to stand and wait for him very often, though I could hardly walk myself. I thought this was my last day that I could walk. If I don't come to the flour this evening I fear I will not be able to walk in the morning; and if I get to where the flour is, and the mice or some animal has carrying it off it will surely mean death. And besides I wanted to know very, very much if the flour was there. Just near dusk, Mr Wallace was so much behind I thought I would tell him to follow my trail and he could come along behind, and I would try and get to the flour before dark. I staid and waited till he came near. He asked me, "How far yet to the flour?" "About 2 miles," I said. "Well I think you had better go along and not wait for me any more. I will try and follow your trail. You go lots faster than I do. Go on while it is yet light, and see if you can find the flour; because if you cannot get there to-night may be you will not be able to go any farther should we live to see morning." I said, "Yes, that is just what I was going to tell you, the reason why I waited here for you." I started off. I went about 40 yards. Came across a partridge. I got my pistol and fired and killed him. Oh how glad I was! Mr Wallace came to me. He was more than glad, and just ate part of him raw, which freshened us up a great deal. Then he said, "You can go on again and don't delay on me."

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I came on some caribou trail (it was then getting dark) and quite fresh, which run in all directions. I stood and thought, "When Wallace comes here he will not know my trail from the caribou trail; and if he cannot come to me to-night, if he follow the caribou trail it might lead him out of the way altogether; and if it snows again to-night I may not be able to find him in the morning." So I stayed till he came and told him why I waited for him. He was glad and said sure he would not know my trail from the caribou, which would perhaps lead him out of the way. So we sat down and ate some more of the partridge raw. Mr Wallace says, "I just fancy that I never ate something so good in my life." We could have camped right there where I killed the partridge, as we would have something for our supper; but what I wanted to find out too was - Is the flour there I wonder. If we did not get there it would be in my mind all the time, "I wonder if the flour is there." It got dark and we still travelled. Wallace would often ask me, "How far is it to the flour?" "How far is it from here to the flour?" At last I knew we were coming to it. We had not a mark, or never put it at some particular place; but we have just thrown it away. Anyway we thought we would never come past there again. It was late in the night when we came to the flour. I was not very sure of it myself. I put down my little load. Wallace said, "Is this the place?" I said, "Yes." So I went to where I thought we had left the flour. I dug down into the snow and just came on it. It was, of course, in one solid lump and black with mould. We got our knife and broke it off in bits and ate quite a bit. We were just about played out when we came to the flour. If I hadn't killed the partridge we would never have got to the flour. We gathered some wood and made a fire. No trees at all so as to break the wind. All barren and the wind sharp, and clear night. We gathered enough wood for the night, and had the rest of the partridge, and also some flour soup in our little tea pail, and only wishing Mr Hubbard was with us to enjoy the meal too. We thought and talked about Mr Hubbard all the time, although at the same time having poor hopes of him. Mr Wallace nearly blind and suffering with his eyes. I sat up all night and kept on a fire. I was very uneasy about Wallace and afraid he would not be able to go back to Mr Hubbard with the flour; but in the morning he was better and we did some patching on our old moccasins. We had some flour soup. Last night I did not notice in the dark the colour of the soup, till this morning we had our breakfast about daylight. It was just black with the mouldy flour; but we found it very good. Nothing was too bad for us to eat. We were feeling good and fresh in the morning and expecting to make good time in travelling. I took my share of the flour, about two pounds, and gave Mr Wallace about

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six or seven pounds stuck fast on the bag. He told me to take more, but I would not take any more. I said, "I will trust in getting some game," as I would get to the wood country soon. Before we parted I read the Sixty-seventh Psalm "God be merciful unto us and bless us, and cause his face to shine upon us. "That thy way may be known upon the earth, thy saving health among all nations. "Let the people praise thee, O God; let all the people praise thee. "O let the nations be glad and sing for joy; for thou shalt judge the people righteously, and govern the nations upon earth. "Let the people praise thee, O God; let all the people praise thee. "Then shall the earth yield her increase: and God even our God shall bless us. "God shall bless us: and all the ends of the earth shall fear him."

Then I read a Thanksgiving Prayer: "Almighty God, Father of all Mercies, we Thine unworthy servants do give Thee most humble and hearty thanks for all Thy goodness and loving-kindness to us and to all men. We bless Thee for our creation and preservation and all the blessings of this life: but above all for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ; for the means of grace and for the hope of glory. And we beseech Thee give us that due sense of all Thy mercies, that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful and that we shew forth Thy praise not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up ourselves to Thy service and by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness all our days, through Jesus Christ our Lord. To Whom with Thee and the Holy Ghost be all honour and glory world without end. Amen."

Then I told him what to do, for him not to leave the river, but to follow the river. I was afraid he might some time leave the river and wouldn't be able to find the river again, and lose his way. And if he gets to Hubbard and Hubbard yet alive, "if he gets little stronger by this flour, should he wish to come on, do the same, follow the river near, all the time; because if I happen to get down safe, and if I am too weak to come up myself when I send up help I shall tell them which side of the river to follow and they will surely meet you." We found sorry to part, not knowing if we would meet again; but we must try and help Hubbard and do all we can for him. Wallace starts off on our back trail and I started toward Grand Lake. We said, "Good-bye, and 'God be with you till we meet again'," to each other. We parted on a barren hill and could see each other for some time. We would just walk a few yards and sing out to each other, "Good-bye." This we kept on till out of sight and some distance apart.

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A Rough Country

It snowed very hard all day, and couldn't hardly see any distance. In the afternoon I killed a porcupine. How I wished I could give some to the boys. Wednesday, 21st, had snowed heavy all night, and made heavy travelling without snowshoes, and the snow above my knees. To-day I saw a caribou and got a shot at him with my pistol. In the evening I killed another porcupine. I thought, "I shall be able to get out to Grand Lake now if the snow don't get too deep for me." Thursday, 22nd. Snowing very hard again and cold. I made a fire at noon and tried to patch my shoe-packs but I couldn't spare time. I walked with only my socks on in the afternoon and made poor time, as the country very rough and the

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snow very deep. I tried to make a straight road to make it short to Grand Lake. During the day though feeling very tired and would like to have a rest, if I stopped even for five minutes, lots of things would come into my mind, and would have to start on again. At night it isn't so bad, because I try to make myself believe - "because it is night therefore I cannot travel." Friday, 23rd, more snow again. In the afternoon got mild, and being so much snow on the trees, it began to drop. It was worse than any rain and the bush so thick to go through, and at last it began to rain. I was soaked to the skin, and the snow very deep. My hands were always so cold without mits, and travelling in such a rough country, and falling down often into the snow and rocks, and cutting my hands on the rocks. I at last cut part of the sleeves off my undershirt and with a string tied one end, and I slipped them on my hands for mits. Several times that day I had the notion of giving up, as I could not get on at all in the deep snow. I thought it was impossible to get through. Then again I would try and make my way out. I came to the place where we had left the coffee and milk. I found the coffee. The lid was off and the can was full of ice. I took the ice out and underneath of the ice the coffee was. I broke some off and made some coffee; but it did not hardly taste like coffee at all, all the strength was out, as it been in water for a long time. The milk I could not find. That evening I killed four partridges. The weather turned clear and cold and I was wet to the skin. It was late when I had to stop for the night, and did my best in trying to dry my things the best way I could, and hard to get wood for I had no axe. Saturday, 24th, in the evening I came to the place where we had left the lard. I was very glad to find it. It was about three pounds of lard in a pail. I had some porcupine and a few partridges yet, as I would try and save some ahead for my way out, and the bones of the porcupine I carried with me; for I didn't throw the bones away, as it will make good broth if I get out of grub and don't get more game. I also had the flour yet, because I was saving it when my porcupine was done, and the porcupine bones with little flour will last me for a while. In the evenings I would talk to myself like as if some one with me, and plan to start off again soon as day light, and try and make so many miles, just to cheer myself. After I left Mr Wallace, when coming along after I killed the porcupine and some partridges, at night, my fire I would have it in a long style and just lie near the side of it, and whatever I had, some porcupine or partridge, in my little bundle, I would put it for my pillow for fear some animal might carry it away. My pistol I would keep it handy, and then talk to myself and say, "If some wolves should come along to-night they would make short work of me. But I guess I might just

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as well get killed by them as to starve; but any way I will just make that first fellow jump a little with my pistol." My little pistol is only 22 cal. Every evening I always read a chapter, and every morning at just break of day light; and when I got a little stronger, after getting some game, strong enough to raise my voice, I always sung a part of a hymn. In the evening I would read first then sing, "Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me on. The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead Thou me on. Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me."

And in the morning after I read, I would sing, Come to me, Lord, when first I wake, As the faint lights of morning break; Bid purest thoughts within me rise, Like crystal dew-drops to the skies.

Sunday, 25th, was snowing again. In the evening I killed four more partridges. Snow very deep and made poor time, and high mountains to go over, but I thought I will get out to Grand Lake early in the morning. Monday, 26th, I got out to Grand Lake about 10 o'clock and was very, very glad to get out again to the lake, but was very much disappointed in the afternoon. I came along the south shore of the lake and thinking I would make good time from there now to Northwest River, and I would only follow the shore of the lake to Northwest River, and besides no mountains to go over. I went about 2 miles and came to a river, which made me feel very bad about it, and I did not know how I could ever get across, and could not make a raft without an axe. I thought I would try any way to make a raft, if I could only get wood to make a raft with. I followed the river up. The banks were so high, and the swift current run so swift along the steep banks, and the river very deep. I could not drop a log in without it float right away, and also came to another branch. This river branches off in two. I tried all afternoon to cross at the main river so I would have only one river to cross; but I could not there, as near the lake I will have two rivers to cross at the forks.

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I gave up and went down near the lake again. The ice was floating down the river. A rapid near the lake. I thought it might not be very deep. Then, seeing that I could not do any better, I thought I would wade out a piece and the rest I would swim to the other shore. I started out, and up to my waist before I got any distance out, and the floating ice coming against me, and the cramps began to take on the legs, that I was obliged to turn and just got out to shore in time. I stood for some time thinking that I will never be able to cross, and that I would sure to starve there. It got dusk and I started a fire. I was very, very cold, and had something to eat. I was troubled very much and could not forget the river, and the ice floating and rubbing against the shore, made things worse, to hear that sound all night, and thinking if I only had a canoe, I could get to Northwest River to-morrow. It was yet 40 miles to the post Northwest River. Tuesday, 27th, as soon as daylight I tried to wade across again the same place; but things happened the same. Along the lake lots of drift wood. I thought I better make a raft if I could. It was blowing very heavy from the west. I got my raft made. My tump line I made two pieces to tie the four corners of the raft, and my leather belt I made another piece, and a piece of small salmon twine I had at the other corner. I got a long pole so as to be sure and touch bottom with it all the way across, as I was afraid that the swift current would take me out into the lake and the heavy sea would swamp me. My raft was too small, and when I got on it I sunk down quite a bit. I shoved out and came to the strong current, and the tide and the ice overcame me, and took me out to the lake. When the current took me out into the lake, then the wind caught me and carried me. It got so deep I could not find bottom with my pole. I had a mind to jump from the raft; but I knew if I did I would surely get drowned. So I thought I might just as well try to stay on. My raft was breaking up. Piece of piece would float away. So I got down on my knees and tried to keep the pieces together, and the sea would just cover me. For about two hours I stayed on the raft, and sure it was my finish. Finally, after a while, the wind drove me just near a point. It was a long point, and I knew I could touch bottom with my pole. I took my pole and just hardly got ashore. (Grand Lake runs nearly east and west, is over 40 miles long, and from 1 to 4 miles wide, and very deep, up to sixty fathom of water, and for the least wind makes a very heavy sea.) At this point where I got ashore, I was more than glad, but the other branch yet to cross. I came to the branch and followed it up quite a bit. This branch is much larger than the first. It was very hard to get wood to make a raft. No drift. I managed to shove some half rotten stumps down. It took me some time to get enough

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for my raft, and not a stitch dry about me, just wringing wet, and would not make a fire till I got across the other branch. I built my raft on newly frozen ice, just near the open stream, and then broke the ice around, and with a long pole worked my way across. This raft was much larger than the first, and out of the water where I stood. Oh! but I was so proud of that raft, and talking to myself all the time, and telling myself what a fine raft it was, and I was so proud of my raft. I got across safe and without much trouble after all. It was nearly sunset. I thought I'd better make my fire and found I was nearly safe. I would dry up and make a good early start in the morning, and would nearly get to the post the next day. I picked out a place for the night, and shot three partridges right there. It was near a point where I was and round the point run a deep bay. I thought may be another river run out from there. And just to see if I could see any river I run to the point. When I got to the point, I seeing a small boat within 100 yards from me; and, of course, to make sure, I run to see it, thinking it would come handy to me and I could sail to the post. Before I came near it, a child screamed out nearly opposite of me in the bush. I cannot tell how I felt. I just run the direction I heard the sound. The next, the roof of a house I saw. Then I came on a trail. I saw a girl with a child outside of the door. As soon as she saw me she run in and a woman came out. I sung out to her before I came to her. Meeting me she looked so scared. Then I shook hands with her, and told her where I came from. She took me in the house and told me to sit down. But I was - well I could not say how I was and how glad I was. After I had some tea and bread, I went for my little bundle and the partridges I shot. When I got back, a bed was fixed up for me and a shift of dry clothes. She did not know what to think of me when first seeing me, and also being all wet and nearly barefooted. She was the wife of Donald Blake.4 When I came there at Donald's I had six partridges, and a piece of porcupine and about half of the flour I started off with, and all the bones of the porcupine that I carried along with me. TOO LATE Very soon Donald Blake and his brother came home. I told him of our sad trip, and asked him if he could go up and take grub to Mr Hubbard and Wallace. "Which river did you follow this summer?" Donald asks me. "The Nascaupee River," I said, "and I came down by the same river again." "When did you come out to Grand Lake?" he said. "Yesterday," I replied. "And how did you get across the lake?"

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"I did not come across at all, but I followed the south shore all the way." Then he told me where the Nascaupee River was, and where it came out from to the Grand Lake, within 4 miles north-east from here. I told him about which river we followed, and one at the head of the lake. He then tells me that we have taken the wrong river, and that the river we have followed was the Susan River.5 Then I asked him, "What river was this one I crossed with the raft?" He says, "That river was Beaver Brook or Beaver River." Then I learnt that this Beaver River was the Big River where we left our canoe, and my thoughts were, "Oh! that if we had followed the Big River, we would have all got out safe," and I could not forget about it, and felt so sorry about it.6 Donald got ready to start in the morning. He told me of two men 7 miles from here. I told him it would be better if we could get the other two men, as they would make better time and have lighter loads. So they started off the same night in their boat, and got the two men, Allan Goudy and Duncan M'Lean.7 Wednesday morning, October 28th - Donald and three more started off in their boat part of the way. They had their snowshoes also. Taking lots of grub and some spare sealskin boots and some other clothes, as I told them how the boys were rigged when I left them. I wanted to go with them too; but they said they were going to travel at night too, and thought I would not be able to stand it out. I made a map for them and told them just where the tent was, and told them which side of the river to follow, and that the tent was just at the forks. I told them what I told Wallace before I left him, not to leave the river and to follow the north shore of the river all the time. So they said they would find the camp without any trouble. When Donald and the men had gone, Mrs Blake was baking some biscuits just after breakfast. The hot biscuits looked so good. At last, I could not help myself, and had to ask her for some. She put some in a dish and gave me butter, molasses, and tea. So I ate and ate, and could not stop myself whatever, that at last I had to just force myself to go away where I could not see those little biscuits. But oh! how I did suffer afterwards. I could not eat any thing more that day. It pained me ever so much in my breast. I would try and have a rest in bed, but could not, the pain was too much. Then I would go out and walk about outside; but it was no use whatever, and come in and sit down. This I kept on all day but I wouldn't tell Mrs Blake about it. I had no rest and suffered very much and was getting worse all the time. I thought of myself: Well I had nearly died of starvation, and after I did come out to where I could get some grub to live on, and after all kill myself with it. What a mean trick. I did not know what to do with myself at last. Then I thought to try some hot water and started to vomit. It did me good. I felt much better after. I knew when

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A North Country Mother and Her Little Ones

I was eating those biscuits, that it wouldn't be good for me if I ate too much, but I couldn't help it. But it learnt me a good lesson. Afterwards I took good care not to eat too much. But for some time after, about three weeks, we suffered in our breast every time we ate, and so very, very hungry all the time for more to eat. We then suffered nearly as much as we did when we were first out of grub. Next day Mrs Blake telling me, "Donald built this house this fall. It is a little over a week since we moved in to our new house. And the other house you see over there is Mr Bakie's house.8 He is not up yet. He is yet at the Northwest River post." So I thought, "If Donald hadn't come up here when I came past!!! - I guess I will just go into Mr Bakie's house and see if I would have found any thing there."

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I went in his little store first, it wasn't locked, and found a few pounds of flour and some bits of pork in a keg, and about twenty pounds butter and also a good pair of sealskin boots. So I said to myself, "Well I guess I could find a load of grub here and take a load back to Mr Hubbard and Wallace." But I thought about the river, and how would I get a load back across the river? Then I looked round if I could find an axe, and found two, one small and the other large. I took the big axe and said, "This one would come handy to use to make my raft with, and the little one I would take along with me in the bush, and those sealskin boots I would wear." And also found three pair snowshoes. I also picked out the pair I would have taken and said, "This pair I would take." Then I went in his house and found two barrels of flour. So I said, "Well after all I would have found more flour than I could carry to take up to the boys," for I told them when I left, that if I found grub any place on the road, and no one there, I will just help myself and try and bring up a load. In that house I spent some time, thinking and planning of what I would have done. Friday, October 3th - I was staying at Donald's, killing quite a few partridges and making myself at home; but yet not feeling very happy, as I did not get much rest at nights, thinking about Mr Hubbard and anxious to hear from them soon. I had good hopes of Mr Wallace, because the mouldy flour he had would yet keep him alive. And my troubles were: "Now I feel safe and in good hopes of getting home; but should Mr Hubbard and Wallace starve in there, the people may not believe me in what I say, and will think that I run away from them, and haven't done fair whatever," and when I got home I would get in trouble, after I had done all I could for them as well as myself. When I would wake up at night it would just come into my mind. And more than that, Mr Hubbard had been so good to me, and to remember what a friend he was, and what a brave man he was. Oh wasn't he a brave man! I have seen a good many fine people in my time; but I never have seen a man like Hubbard, and I never expect to see another. I was thinking too how things happened, about being on the wrong river, and what made us believe we were on the right river, though at the same time thinking that it was too small to feed Grand Lake, but when it came out just at the head of the lake, as it shows in the map, made us think it was the Nascaupee. And besides how we proved as we were going up, as the people has told us at Northwest River post, that after we got up the Nascaupee River, 18 miles up, we would come to the Red Wine River, branching off from the south side of the Nascaupee River, and also how that happened. When we got up, about 18 miles

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up, a little river branching off from the south into this river we thought was the Nascaupee, and of course, we called this little river the Red Wine River. And besides how we found the old portage trail, and also the steel trap, and how all these things kept on making us think for sure we were on the right trail. And besides none knew, or ever thought, there was any other river. And I could not forget about it, and was so sorry about it. Only one river. Saturday evening, October31ist- Donald Blake and Allan Goudy returned from their trip, and sorry to hear the death of Mr Hubbard. They suppose he died the first evening we left him, by telling of the signs, as he hasn't been out of the tent after the first snow. Three or four caribou has been coming right near the tent door, and going round the tent. Donald and Allan tells of Mr Hubbard and how they had found him wrapped up in his blanket, like as he had been falling asleep, and the tent door closed and all pinned up. I could tell then pretty well how he has being, and that he has being doing as he said he would, and has fallen asleep and has never woke. For I myself was nearly at my finish, and knew how I felt, and how weak and sleepy I used to feel, and often felt that I could just fall asleep and never wake up again. Donald and Allan brought all that was at the tent, Mr Hubbard's camera and his rifle and his diary. And I was so very much surprised to see what he has written, and found a letter he has been writing for me to Mr S.A. King, in case I should fail, and telling him how I had tried so hard to help him.9 I was so glad to see this letter, and remembered how he did speak of me this summer, and was so always pleased of my work. And further, to see here what he has written about me, even to his very last. Then I knew his letter would help if the people would not believe me in what I said. They fixed Mr Hubbard's body the best way they could and returned to Mr Wallace. Going up they found Mr Wallace 1 mile above from where we got the flour from, where Wallace and I parted. They came on to his trail first. Then they followed him up. He has crossed the river on the ice to the south shore, just near where they came to him along the river, where some caribou had been going across. He had a little fire, but was unable to make a start or to travel any more. Allan Goudy says he right away gave Wallace some bread and butter, and after he ate that he did want some more: "But we would not give him more. We were afraid to give him too much, for fear he would eat too much. He then got a hold of some raw salt pork and was going to eat it raw, that we had just to take it from him." The two young lads, Duncan M'Lean and Gilbert Blake,10 stayed with Mr Wallace, and Donald and Allan went right on to Mr Hubbard. They saw Wallace's trail through the snow, and along where he went, and only less than a cou-

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pie hundred yards from the tent, and had turned back and followed his own trail again, thinking he had gone past the camp. They found Mr Wallace was frostbitten on the point of his toe, the big toe on his left foot. He had yet a little of the flour when they found him. The two lads stays up with Mr Wallace, so when he gets a little stronger they would come down to Grand Lake. They had a tent and stove, and lots of provisions. Sunday, November ist -1 went with Allan over where he lives, 7 miles from Donald's, 4 miles by the lake, then up the Nascaupee River 3 miles. My first glimpse of the Nascaupee River. The Nascaupee River is a nice big river compared to the Susan and Beaver River, and much wider and deep. When we came along here in the summer, we saw this bay where the Nascaupee River comes out from, from a distance; but we thought it was just only a bay, and high mountains all round, and we never thought a river came out from there. So we did not go in there at all. We saw also from a distance, where Beaver River runs out from; but we thought it was only an island. So we still just went on and followed the map. It was late in the evening when we got back to Donald's. Donald and Allan would start off again in the morning to meet the two lads and Wallace. Monday, November 2nd - Donald and Allan meeting Mr Wallace, they arrived at Donald's in the evening. Mr Wallace then told me of his trip after I left him; but he couldn't remember all, as he at last lost track of every thing. He was troubled with his eyes, being nearly smoke blind, and that he could not find the tent. He thought he had gone past the camp. He says he did not know where the tent was. He made Duncan a present of Mr Hubbard's washing rod. Tuesday, November yd - We said good-bye to Donald's, and went with Allan and Duncan over to their place. We staid there a couple of days while Allan getting his boat ready for us to use to Northwest River. The day after I went over there I asked Duncan M'Lean if he could go with me this winter when I go up to get Mr Hubbard's body. He told me he would be willing to come along with me and help me all he could. I told him I would try to get one or two more at Northwest River post. Thursday, November 5th - In the morning Wallace and I started off from Allan's house. When we got to the mouth of the river we could not go any farther. Snowing very hard and could not see any distance, and the wind against us. We stayed at the mouth of the river till in the evening. The wind shifted to the north-west, and we sailed across to Cape Blanc, just opposite the Nascaupee. We went to a

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little shack I knew. When we passed here in the summer we saw the shack just near the lake. This was the little shack where I thought I might find some food or, perhaps, find some trappers when I was coming down the Susan; but it was just a little shack or tilt for the trappers' use when travelling along Grand Lake, just big enough for two men to sleep in. Wallace and I were glad to get in, and a little stove in too, and nice and warm. In the morning, Nov. 6th, nice wind and fair for us, and got to Northwest River. The people were so sorry to hear the sad news of Mr Hubbard, especially those who have seen him. I also came across Mr Bakie, who knew about Beaver River, and enquires if we came to where it branches and connects again, on the south side a high half barren hill. I said, "Yes, that is just the place where we left our canoes and went over to Susan Brook." He tells me, "If you had come over that rapid where you left the canoe, you would go 6 miles and just come to another. Only about 50 yards you would carry your canoe, and from there smooth and deep water, no rapids, but swift current. Even if you didn't have the strength of paddling, the swift current would have brought you down, right down to my house." Mr Bakie lives just near Donald Blake's at Grand Lake, just near the river Beaver River. How sorry I was when we did not follow Beaver River. It would only take us two days to come from where we left the canoe to where Donald Blake or Mr Bakie's house. Mr Baikie has his trapping on Beaver River, and he knew all about it, and tells me that we had come over the worst part of the river. K E E P I N G A P R O M I S E AND SOMETHING MORE At the New Year I saw Duncan M'Lean again, and he said he would meet me on the i6th January at Donald's, to start from there up the bush to get Mr Hubbard's body, and the things we left, if I can find them. He would be out from his trapping path then, and besides the rivers frozen up. All the people round there thought that I could not find anything whatever. I did not meet Duncan, and did not get started on my trip till March 8th. The men were willing to go with me and help me with what I had to do; but Mr Wallace wanted the canoe out, and to make the canoe a present to Mr M'Kenzie, which the boys didn't care to undertake, and afraid to try and make a start, because they thought if they went they would have to bring the canoe. And besides the snow being so deep, and had been snowing nearly every day for some time ago, and haven't had chance of settling down, and besides about 80 miles

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A Montagnais Type

to where the camp was, and the canoe about 98 miles. We could not take dogs, because the country being so rough we could not use dogs whatever. So we have to get on by hauling every man his toboggan. Seeing that the boys were almost afraid to try, till at last I told them, "Never mind, but come along with me and I will tell you whether the canoe will be taken out or not. Because we are going up there especially for to bring out Mr Hubbard's body, and some films if I can find them, and we will leave the canoe and not bother with it. So you can put the blame on me, as anyway we will have more than three men can handle, and especially the country being so rough."

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They said they would come along with me and help me in what I had to do, as it is something that has to be done. And besides getting time for the mild, and the rivers burst, and the water runs on top of the ice, and afraid that we could do no travelling in Susan Brook, and the mountains so rough and steep we could not haul toboggans over them, and have to travel on the river. So we got started in the morning from Northwest River on our way up. March 8th - Tom Blake and Duncan M'Lean and I started this morning to bring Mr Hubbard's body out to Northwest River.11 We have two toboggans and one catmeran. Taking little stove, and tent and enough provisions. Each has a good load, and the new snow makes heavy going. Got dogs at Tom Blake's. Douglas Blake going up the lake with us. We came 18 miles to-day. March 9th - Still snowing heavy and stormy. So we had to lay up to-day, being too rough to travel on the lake, and the snow deep. March loth - Still snowing. Tom Blake got discouraged, as he thinks it will be too hard to do any travelling in the bush, as it is heavy going even on the lake. He and Douglas went home this morning with the dogs to Northwest River. The young lad Duncan stays with me. I found hard to think of what I have to do; but Duncan promises me that he will be brave, and we will try and go on as soon as the weather settles, and the snow will pack and make better travelling. March nth and i2th — Snowing and kind of mist. Could not go on again. Sunday, March i^th — In the afternoon it cleared up and we started Duncan and I, and being only two could not take all we had, and left some grub and our blankets. Just taking tent, stove, and enough grub. Our loads still heavy to drag, and travelled slow and good part of the night. At last Duncan broke his snowshoe and had to stop. Duncan is a nice boy and willing, and not particular when to start in the morning and when to quit. March iqth - This morning Duncan fixing up his snowshoes, and took part of the day. In the afternoon we started. Hope to make a good early start in the morning as the snow is settling fast. March 15th - This morning, as we were just starting off, saw Mr Blake coming. He has changed his mind and came on again to follow us up. We were so glad to have him come again.

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March i6th - Stormy and cold. Last night very cold. We have to keep fire on all night, and especially when we have no blankets. Our toboggans being so rimey to-day, and very often scraped the rime off so as it wouldn't draw so hard. March 17th - The weather changed and settling down, and made a good day's journey to-day. March 18th - To-day I shot six partridges with the pistol. This evening I knew we were coming opposite where we left the cartridges in the summer. It was in July, when one day Mr Hubbard thought he had too many cartridges, and we took and dug in the sand and left them and covered them up, about five hundred rifle and pistol cartridges. So I told Mr Blake and Duncan about it, and left our loads there and crossed over to where I thought it would be. We hadn't marked the place, for any way we thought of never coming back that way again. We came to the place where I thought we had left them, and dug into the snow. The boys were not sure about it at all, and thinking that I would not find the cartridges. When we came to the sand they asked me, "Is this the place?" I said, "Yes." A chisel I had with me to cut the frozen sand with. We dug into the sand and just came on them. The boys were surprised and would have bet anything before we started that I wouldn't find anything whatever, as the snow in winter makes things look different. March 19th - To-day made good time. Duncan snow blind. Sunday, March 2oth - Early before noon we came to the camp. The tent was all buried in the snow; but when we dug down were surprised to find it standing. We wrapped Mr Hubbard in the things we brought along with us, and did the best we could. I blazed a tree near where the tent has been. This I wrote deeply: L. HUBBARD. died here 18th October, 1903, and will be brought out by T. BLAKE, DUNCAN M'LEAN AND G. ELSON. Came on a little farther this evening. The boys yet do not hardly think I can find the rest of the things. Of course, I'm not sure myself; but I can try any way. We have our cache five different places, some 4 and 8 miles apart.

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March 21st — The boys were surprised to-day. When we came to the first cache I told them that we left some things there; but they looked at me and told me, how could I tell and no marks to go by. But they wouldn't refuse. We dug down to the ground, 8 feet, and just came on our little bundle we had left. The next was the same, and the next, till we got everything we had thrown away, only one bag yet with lots of films in. I remembered that I had hung it up by a little strap, on a little stump in some swamp, and the trees scattered. I thought I really could not guess at that place, and told the boys; but we went on any way, till I thought we came to the place. No tree near, only just a plain. At last we dug down a piece any way. When we got down a piece we started to feel around with our feet, and just came on the stump, and the bag still on. Mr. Blake says, "I have been trapping now ever since I could, when only a boy, and I think I know a little about travelling in the bush now; but I could never find anything like you, and did not miss one place, but came right on it every time. I would never believe any one could do that if I did not see it myself. Duncan said the same, and besides nothing to go by. March 22nd - Started back from the camp for Grand Lake. Each man has a big load, for we have picked up lots. Duncan very bad with snow blind. March 2rd - Snowing heavy, and rime on our toboggans makes heavy travelling. Some places the river bad to travel, on account of rapids where it isn't froze. We have some times just a narrow bridge of ice to go on, as no other way we could go, for the rough steep mountains on each side. March 24th - Drifting and snowing very hard. Only travelled part of the day. Got to Allan Goudy's house. March 25th - Snowing heavy. Got to Cape Corbeau.12 All very tired. March 26th - Stormy to-day and snowing very hard, and our toboggans so heavy we could not get on at all, and had to leave our loads and walk empty to the post. Late when we got here at Mr Blake's house at the rapids, 3 miles from the post. Will get dog teams in the morning and go back for our loads. March 2&th - Duncan M'Lean and I took dog team up Grand Lake this morning and got here again this evening with Mr Hubbard's body and the things we left behind in the fall. We dressed him the best we could and laid him in the coffin the men at Kenemish had made for him, till we are ready to start on around the coast.

216 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

above: The French Post at Northwest River below: Hudson's Bay Company Post at Northwest River

When I was up in the bush, Mr Wallace has a letter from Dr Cluny Macpherson. As soon as he heard the sad news of Mr Hubbard, he has started from Battle Harbor to come to Northwest River with his dog team to help us. When he got to Rigolette, Mr Fraser has just been at Northwest River post, and told him we hadn't yet the body of Mr Hubbard out from the bush, and besides when he left Battle Harbor his little child was sick, and a team of dogs brought him news that his child was getting worse. So then he had to turn back from Rigolette, and sent a letter to Mr Wallace to guide us on our way from Rigolette to Battle Harbor, from the time we may leave Rigolette all along, giving full account where we could get men and teams, and when we got at a place what man to ask for, and gave all the names of the places, and the names of the people we are to enquire for, and the best places to stay at nights, and besides tells of a steamer to come to Battle Harbor about the first part of May. It was hard to get dogs and we were long getting started. In February I was up at Muddy Lake. Wednesday, Feb. 24th, I went from Muddy Lake to Goose Bay at John Groves. He asked me if we got dogs to help us around the coast and to take Mr Hubbard's body. I said that we did not yet find teams that could take us around or even as far as Rigolette.

Narrative by George Elson 217 Thursday, February z^th - I got to Northwest River. Sunday, February 28th - Mr Wallace and Mr Bently arrived from Kenemish. Then I told Mr Wallace what John Groves had told me, that he could help us with his team as far as Rigolette any way, and that he had a good team of dogs. Friday, April 8th - Lots of teams from Muddy Lake. Edward Michline also arrived. He has been at Goose Bay a few days ago, and tells me that his brother-inlaw John Groves said, that if Mr Wallace would ask him to help him along, he could go as far as Rigolette with his team of dogs, as at the time he did not have very much to do and he could have time to go to Rigolette and back before he had any particular work to do for himself. Then I told Mr Wallace about it, what John Groves has said. He said that he would write a letter to him and ask him about it. But Mr Wallace and Mr M'Kenzie still thinking of getting the canoe out, and wanted me to go up the Grand Lake and up by Beaver Brook, to get the canoe out to Northwest River. I was not careful of undertaking the trip. My reasons why - I knew how long it would take me to go up and back again to Northwest River. It would take me nearly two weeks. I thought it would be pretty late when we could make a start on our trip to Battle Harbor, and would miss the boat that Dr Macpherson told us would be in Battle Harbor about the 1st of May. Also I was sure that the canoe would be crushed to pieces with the weight of the snow, as we left it in a place where it had a good chance of being crushed to the ground. If we had put it in some shelter where it would be all right, or if we had put it on a stage to keep in good shape; but when we had just taken it out of the river, and just left it along the open, I knew it could not be safe. I thought it was a piece of nonsense to try and get it out, and would be only a trip for nothing. Even then I would be willing to go if it hadn't been so late. Also I thought it was hardly fair to try and force me to go any way, because I knew that I wasn't under either of them. I was hired by Mr Hubbard on the trip and we had to do all the planning. It was Mr Hubbard's expedition, and we had to obey him and try to help him in all we could while we were yet together. Also Mr Hubbard had done and has always left things in my care to which I thought it would be better for us to do, and had gone by my plans a good deal, though he was the head of the party. Also what was belonging to Mr Hubbard, knowing that I had just as much rights with some of his things as any one had, and in fact that I had already done that would be required, and had gotten out everything that I thought was necessary to be gotten out from the bush. However at last I said that I would go if I got a dog team. So I got ready to start to go for the canoe.

218 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Wallace told me, "You see7 if when you went up, if you had dug up the canoe out of the snow and put it up on a stage, you wouldn't have to go up again." I said, "I do not have to go up again. It is not long since I had my trip up there. I think I have done my part."13 I was to start Tuesday, April 12th. Monday, April nth - Mr Wallace wrote a letter and wrote to John Groves telling him to be at Northwest River at such a day, about the time we would be out with the canoe from Grand Lake and Beaver River. Sent his letter up by Carl Hope. Tuesday, April 12th - A pile snowing and we could not go. Mark Blake and I were to start this morning but too stormy. Wednesday, April 13th - Still very stormy and lots of new snow has been falling, and could not make a start again. I told Wallace and M'Kenzie that if I could not go off again the next morning I would give up the trip and not go at all, as it was getting too late. Thursday, April 14th - Still stormy and snowing very hard, so that we could not go again, and gave up the trip. Monday, April 18th - Henry and his brother Dan Groves arrived. I told Mr Wallace about them and that he could send word by them to tell their brother John Groves to come right away and help up to Rigolette. Tuesday, April 19th - John Groves arrived and said that he could not come along with us, as he had now lots of work that he wanted to do for himself, and besides his dogs were all cut by crust about the feet. April 2oth - Getting ready for starting off in the morning. Getting help from M. Duclos, the French Company agent here. Sending his man Bellfleur to help me on to Rigolette with his dog team. Thursday, April 21st - Bellfleur and I started this morning from Northwest River with Mr Hubbard's body. Starting a day ahead of Mr M'Kenzie as we have a heavy load and the going heavy. Will take three days to Rigolette. Mr M'Kenzie will bring Wallace along with him and Fred Blake his teamster. They will overtake us on the way, as they have good dogs and no load only just themselves. Got to Lowlands at 10 o'clock to-night. Bad footing for our dogs, and had to lead them and break down the snow. We came 40 miles to-day and our dogs at last played

Narrative by George Elson 219

out. Bob Bakie lives here and does his trapping around here. He tells us he killed a caribou to-day, a big stag. April 22nd - This morning gave our dogs a little rest, and did not start from Mr Bakie's till noon. Our dogs are so poor that most of them are chaffed with the harness, and a mixed team, some water dogs, some Esquimaux dogs. The water dogs do not stand the hard work near so well as the huskies, and get played sooner. Before we started to-day one of the men killed four caribou there. Came here this evening at Bell Shepherd's. Saturday evening, April 23rd - Got to Rigolette. Mr M'Kenzie caught up to us just a few miles before getting to Rigolette, and we got there together. Mr Fraser, the agent at Rigolette, has some time ago been telling Jerry Flowers and his brother that we would be along at Rigolette, and asked them if they would help us along to Cartwright, and that he would let them know when we came to Rigolette. Sunday, April 24th - Mr. Fraser sent off two men to go and tell Jerry and his brother that we are at Rigolette. Monday, April 25th - Early this morning Jerry and his brother came with team of dogs each, but they wouldn't go less than thirty dollars each for two days' run. Mr Fraser told them they were charging too much and wouldn't have them, but got some other men for us. Left Rigolette in the afternoon. Crossed over river in a boat. Came to William Mugford's, 3 miles from Rigolette. Tuesday, April 26th — Snowing. Started 6 A.M. Wind in our faces before noon and the new snow made heavy going. I have Mr Hubbard's body on my sledge, and also some dunnage, and have four dogs. George Pottle my teamster. Wallace has George Williams for his teamster and six dogs. After noon the wind shifted to the north-west and the wind blew the snow off the crust, and fine going. A few ridges of hills we came over but not bad. Came 40 miles to-day. Came to Sam Pottle's house at West Bay at 6.30 P.M. Wednesday, April 27th - Started from West Bay 7 A.M. Got to Cartwright 4.30 P.M., 46 miles. Sam Pottle and George Williams our teamsters. Drifting and cold all day. Thursday, April 28th - Staying here at the post. Mr Swaffield, agent here of the Hudson's Bay Post, getting us another team. Only enough dogs for one team

220 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

Night-Gloom Gathers

here. Mr Swaffield has sent for Charles Davies to be ready for starting off in the morning. Friday, April 27th - This morning Mr Davies took sick and was very bad. So Mr Swaffield had to get us another man in his place, Walter Bird. Started 7 A.M. Got to Sandy Hill 2.30 P.M., and got so soft we could not travel, especially through the portages. Travelling mostly on ice. Came 30 miles. Saturday, April ^oth - This morning we started from Sandy Hill 4A.M., and got to Spotted Islands 8.30 A.M., 25 miles. Our teamsters don't know the route any farther. Mick Dison and Bill Dison our teamsters from Spotted Islands. Starting off in the afternoon 2.30 P.M., got to Seal Island 6 P.M., 20 miles. Sunday, May ist - Very stormy and can't see any distance. Can't make a start today. Staying in George Morris house. Monday, May 2nd - Still stormy. We started from Seal Island, 11 A.M. after it cleared up a bit, and got to Coopers Bite, or New York, 7 P.M., 35 miles.14 Nobody living there.

Narrative by George Elson 221

We came to some shacks. No stoves in any of them and all the doors off. We gathered some of the old broken stoves and made a kind of a fireplace in the middle of the house, and built a fire. We cut a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. Tuesday, May 3yd — Started off this morning 4 A.M. It was very dark. Got to Williams Harbor 9 A.M., 30 miles. Came to Mr John Russel's house. Mr Russel and his brother James Russel has been just starting off into the bay, and will not be home till evening. Mick and Bill Dison do not know the route any farther. The Russels home this evening, and will take us to Fox Harbor in the morning. Wednesday, May 4th - Started off from Williams Harbor early this morning, 6 A.M., and came to Mr George Wakeham's at Fox Harbor about 10 A.M., 25 miles. Cannot get across the bay and the people tell us that we cannot go round by dog team, on account of a river near Cape Charles. So we have to wait here till the ice moves out. Only 6 miles from Battle Harbor. We stay here at Mr Wakeham's. The people all along on our trip has been good to us as they could. We had only to go by Dr Macpherson's letter, and at every place they were always ready to help us, because when the Dr has passed he told them about us coming along the coast, and they were always looking out for us. The people all along the coast has heard of my finding the things on my trip in the bush. One would tell the other, "This is the man we heard of, when he found everything he dug for in the snow this winter." Thursday, May 12th - About noon a little boat came from Battle Harbor to Fox Harbor. The Dr had heard that we were at Fox Harbor, and right away sent a little boat with five men to help us, and telling us about a steamer at Cape Charles. She will be starting for Newfoundland may be in the morning. Wallace and I were more than glad, and started right away from Fox Harbor. We were there eight days at Fox Harbor. We came through the floating ice and went round to Cape Charles. Went aboard the steamer and found out that the Captain was at Battle Harbor. So we came round and got to Battle Harbor late in the evening. Friday, May 13th - Dr Macpherson had Mr Hubbard's body enclosed in a lead coffin. In the afternoon we went aboard the steamer Aurora, Capt. Kean, that had gone to Cape Charles with a load of machinery for the new whale factory. Saturday, May 14th - In the evening, 7.30 P.M., and starting from Cape Charles for St John's Newfoundland.

222 A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador Tuesday, May 17th - Arrived at St John's, Newfoundland. Friday, May 27th — Arrived at New York City. Saturday, May 28th - Mr Hubbard's body was buried to day in Mount Repose, in Haverstrawe.15 THE END.

APPENDIX

On 2 July 1905 the New York World published a lengthy feature interview with Mina Benson Hubbard called "Why I Go to Labrador: Mrs. Hubbard's Own Story." The interview was the only one she gave prior to her expedition, and it appears to have been granted to a reporter from the World who met with her in the YWCA in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on 16 June, shortly before her departure for Labrador. It includes two images of Mina (see Figures 2 and 3) and the familiar image of Leonidas standing by his canoe in 1903. The decorative design and fullpage layout of the piece indicate the value placed on her story and expedition by the newspaper. On 26 November 1905 Mina gave a second interview to the World - "Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard's Own Story of Her Trip Through the Wilderness of Labrador." This interview article is much simpler in design than the first and uses a single portrait drawing of Mina based on a photograph (see Figure 1).

2 JULY 1905

Why I Go to Labrador: Mrs. Hubbard's Own Story Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard sailed to-day for Labrador. She had been here for a week, but so successfully did she keep her whereabouts a secret that up to Thursday night not even those with whom she is most closely associated in business knew where she was staying. The World Magazine correspondent found her in the Young Women's Christian Association's rooms, and obtained an interview the first she has given and the last she will give before she returns from the Labrador wilds. She did this to correct erroneous statements that have been made as to the object of her trip. Mrs. Hubbard positively refused to have anything to say regarding her dealings with Dillon Wallace. Mrs. Hubbard was talking, when met, with her three Indian guides, who have recently arrived, but they departed immediately. She expressed her willingness to give any information she could, but regretted she had not been able to get to Labrador without publicity, as she had taken every precaution to keep her plans from becoming known.

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"If only I could have got to Rigolet," she said, "I should not have minded a little publicity, as it would have been impossible to have kept back the news after I had reached that point." To Complete Husband's Work.

Asked as to what had first given her the idea she said that, perhaps, in this attempt to complete her husband's work the most compelling circumstance had been the fact that she had not had access to her husband's notebook and maps and other material representing the work he had done, and that in publishing Mr. Hubbard's book there was no map available except one drawn from memory by George Elson, the guide who was with him on the fatal trip. This map was made from records contained in the diary proper, in which Mr. Hubbard had made notes of many points - the only records she has possession of. In addition to the map, which is a very creditable one, Mr. Elson has written the true account of her husband's expedition, which account will be incorporated into the book now in preparation. This is the first attempt at literary work ever made by Mr. Elson, but this, Mrs. Hubbard says, is done in a wonderfully beautiful way. Her aim is to secure the map which her husband had hoped and planned to secure when he started on his former expedition. "Mr. Elson came to me at my request in December, the object being to get him to assist me in writing my husband's book," she said. "I did not, at the time, intend to make a trip myself. It is true I had thought of it and wished, time after time, that I were a man, so that I could take up this work: but it had not struck me that I, a woman, could go to the wilds of Labrador on an expedition similar to that planned by my husband. It was during Mr. Elson's stay with me last winter that I decided to go. The desire had grown on me as the work of writing the book progressed, and finally one day in January, while alone, a feeling came over me - an inspiration, if you wish - that I could do the work. I told Mr. Elson I had decided to go, and asked him if he would accompany me, and he promised to do so. We made our plans for the trip. The matter of transportation was an important thing, but I successfully managed that with Mr. J.A. Gillis, of the Grand River Pulp and Lumber Company. On April i I came to Halifax and took Mr. Gillis into my confidence, with the result that he promised to do everything in his power to get me to Labrador." Meant to Go Secretly.

"Since I made up my mind to go my time has been fully occupied in preparation. I kept my plans secret, not even taking my parents into my confidence

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beyond telling my mother I was going on a long journey. Mr. Elson and I made up a list of what we thought we should need and had everything ready for ordering. There were so many details, and then there was the question of how to get there and the earliest date at which we could expect to arrive, which was, of course, owing to the immense quantities of ice, altogether uncertain. Mr. Elson was also busy in securing men and managed to get two from the Missanabie men whom he considers the best canoeists and hunters in that country of good men. Their names are Joseph Isserhoff and Job Chapish [sic]. I expect to get one more man at Northwest River. What his name or nationality is I do not know. Mr. Elson knows several whose services he can obtain and he will select one on arrival. "Our entire outfit has been planned for some time, but it was not purchased until after my return from Halifax, and, still carrying out my desire for secrecy, I had it shipped to Halifax several weeks ago, consigned to R.F. Morland, whose name had been suggested by Mr. Gillis. My arrangements were all completed in New York on May 19, after which I went to my home in Northumberland County, Ontario, to wait for word from Mr. Gillis. He advised me of the date of sailing in sufficient time to enable me to come to Halifax a little early in order that I might look over my supplies, replace what was broken or missing or to make the necessary purchases to bring the equipment up to what we think it should be. This accounts for my having been here a week. However, our supplies are now complete and this evening we expect to leave Halifax for Gillisport, and Mr. Gillis informs me that with good weather and no ice to interfere, the trip should take five or six days. We are going to Northwest River, which is about ten miles from Gillisport." Goes to Unexplored Region.

"What are your plans after you get there, Mrs. Hubbard?" "From the Northwest River post we shall go up the Nascaupee or Northwest River to Lake Michikamau, passing through Seal lake en route. In the map issued by the Geological Survey of Canada the course of the Nascaupee is indicated by dotted lines, and Seal Lake is made to appear considerably north of the river. Mr. Hubbard, however, established that Seal Lake is much further south than the map would make out, in fact, the river passes through it." "Will you make any special effort to find the Nascaupee Indians?" "The object of my expedition is not so much to see Indians as it is to secure a thorough map of the Nascaupee and George Rivers. The Indians would be of use to us in that they might give us information on which we could base a course for ourselves. After leaving Lake Michikamau we shall try to cross the country to

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the head-waters of the George River. It is possible that we shall have to make many long portages; but if everything goes well we expect to be in Ungara [sic] in time to get the Hudson Bay Company's steamer Pelican on her annual return trip to Rigolet. The route is the same as that marked out by Mr. Hubbard for the previous expedition, but he had two other alternate routes picked out by which he hoped to get to the Gulf of St. Lawrence if he found it impossible to get to Ungara [sic] or back to the starting point. These alternate routes do not enter into our plans at all, as should we find that as the season advances we should be unable to reach Ungara [sic] in time, we shall return to Northwest River by the same route. I would not undertake to winter in Labrador for many reasons. "Our outfit consists of two nineteen-foot canvas-covered canoes. They are the ordinary canoe, and were not specially built. I could not give an order for special canoes without revealing a part of my plans and telling what they were wanted for - the one thing I desired to avoid. They weigh about eighty-five pounds each. We have one 38.55 Winchester rifle, one 45.70 Winchester, one five-chamber revolver for my personal use, and for each of the men a Stevens, ten-inch barrel. We are not taking a shot-gun in spite of the fact that in the previous expedition it was reported that this was the one thing lacking. Mr. Elson says that not more than twice during the whole trip would a shot-gun have been of any special advantage. So we should or shall not burden ourselves, both ammunition and guns being very heavy. Of course considerable ammunition has to be carried. I also have a sextant, artificial horizon, aneroid barometer, high-grade watch and two kodaks. "In foods we are carrying a good quantity of flour, sugar, bacon, tea and a little chocolate. We are also taking a number of packages of erbswurst and standard emergency rations. These are put up in small tin boxes, each of which is designed to supply a man for one day. The contents consist of three cakes of condensed food, little cans of pepper and salt and a small package of tea. Luxuries are entirely tabooed, as I can live on the same food as the men." E/son's Adventurous Career.

"Perhaps you would like to know a little about George Elson. He was born at Rupert's House, James Bay, on the northwest coast of the Labrador Peninsula. His grandfather was a Scotchman, who came out to the country in 1792 as a clerk in the service of the Hudson Bay Company. He married a half-breed woman, a daughter of a Scotch physician. While George's father was still an infant both the grandparents died, and the child was adopted by the factor of the post at Rupert's House and was brought up in the family. When old enough he was apprenticed, and became a carpenter, and was subsequently superintendent of the company's

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buildings at Whale River, Fort George and Rupert's House in succession. He married a woman who was half Scotch. Hence all the white blood in George's veins is Scotch and the Indian blood is Cree - a splendid combination. Up to fourteen years of age George attended school, being taught by the Church of England ministers at the post, and was carefully brought up. From the time he was fourteen until he was eighteen he worked with his father and was then taken into the household of Mr. MacTavish, the factor at Rupert's House, where he turned his hand to everything from cooking the meals to mixing and dispensing medicines and assisting at minor surgical operations. To this day he is known as "Dr." Elson at that post. During the frequent absences of Mr. MacTavish he was actually left in charge of the post. His favorite outdoor sport at the time was goose-hunting. He remained with Mr. MacTavish for nine years, or until the latter moved to Norway House, when George accompanied him as far as Missanabie. Since then he has been engaged in guiding, hunting, surveying and canoeing parties. He went with Mr. Hubbard in 1903, and last summer was foreman of a surveying party on the transcontinental railway, and frequently had charge of making maps of certain sections. It was he who made such nobly heroic efforts to save my husband's life and who brought his body from the deep wilderness to civilization. He is loyal, true and brave." A Trained Nurse in New York

Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard is a Canadian. She came to New York and studied nursing and, having passed her examinations, became a nurse in one of the Brooklyn hospitals. There she first met Mr. Hubbard. He had typhoid fever, and it was under her tender care that he recovered. His convalescence was an idyl, and soon after his restoration to health they were married. They lived happily at Congers, N.Y., until the exploring trip which ended his career. Her devotion to him did not cease with his life, but, after his death, was consecrated to his memory, and it is this devotion which has now sent her away to brave perils of an unexplored and almost barren region. She looked upon her husband as a great genius and feels that his work must be completed. The object of this work was to examine the Nascaupee Indians, a tribe which had never seen a white man, and were known only through the stories of guides. He also desired to explore the unknown interior of Labrador and to come out down the George River to the entrance to Hudson Strait. Mrs. Hubbard accompanied her husband as far as Rigolet, on the eastern shore of Labrador, on that expedition which started in 1903. With them were Dillon Wallace and George Elson, the guide. Mrs. Hubbard returned to New York, while the party pushed on into the wilds. It was in October that Hubbard per-

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ished. Wallace almost succumbed also and was under treatment for badly frozen feet at a Hudson Bay Company's post for several weeks before he was able to resume the journey back to civilization. George Elson, who accompanies Mrs. Hubbard on this trip, tramped for miles through the wilderness to seek aid for Hubbard, but the relief party found the explorer dead and brought out his body, which was buried at Congers many months afterward. Dillon Wallace started a few weeks ago for an exploring trip in Labrador, and when he left he had no idea that Mrs. Hubbard was about to do the same thing. He tried to get the services of George Elson again, but the guide refused, giving his coming marriage as the reason, though the real reason was that he was under engagement to act as guide to Mrs. Hubbard. Mrs. Hubbard's Last Word Before Sailing.

Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., who left Halifax on Friday to complete the exploration in Labrador in which her husband in October, 1903, lost his life, wrote the day before: "Everything looks bright for us now. I am tremendously pleased with the appearance of my men; they are dignified and self-possessed, with a dignity which comes from character, and look like thoroughbreds, all of them. "Mr. Wallace left St. John's this morning in a sailboat. With good weather and no ice the journey to Gillisport, Labrador, should take from five to six days. I think Mr. Wallace starting with a sailboat settles effectually the question, Who will get there first? Mr. Gillis says: 'When we get to Gillisport and you are ready, I will have the tug take you across Goose Bay and up Grand Lake and put you on the Nascaupee River. Isn't that great?'"

26 NOVEMBER 1905

Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard's Own Story of HerTrip Through the Wilderness of Labrador First White Person to Visit the Nascaupee Indians in Their Homes, She Accomplished the Mission of Exploration Which Cost Her

Husband His Life by Starvation.

Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard has returned from Labrador and is back in New York, happy in having accomplished the work for which her husband sacrificed his life. She experienced no serious hardship, but enjoyed her trip, and feels almost inclined to go back to live in Labrador. The awful suspense of waiting for news

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when her husband was lost in the wilds and the shock of his terrible death from starvation have traced in lines their record upon her face, but they have not dulled the brightness of her smile nor quenched the ardor of her enthusiasm. She told a representative of The World yesterday where she had been, what she had seen and the adventures that had punctuated her travels. "Yes, I crossed Labrador," she said, "and penetrated wilds in which no white man's foot had ever trod. My husband's fatal trip was planned for the purpose of exploring the Nascaupee and George Rivers in order to visit and study the Nascaupee Indians in their native haunts, and to observe the vast herds of caribou which, report said, lived in those regions. I succeeded. I traversed the entire length of the Nascaupee and George Rivers. I visited the Nascaupee Indians in their wigwams, and I saw many thousands of caribou. "I left Halifax on a lumber company's steamer, which landed me at Kenemish, at the head of Lake Melville. Kenemish is a lumber camp, not a town in our sense of the word. I took almost all my supplies with me; my canoes, two of them, both of canvas, I obtained in Maine; my bacon and some other supplies in Halifax. When I spread them all out at French Post, Northwest River, across the lake from Kenemish, it did not seem possible they could be packed into two canoes. But they were, and with plenty of room for George Elson, the three Indian halfbreeds and myself. "We were two months in crossing the peninsula, dependent throughout upon what we carried and what we could shoot and catch. We could have managed with ease with much less than we carried, which proves that the outfit my husband took with him was sufficient, and that but for a chain of unforeseen and fortuitous circumstances he would have succeeded. I would take no more than I did were I to make the trip again. I discovered that Mr. Hubbard had been misinformed as to where the Nascaupee River entered Grand Lake. He had been told that it entered just at the head of the lake, so when he reached this spot and found a river there, he supposed it was the Nascaupee, whereas the latter river was really five miles away, and he had actually passed its mouth. He went up this wrong river, and it was several days before he discovered his mistake. Then, again, there was scarcely any game, and the weather had been so bad that the fish would not bite. He expected to be able to get nets at Northwest River, but had not been able to get the right sort." Found Mouth of the River.

"I had no such evil fortune. I learned the true mouth of the Nascaupee River, found it, and ascended it without difficulty. There were no serious rapids entailing long and difficult portages, and while there was not much game, there was

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enough to supply our table. We spent no time in hunting for amusement and killed nothing we could not actually use. We got one caribou, a porcupine, some rabbits, partridges, ducks and geese. "We reached Lake Michikamau on Aug. 8, and there we found the caribou crossing at the height of land. We saw one herd that numbered well up in the thousands, and after that for several days we saw many large herds grazing." "What were they eating, Mrs Hubbard, grass?" asked The World representative. Mrs. Hubbard laughed gently. "There is no grass there," she replied; "there is nothing but moss, and that is what the caribou eat." "Are there many trees?" "Only a few. Most of the country is a barren wilderness of bare mountains, snow-capped in the northern parts, utterly wild and desolate." "And ugly?" "Not at all, but beautiful! There is something majestic about those rocky solitudes, and though the mountains are not high - perhaps no more than 2,000 feet - they are grand in a rugged way that has a great charm. There are eagles and hawks and ducks and geese there, and if it were not for the flies and mosquitoes I should have enjoyed it even more than I did." "Were the flies so very bad?" "People who have never been far north cannot imagine how bad they were at times. On the Nascaupee River the black flies and on the George River the mosquitoes were so thick that I am almost afraid I shall not be believed when I describe them. But it is no exaggeration to say that they covered the backs and shoulders of the men so thick as to make them look brown. One of my halfbreeds remarked of the mosquitoes that it felt like going out into a snow-storm. I wore a veil constantly, and my men had what we called 'fly-dope.' This was a preparation which they sometimes rubbed upon those parts of their bodies which were exposed, but it was effective only for a few minutes, seeming to evaporate quickly. The flies and mosquitoes would rarely touch the men when the 'dope' was fresh on them, and when an adventurous insect did try to bite them it was killed instantly, but it was necessary to rub it on fresh about every fifteen minutes." F//es Make Life Miserable.

"But the flies were not bad in all parts. I was told that they were nowhere so bad as they had been the year my poor husband lost his life. Still, at the best, they make travel in the interior anything but comfortable."

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Returning to the voyage itself, Mrs. Hubbard went on to tell of the Indians she met. "After turning down the George River," she said, "and about fifty miles from its head, we came among the Montagnais. Three days more brought us among the Nascaupees. These tribes are true Indians, and not at all like the Eskimos. They live in wigwams and dress in skins. George Elson understood enough of their language to be able to talk with them. "The men go down to the coast to trade in furs, but they never take their women with them. These men had, of course, seen white people before, but never before had a white person visited them. When they first saw us they were evidently frightened, but as soon as they heard friendly words in their own tongue they were reassured." "Of what were they frightened?" asked The World representative. Old Iroquois Tradition.

"They thought we were Iroquois coming to attack them. It seems strange but it is true, that the dread of the Iroquois is still a tradition among them. This tradition must be centuries old, but it is still alive. How it originated is lost in the mists of the past, and that it has lived is merely additional evidence of how utterly cut off from the rest of the world these Northern Indians are." Traversed Untrodden Regions Where Enormous Herds of Caribou Graze on Moss - Passed Down Rivers and Almost Came to Grief in the Perils of the Rapids.

"Going down the George River we encountered many rapids and our progress was perilous but swift. We had one upset, when two of my men had a narrow escape from drowning, and we lost some of our supplies, but not enough to make it necessary to turn back. We were altogether two months living in the canoes and in camps, and at the end of that time, on August 27, we reached the George River post of the Hudson Bay Company on Ungava Bay, which projects for a distance of about one hundred miles southward from Hudson Strait. We were entertained there by John Ford, the company's factor, until Oct. 23, when the Hudson Bay Company's steamer Pelican touched at the post on her return from her annual cruise. On her we returned by sea around the coast to Rigolette, where we were fortunate enough to catch the steamer King Edward, on which we returned to Quebec."

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Appendix A Very Successful Trip.

"Are you thoroughly satisfied with the results of your trip?" "Yes, thoroughly. I accomplished all that I started for. I explored the Nascaupee and George Rivers, which, while marked on the maps, are incorrectly placed. I saw the caribou crossing at the height of land and I visited the Indians in their homes. This is what my husband tried to do, and that he failed was due, as I have said, to his missing the Nascaupee River and to the impossibility of finding food in that unfortunate year. "Whether I shall write a book or a magazine article will depend upon the advice I receive from my friends, whom I have not yet had an opportunity to consult."

NOTES TO "A Woman's Way: From Expedition to Autobiography"

1 From this point on in my discussion of Mina's work I use only her first name. My reasons for this are several: to use Hubbard alone risks confusion with Leonidas; to use her full name repeatedly is cumbersome; but to use her first name alone stresses her presence and particular accomplishments. Furthermore, after several years of work on this woman, I have come to think of her as Mina. For brevity she is cited as MBH in the notes and annotations. 2 Anne Hart has prepared a full biography of MBH in conjunction with Roberta Buchanan's transcription of the 1905 diary. Hart has published a brief account of MBH's life in "Into Unknown Labrador," but the biography is still in press as I finalize this edition. Consequently, it is not possible to provide page references to the full biography; thus my references are all to her 2001 article. Readers should consult the full biography and diary for complete information when this research is published. 3 Among the more comprehensive and interesting studies are Kroller, Mills, and Russell. 4 These descriptions of MBH are repeated as facts by almost everyone who has written about the Hubbards and Wallace and Elson; see, for example, Berton, Cooke, Davidson and Rugge, and Klein. For a more balanced account, see Hoyle. 5 Roberta Buchanan has examined HBC post journals for information on GE's geneology and his father's work with the HBC. She has confirmed that GE was in Missanabie by 1903 (when he was recommended as LH's guide), and she has traced his life story from that point until his retirement in Moosonee. Interested readers must wait for this research to be published. 6 Margaret Atwood calls the 1903 expedition a "fiasco" in her short story. There were, I am sure, other reasons for MBH's dismay with this book. Wallace claimed an intimacy with Hubbard that seemed to usurp her position as Hubbard's wife, and while he mentioned Hubbard's frequently expressed wish to see and be with her, he also stated that Hubbard described his sister Daisy as the person who had been his chief supporter (Lure, 158). Apparently Wallace refused to make any of the changes she requested to his manuscript and kept Hubbard's notebook and maps. If all this is true, then it is small wonder that tensions arose and the two ceased to be friends. 7 In Lure of the Labrador Wild, Wallace laments Hubbard's death and praises his spirit, but he clearly indicates that he thought his friend was wrong. Because he writes

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from his own perspective, George's ordeal is downplayed and largely invisible, his views are dismissed as Indian superstition (see 156 and 223), and it often seems as if only Wallace and Hubbard are on the expedition. Within the triangulated paradigm of elegiac romance (see Merivale), there is no role for George Elson. The chief thrust of the narrative relationship is between Hubbard and Wallace as they struggle with the female wilderness of Labrador, the femme fatale that will claim one and almost manage to catch the second. If I may take Robertson Davies's Fifth Business as my comparison, Leonidas = Boy Staunton, Wallace = Ramsey, and Labrador = all those mad or dangerous females over which the two men struggle. MBH, too, has no position in such a paradigm, unless it is to be conflated with the beautiful but hostile, dangerous wilderness. A transcription of Hubbard's diary indicating which passages were reprinted by MBH, Wallace, and Whitney is with the Hubbard papers held in the Memorial University of Newfoundland's Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives (hereafter CNS). Her wish for silence and details about the timing of her trip are spelled out clearly in her correspondence with John Gillis between April and June 1905 (CNS). The Reverend Sawyer must have met George Elson when he came to Williamstown to work with MBH in December 1904. When Elson came to Williamstown again on 24 November 1905, he stayed for three weeks and was warmly and publicly welcomed by the Sawyers in their home and church; my thanks to Roberta Buchanan for this information. The Sun reprints this letter under the heading "Hubbards Side with Wallace," and another paper reprints it under the title "Uphold Dillon Wallace" (both clippings in CNS), but, most important, Outing published it under the title "Hubbard's Sister Speaks" (see Daisy Williams), thereby giving special weight to her views. In private correspondence Daisy Hubbard Williams makes it very clear that she detested MBH

(CNS 244:5.01). 12 What such commentary indicates is that hazardous expeditions are credibly undertaken only by loquacious, strong, assertive males and that this reporter, who probably had no idea about Labrador or exploration, was completely unaware of the degree to which Wallace relied, for his very survival, on the Inuit (among others) who accompanied, succoured, fed, and clothed him, and put up with his demands on his long trail. 13 The Guelph Daily Mercury published two articles on this lecture. In "Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard Jr. Speaks at O.A.C.," her dress and delivery are described in detail, as well as the nature of her expedition, and we are told that a "large audience" attended. 14 This piece has been reprinted twice since 1906, first in The Great North and again in Tales of the Canadian Wilderness, where it appears, with Casper Whitney's article from Outing, "The Leonidas Hubbard, Jun. Expedition into Labrador" (199-245), and an excerpt from Wallace's The Long Labrador Trail (359-68). 15 According to Anne Hart, MBH's literary friends in England included George Bernard Shaw, H.G. Wells, Olive Schreiner, and Kipling. However, given her strong anti-

Notes to pages xlii-xlix

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imperialist views, one wonders how she managed an acquaintance with Kipling, the arch imperialist. In his "Revenge of Mina Hubbard," Pierre Berton states that A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador was "serialized in Harpers" (Berton, 207). It was not, but this mistake has been picked up in encyclopedia entries on MBH and circulated as fact. The book was never serialized anywhere, and it appeared first with John Murray in 1908. For a thorough examination of Briggs and "The House," as the Methodist Book and Publishing House was called, see Friskney. Given the close connections between Methodist, Episcopal, and Bible Christian Church groups (MBH's father was a member of the latter), which merged in 1884, and the fact that Briggs, like the Bensons, was Irish Protestant, it is not impossible that the Bensons knew Briggs or were at least supportive of his (and his associate E.S. Caswell's) nationalist efforts to support Canadian authors such as W.W. Campbell, Charles G.D. Roberts, Charles Mair, Catharine Parr Traill, and Bliss Carman. Because the Canadian market was small, Briggs often imported plates, sheets, or bound books from British and American publishers, which is what happened with MBH's book. However, he also published some popular anthologies of the day, such as A Treasury of Canadian Verse (1900) and Canadian Singers and Their Songs (1902). Lady Franklin visited Canada in 1860; see Woodward, 307-9. The anonymous reviewer for the Literary Digest (6 November 1908) draws a direct comparison between the two widows: "Lady Franklin sent a ship to search for the relief of her lost husband. Mrs. Hubbard went in person to carry out the exploration" (673). This reviewer praises MBH for her wifely "faith and constancy" (673). Lisa LaFramboise also notes Jane Franklin's influence on the role of the widow in nineteenth-century British culture; see LaFramboise, 1998,174. It differs in minor ways as well. As Wendy Roy has noted, someone at McClure's changed the wording in chapter 14 (180) from MBH's ethnically neutral term for the fear of "treachery" that might befall them when they meet the Naskapi to a fear that the "red men" might prove "aggressive" (Roy, "Negotiating a Woman's Place," 7). The order of the photographs has been greatly changed, with the result that they are no longer cued to the text; other, more minor changes include a photograph added, another dropped, and a title changed. In an 8 May 1905 letter to Cabot, MBH expresses her own appreciation for his article and conveys the Reverend James Sawyer's praise of it as well. On 2 June 1905, writing from her parents' home in Bewdley, Ontario, she appears to be discussing a draft of Cabot's introduction and asking him to cut down on his references to Dillon Wallace. These letters are in the William Brooks Cabot Collection at the Smithsonian Institute, Washington, D.C., and I am grateful to Anne Hart for bringing them to my attention. See note 8 above. Whitney makes several cuts to paragraphs (see, for example, his version of the entries for 7 and 12 July), alters punctuation and paragraphing, and changes spellings. MBH generally follows the form, spelling, and punctuation of the

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original; her excisions include some references to Wallace. Wallace does not reproduce the diary in Lure of the Labrador Wild, but he does quote from it and reproduce the final entries. During December 1904, after George Elson joined MBH in Williamstown, he began reconstructing this narrative and preparing his map of the 1903 expedition. She intended his narrative for the book she was planning to write. See note 5 above and Buchanan. I have discussed the diary in relation to the book at greater length in "Hidden Country," and I should stress here that I do not read the diary as a transparent representation of truth. To write a diary, and in this case an expedition journal/diary, is always to write with a glance over one's shoulder at the potential audience, for oneself as that audience in fact, and it is always to write within some awareness of the conventions of address, self-representation, self-protection, and so forth. See also LaFramboise, 2001. To be sure, MBH has given these men a voice by reporting their speech; thus, she is speaking for them. However, it must be said that compared with Wallace and others, like Pike, the speech she puts in their mouths is not a broken English or some condescending attempt to echo their speech; it is not a parody in "Injun" dialect, as was so common in early films. In this account, Wallace makes relatively little reference to the other men who are with him, and after he sends three of them back, choosing Easton to stay with him, he rarely refers to Easton. One could imagine that he was alone for all the sense Wallace conveys of being with another person. There is a similar, if less pronounced, selfemphasis in Lure of the Labrador Wild, where Wallace takes up the narrative position of the survivor in an elegiac romance about a homosocial relationship in which Labrador is the alluring, fickle, deadly female to be penetrated and conquered by the right man. A term like "half-breed" or "breed" was very common at the time, but MBH rarely uses it; see, for example, WW, 44, and "Through Lonely Labrador," where she describes Gilbert as her "half-breed Eskimo guide" (86). According to the list in her diary for 27 December 1905, MBH had 321 photographs developed from her expedition. Clearly, she selected those she included in her book with care, and she had at least one, that of her arrival in Ungava, staged for her book. The first remark is from the Evening Standard and St James Gazette, 19 May 1908 (np). The second appeared in Country Life, 22 May 1908 (np). Both reviews are in the biography files of the CNS. It is common for explorers to describe their clothing and gear and even to comment on the fact that Native women are making what they require. Havens is perhaps uncomfortable reading a woman's description of a woman's clothing. It would be surprising if she was not aware of, even if not thoroughly read in, the more famous accounts of Arctic expeditions by and about Sir John Franklin, or by Francis Hall, John Rae, and others, or the debates, in journals and newspapers of the day, about the search for the North Pole and the competition between Frederick Cook

Notes to pages Ixiii-lxviii

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and Robert Peary; see Bloom and Officer and Page. She may also have taken a special interest in Henry Youle Hind's two-volume study of Labrador because it is exhaustive and because Hind was a fellow Canadian and a distinguished professor at the University of Toronto. However, she would not have found a very enlightened view of First Nations peoples in Hind, whose primary purpose in studying Labrador was to identify its natural resources for exploitation by Canada. On Pilgrim's Progress as travel/autobiography, see Fussell, 208. It should be noted, however, that where Bunyan and his pilgrim seek reintegration with society through their journey, MBH does not. In fact, she dreads what faces her on her return, sensing perhaps that for a woman reintegration is not an easy thing, since there is no socially sanctioned role as returned hero or successful quester for a woman to play. Recent scholarship on women travellers and explorers has unearthed a wealth of interesting material largely forgotten by the historical masculinization of expedition writing such as Fussell's. Even Mary Kingsley, a major figure in her day, has received considerable new attention in recent decades. For conduct books, see Davidson, Freshfield and Wharton, Galton, and H. M. L. S.; for critical and theoretical studies, see S.L. Blake, Blunt, McEwan, Russell, and Smith; and for biographies of some of the other women whom'MBH may have read, see Barr, Hoyle, and McLaren and LaFramboise. In "A Woman's Trek: What Difference Does Gender Make?" S.L. Blake describes a book published in 1907 by Mary Hall called A Woman's Trek from the Cape to Cairo. The similarity of her title and MBH's is interesting, even though MBH credits her pastor, the Reverend Sawyer, for suggesting this title. It is possible that MBH read Hall and was aware of the contrast between Hall's writing and that of an earlier male writer, Edward Grogan, who published From the Cape to Cairo in 1900. Whether she was or not, the parallels between Dillon Wallace/Mina Benson Hubbard and Edward Grogan/Mary Hall are significant. After her arrival in England in 1907, MBH stayed with Alice Stopford Green, a friend of Mary Kingsley's, so there must have been some discussion of both Kingsley and her books (see Hart). Soon after arriving in England MBH became interested in the suffrage question. By 1913 she was hosting suffrage meetings in her home, with guests like Emmeline Pankhurst, and she may have demonstrated for suffrage (see Hart). It is interesting to speculate now about what led her to become an active, ardent supporter of women's rights, but I find it quite plausible that her Labrador experiences - going there, succeeding, lecturing and writing, and facing down the press - must have sharpened her awareness of women's inequality. At the end of her diary, MBH recorded that while she and the men were waiting at the George River post, she asked them all to sign a declaration confirming that every one of them had behaved well as good Christians and respected each other at all times; see LaFramboise, 2001, 28. Why she felt compelled to ask this is not made clear, but two possibilities come to mind: she may have been trying to hide something that had occurred, or she may have anticipated gossip, on the simple grounds that she had trav-

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Notes to pages Ixix-lxxvi

elled alone with four men, and hoped to forestall it. In the eventuality of gossip about any sort of misdemeanour, especially anything sexual, gender would trump race and it would be her reputation alone that would suffer. MBH was elected to the Royal Geographical Society in 1927; she had applied as Mina Benson Hubbard Ellis on the strength of her Labrador expedition (see Hart). As I write, Newfoundland filmmaker Ken Pittman is planning a feature film using his own script, and David Barlow is preparing a CBC documentary. Both Hart and Buchanan comment on the relationship between MBH and GE. Second to the dam in destructive impact has been the low-level military test flying from the air base at Goose Bay; see the documentary film Hunters and Bombers (1990), Ashini's introduction to Wadden's book, and much of the testimony in Byrne and Fouillard. There is an undated holograph document with the MBH papers, possibly a letter or an incomplete draft of an essay, in which she critiques the war and man's propensity to kill (CNS 241: 4.01.001); she became a committed pacifist and theosophist in later life (see Hart). Some of the studies I have found most helpful are by Buss, Cruikshank, Eakin, Egan, Gilmore, Kadar, Nadel, and Neuman, but for an extensive bibliography, see Smith and Watson. A double resist is a two-layer process (akin to photo-resist) used in printing images by etching, as in photogravure; see The Focal Encyclopedia of Photography, vol. 2,1284. The process used to reproduce the images for the Murray/Briggs edition was, according to contemporary experts, photogravure. My thanks to Canadian historian Veronica Strong-Boag for confirming that thirty-one was a bit beyond the average age for women to marry in 1900, when they more commonly married in their mid- to late-twenties, and that a career in nursing, while an acceptable path for a woman with ambition to follow, was still relatively rare. It was not unusual, however, for a woman who wanted to train as a nurse to go to New York, as MBH's older sister and two cousins had done (see Hart). Americans believed that Canadian women made very good nurses, and MBH may have had friends or distant relatives with whom she could stay when she arrived in the strange city. Historian Jane Habner provides statistics on women travellers that suggest the rarity of women among travellers (xxiv), never mind among those who conducted serious work. In her lecture "Professions for Women," first given in 1931, Virginia Woolf described having to kill this angel in the house in order to free herself from the restraints of gender conventions; see Woolf, 150. The phrase "Angel in the House" is from Coventry Patmore's 1854-56 poem of that title. I am grateful to Grace Moore for reminding me of Woolf's comments.

ANNOTATIONS TO A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador

INTRODUCTION BY WILLIAM B.CABOT 1 Albert Peter Low (1861-1942). Explored the interior of Labrador between 1894 and 1896 for the Geological Survey of Canada; appointed director of the survey in 1906; see Bibliography for his publications. 2 Michikamau Lake, which once lay due north of Churchill Falls, is now subsumed in the Smallwood Reservoir, so that neither the falls nor the lake exists today; see Figures 6 and 9; Wadden, 45-56; and Mary Adele Andrew's memories in Byrne and Fouillard, 137-43. The word mishikamau means great water or lake in Innu-aimun. This great lake was Leonidas Hubbard's goal in 1903, but he turned back before reaching it; see MBH's comments in chapter 9 (95-6) and her photograph "Breakfast on Michikamau" (illus., p. 99). 3 Assiwaban. Now called the Kogaluk River; see also chapter 15, annotation 5. My thanks to Bryan Greene for this information. 4 Henry Youle Hind (1823-1908). Canadian geologist, explorer, editor, and author; professor of chemistry and geology at the University of Toronto (1853-64); led several expeditions in the West and North, including Labrador (1861). Cabot also gives this quotation later in his book In Northern Labrador (6), but the closest wording appears to be: "No language can adequately express the utter desolation of the scenery around this lake" (Hind, 229). 5 Mountaineer, usually given in French as Montagnais. Cree group of the Algonkian Nation resident in southern Labrador. Today called, together with the Naskapi, the Innu (the people). 6 Ouinanish. Also ouaniche, the Algonkian word for a species of small fresh-water salmon; in Montagnais, wananish. 7 Great fire of the Saguenay. In May 1870, after a very dry spring, a brush fire broke out near Lac St-Jean that burned everything between the Mistassini River, near Lac StJean, and Baie de HaHa, a distance of 150 kilometres. 8 The word Nascaupee (or Naskapi) is of unknown origin; it appeared in seventeenthcentury French missionary sources and came to connote far northern, pagan, or uncivilized (see Handbook of Northern American Indian, vol. 6,185-6). For a careful

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Annotations to pages 19-22

analysis of both usage and etymology, see Mailhot. According to Marie Wadden, it means "those beyond the horizon" in Innu-aimun (4). Livyeres. A Labrador term for people who live permanently, or the year round, in Labrador. Komatiks. Long, slatted wooden sled pulled by dogteam; in Inuktitut, qamutik, pi. qamutiit. Sir Wilfred Thomason Grenfell (1865-1940). British medical missionary and writer; joined the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fisherman and came to Newfoundland in 1892; established the first mission hospital at Battle Harbour in 1893 and went on to set up other hospitals in Labrador and Newfoundland. His books include Labrador: The Country and the People (1909) and The Romance of Labrador (1934); see Rompkey. Moravians. The Moravian Church, founded in Bohemia in 1457, was the first independent Protestant church. Moravians began to settle in North America as early as 1735, with the first mission to Labrador established in 1771 at Nain; the first Moravian school in Labrador opened in 1791. Pere Charles Albanel (1616-80). Jesuit missionary in Canada from 1649 until his death, worked in Tadoussac (1651-71) among the Iroquois, and, in 1672, visited the First Nations peoples around James Bay. Louis Babel (1826-1912). A Swiss Oblate priest who worked with the Montagnais and was a skilled cartographer. Florence and Stephen Tasker, an American couple, travelled by canoe from Missanabie, Ontario, to Hudson Bay and the Labrador Peninsula in the summer of 1906. George Elson and Job Chapies, whom Mrs Tasker describes as a "full-blooded Cree" (824), were their guides. See Florence Tasker, "A Woman Through Husky-Land." John McLean (c. 1798-1890). Scots fur trader and explorer; worked for the North West Company and the Hudson's Bay Company; became HBC factor at Fort Chimo in 1837, explored Labrador, and was the first white man to see, in 1839, the great falls later called Grand Falls and then Churchill Falls. Henry Crier Bryant (1859-1932). American explorer who visited Labrador in 1891 and 1912; he became president of the American Association of Geographers and the American Alpine Club. Austin Gary and Dennis M. Cole. American students who participated in the Bowdoin College, Maine, expedition to Labrador in 1891; they successfully canoed up the Hamilton River to see the canyon they called Bowdoin Canon. Pere Zacharie Lacasse (1845-1921). Father Lacasse was born in Canada and became a successful Oblate missionary, making several trips through the interior of Labrador before going to the West; later in life he published many books and his name is commemorated in a lake, a parish, and a street in Quebec. See Rudyard Kipling's poem "The White Man's Burden" (1899). Kipling's poetry, fiction, and imperialist views were very popular in the early twentieth century, and he was a favourite of Leonidas Hubbard and Dillon Wallace. Cabot and MBH were fully aware of the irony of a term like "white man's burden"; see MBH's photograph (illus., p. 23) and my introduction (Ivi).

Annotations to pages 22-43

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20 Tabanask. Algonkian for toboggan; in Cree, otdbdndsk. 21 Piuashagan. Piwdsigan is Cree for duffel slippers, worn inside shoes. 22 Namaycush. Algonkian for lake trout, a species of North American char and an important food source; in Cree, namekus. 23 The so-called Susan River is little more than a brook or stream; see Figure 6. 24 George River. Named by Moravian missionaries in the early nineteenth century for King George III. 25 John McLean's account is Notes of a twenty-five years' service in the Hudson Bay Territory (London: R. Bentley, 1849). 26 Beaver River. Flows northeast into Grand Lake; see the map of Hubbard's 1903 route in Davidson and Rugge, 1997 (np) and Bryan Greene's map of MBH's 1905 route (Buchanan). 27 Seal Lake. Named in the early nineteenth century because of its freshwater seal population; compare Figures 4 and 6. CHAPTER ONE 1 John Rogers (c. 1500-0.1555). Known as a martyr, Rogers was a Reform preacher and vicar of St Sepulchre's Holborn; he was imprisoned for his beliefs and burned at the stake. 2 See MBH's "Through Lonely Labrador" and my introduction (xxxix-xl). 3 Congers. The village in New York State, a short distance from New York City, where MBH and LH lived after their marriage. 4 The Church of Christ. The official name for the Christian Scientist Church. 5 Canadian town. This was Bewdley, Ontario, where MBH's family lived and where she had gone to prepare for her wedding. For details of the courtship, wedding, and early months of marriage, see Hart. 6 See the Bibliography. 7 See the Bibliography. 8 His little party included MBH (as well as Dillon Wallace and GE), who accompanied him as far as Battle Harbour, an island settlement off the Labrador coast. MBH disembarked from the SS Sylvia on 5 July 1903 and returned to Bewdley; Hubbard continued to Labrador with his party on the Virginia Lake. 9 Dillon Wallace sent telegrams and letters with the tragic news overland by dogsled to Chateau Bay, the closest place from which they could be delivered. MBH received this message on 22 January 1904. 10 MBH may be quoting her husband from his diary and also presumably from his letters; see WW, 188 and 197. CHAPTER TWO i See "Through Lonely Labrador," where MBH says that her journey "was decided upon quite suddenly one day in January of 1905" (82), and the discussion in my introduction (xxxix).

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Annotations to pages 43-5

2 M. Duclos. Duclos ran the Revillon Freres post, which was opened in 1901, but a French trading post, established in 1743, had been the first in Labrador. 3 George Elson (1876-1944). The Scots-Cree guide for LH in 1903 and for MBH in 1905 has emerged as the skilled, loyal hero of both Hubbard expeditions. See Great Heart by Davidson and Rugge. 4 Joseph Iserhoff. A Cree-Russian friend of GE's from the Hudson Bay area; little is known about him, but he may well have been related to the Iserhoff family described by J.W. Anderson (118-22). Job Chapies. A Cree and another close friend of GE's from Rupert's House near Hudson Bay, he guided the Taskers' expedition along the east coast of Hudson Bay in 1906, worked for Revillon Freres, and settled in Moose Factory. See Cabot's introduction, annotation 15, and Davidson and Rugge, 1997, 359. 5 Missanabie. The village north of Lake Superior with a railway station from which George travelled east and south to join MBH's expedition. There was an HBC post at Missanabie, and Mr S.A. King, the post factor, knew George and had recommended him to LH as a guide in 1903. George may also have worked at the post and lived in Missanabie. 6 Gilbert Blake (1886-1979). Son of Thomas L. Blake and his second wife, Sarah, and a trapper near North West River; he helped rescue Dillon Wallace in 1903 and was one of MBH's guides in 1905. Donald Blake (1878-?). Son of Thomas L. Blake and his first wife, Hester, he was Gilbert's half-brother and a trapper at Kenemish; he helped rescue Dillon Wallace in 1903. Donald and his wife, Harriet, provided GE with essential help when he reached their cabin in October 1903; see GE's "Narrative," annotation 4. 7 Henry Martin Stuart Cotter had been clerk of the Hudson's Bay Company post at North West River from 1894 to 1901 and from 1905 to 1906, after which he became post manager at Fort Chimo. The HBC established their post at North West River (formerly called Fort Smith) in 1837, and the post was located at the head of Hamilton Inlet, ninety miles west of Rigolet. 8 Erbswurst. Seasoned pease-flour compressed into sausage shape and used in soup. Crystalose. Trade name for saccharin sweetener. Hard tack. Also called ship biscuit, a hard, saltless biscuit. 9 Shoe-packs. A type of moccasin with thick, oiled leather uppers that extend above the ankles and, quite often, a thick sole (see also "larigans," chapter 18, annotation i, and illus., p. 151) 10 Kodak. Camera. Sextant. Astronomical instrument used to determine latitude and longitude. Artificial horizon. Level reflector used to determine altitude. 11 Knickerbockers. Loose bloomer-like undergarment gathered at the knee. 12 Duffel (also spelled duffle). A warm ankle-length sock made of tightly woven woollen cloth, usually worn inside moccasins over thinner socks. 13 Automobile shirt. Protective rubber garment associated with early, open automobiles. In chapter 8, MBH regrets not heeding George's advice to take this rainproof garment with her.

Annotations to pages 45-64

243

14 Comfortable. As a noun, this is an American (especially northern U.S.A.) term for a quilt or comforter or, as is likely here, a warm shawl. 15 For a good map showing the stretch of rapid between Melville and Grand Lakes, Cape Corbeau, several other places mentioned by MBH in the following description, and the concealed entrance to the Nascaupee River, see Bryan Greene (Buchanan). 16 Ma-losh-an\ Ma-losh-anl At the end of her diary, MBH notes a few Cree words, such as this one, taught her by Elson. 17 Dunnage bag. Bag for carrying personal belongings. CHAPTERTHREE 1 Mount Sawyer was named for the Reverend James Sawyer, one of MBH's most loyal supporters, and Mount Elizabeth was probably named by MBH for her devoted Williamstown landlady, Elizabeth Krafft, of whom she was very fond (see Hart). 2 Grand Lake. See Figure 6; smaller than the Grand Lake in Newfoundland, Labrador's lies adjacent to North West River. 3 Red Wine River. MBH does not name this river on her map (Figure 6), but see the maps in Great Heart by Davidson and Rugge. Seal Lake. See Cabot's introduction, annotation 27. 4 Point Lucie. Named by MBH, possibly for Lucy, the wife of her minister, James Sawyer (see Roy, "Locating Power"), or for a cousin's wife (see Martin, 225). 5 Hummock. A jutting protuberance or "hill" of ice, formed by ice splitting apart then dashing together, the broken parts crushing against each other and heaping up. 6 Mount Sawyer. See annotation i above and my introduction (xlvii). CHAPTER FOUR 1 Mabelle Island. Named by MBH, possibly for a friend or relative; see Roy, "Locating Power." 2 Mountain Cat Lake. Possibly named by MBH for its shape, though Bryan Greene suggests that it is a trappers' name referring to the pine marten, or mountain cat (see Buchanan). When MBH does not give names to commemorate her supporters, like Bridgman and Sawyer, or relatives and friends, she often chooses names suggested by the appearance of the place. CHAPTER FIVE 1 Reindeer moss. Whitish-grey lichen, a staple food of caribou. 2 Mount Sawyer and Mount Elizabeth. See chapter 3, annotation i. Bald Mountain. Named by MBH for its appearance. 3 Donald Blake. See chapter 2, annotation 6. Tilt. Small shelter used seasonally by trappers, woodsmen, or fishermen.

244

Annotations to pages 68-89

4 Wakwanapsk. From the Cree wdkwok, meaning spawn or roe, and wanapisk, meaning rock. Known as rock tripe or tripe de roche, this is a species of black lichen that can be eaten across the Arctic in times of famine. 5 It is rare for MBH to express displeasure with GE or the other men; there is nothing in her diary for this period of July to suggest why. 6 Smudges. Fires dampened with moss or leaves to give off an acrid smoke that will deter insects. CHAPTER SIX 1 Wapustan River. The name, probably from Cree, means pine marten. According to Bryan Greene, it is also called the Blake River by the local trappers (see Buchanan). 2 Windfalls. Trees blown down in storms. 3 Cloudberries. Also called bakeapple, a low bog-dwelling plant with a white flower and an amber berry. Bunchberries. The red fruit of dwarf cornel. Labrador tea. Small evergreen shrub whose leaves can be brewed as a tea or used as a substitute for tobacco. 4 Duncan M'Lean. Labrador trapper and friend of Donald Blake, with whom he helped to rescue Dillon Wallace in 1903. 5 "Big River." See MBH's map, end of book. Lion Heart Mountains. Thinking of LH, MBH renamed what Wallace had called Kipling Mountain; see Roy, "Locating Power." Current maps have reverted to Kipling Mountain. 6 Thomas River. See Bryan Greene's map (Buchanan). 7 Mount Pisa. MBH's joke combining a reference to the leaning tower of Pisa with an allusion to Mount Pisgah, the ridge in ancient Palestine (now in Jordan) from which Moses viewed the Promised Land. Deut. 34:1. CHAPTER SEVEN i Lake Wachesknipi (Muskrat Lake). From the Cree words wdchusk (muskrat) and nipiy (lake or water). CHAPTER EIGHT 1 Bowie knife. Heavy sheath knife with a long, single-edged blade and double point. 2 "One good time." The source of this quotation has eluded me. This full sentence, with its reference to the little fly and going where one pleases, might come from a popular song or verse of the day, or it might be another example of MBH quoting one of her husband's favourite sayings, or it might be a quotation from "the little fly book" (probably about fishing) that LH took with him to Labrador and which MBH sent to his parents. LH does not identify this book in his diary, and the only reference to it, of

Annotations to pages 92-1 03

245

which I am aware, occurs in a 15 July 1906 letter from Daisy Williams to Dillon Wallace. My thanks to Roberta Buchanan for this information. 3 MBH describes this escapade in detail in her diary, where there are some interesting differences in emphasis; see my article "'Hidden Country': Discovering Mina Benson Hubbard" (281-3). CHAPTER NINE 1 Lookout Mountain. Named by MBH for the view it provided. 2 Maid Marion Falls. Named by MBH, possibly for her niece Marion McCall Daly, but with an allusion to the figure of Maid Marian, a figure who appears in fifteenthcentury versions of the Robin Hood story. Gertrude Falls. Named by MBH, possibly for a niece or for Gertrude Gillis, the daughter of John Gillis, manager of the Grand River Pulp and Lumber Company; see Martin, 225. Isabella Falls. Named by MBH, possibly for a relative or friend. 3 "The route to Michikamau leaves Sandgirt Lake by its northern discharge, which is four miles long, over half a mile wide, and is obstructed by large islands ... There is also a great bay stretching in a north-west direction from the discharge and ending at the foot of a range of rounded hills some twenty-five miles distant, where a small river flows in, which is used by the Indians as a canoe-route to the caribou grounds on the George River, beyond the north end of Lake Michikamau" (Low, Report of Explorations, 158). 4 Mount Hubbard. Named by Wallace in memory of LH. Windbound Lake. See Bryan Greene's map (Buchanan) and LH's description of this spot in his diary entries for 12-19 September (WW, 177-9). Itwas nere that he decided to turn back and give up his expedition. CHAPTERTEN 1 LH's story by this name; see Bibliography. 2 MBH included a photograph of this site with her article "My Explorations in Unknown Labrador"; see my introduction (xxxv-xxxvii) and Figure 5. 3 Bake-apple berries. Also called cloudberries; see chapter 6, annotation 3. CHAPTER ELEVEN i Lake Michikamats. Meshikamass in Innu-aimun means little or small lake. The lake lies to the north of Michikamau and discharges into that lake; at its north end it connects, via small lakes, with the George River. Like Michikamau, Michikamats was flooded to create the Smallwood Reservoir, but in 1995 an archaeological team headed by David Ashini began excavating Innu sites; see "Archaeology at Meshikamass" and Figure 6.

246

Annotations to pages 105-22

2 The "tiny book" is probably LH's Bible. 3 Gralloched. To gralloch is to disembowel, especially regarding deer. 4 "Ah-ha-way". Probably the wood duck; also called "old squaw," which is ahawiy in Cree. CHAPTER TWELVE 1 "My river." Though named for George I I I , GE can still call it his. 2 Cabot Lake. Named by MBH in honour of William B. Cabot, it lies north of Adelaide, Hubbard, and Elson Lakes; see chapter 13, annotations i and 3. 3 Resolution Lake. MBH describes naming this lake in chapter 15 (WW, 125); see also chapter 15, annotation i. 4 John Ford Jr (1841-1918). Postmaster and clerk at the George River HBC post from 1884-1905. 5 Whale River post. In 1890 the Little Whale River HBC post was closed and the buildings were moved to Great Whale River, or Poste-de-la-Baleine, Quebec, further to the south on the east coast of Hudson Bay, which became the main trading site. Fort Chimo. HBC post established in 1830 on the Koksoak River, Ungava. 6 Peter M'Kenzie (1838-1910). Served as clerk, chief factor, and trader at several HBC posts and as chief factor from 1886-1906. CHAPTERTHIRTEEN 1 Lake Adelaide. Named by MBH, possibly for a relative or friend, although Adelaide is her second given name and she may have been commemorating herself. The lake lies just south of the Height of Land and the source of the Nascaupee River, which she was within a few hours of reaching. 2 Lake Melville. Named for Henry Dundas, first Viscount Melville (1742-1811), lord of the British Admiralty from 1804 to 1805. 3 Lake Hubbard. Named by MBH because it must have seemed an appropriate place for the source of the George River, which, had her husband reached it, would have carried him to safety. CHAPTER FOURTEEN 1 The Innu hung animal bones in this way to show respect for the spiritual power of the animals rather than merely for luck, as MBH suggests. 2 Rupert's House. An historic HBC post established in 1668 on the Rupert River at James Bay on the ruins of Henry Hudson's house and named for Prince Rupert, the first governor of the Hudson's Bay Company. GE and Joe Iserhoff grew up there. 3 The Hannah Bay massacre. In 1832 a starving Cree family from Hannah Bay, an outpost of Moose Factory, murdered nine people, eight Amerindians and a HBC post master. The family claimed that the post personnel had not given them adequate sup-

Annotations to pages 124-43

247

plies, but they were hunted down and all male members of the family were executed; see Dickason, 118, 215, and Francis and Morantz, 158-60. 4 Long Lake. An expansion in the George River. CHAPTER FIFTEEN 1 Resolution. MBH must have given the lake this name because she had just resolved to continue on to Ungava despite the slow progress and the late date. See chapter 12, annotation 3. 2 Tuque. A woollen stocking cap7 the Quebecois French word for "toque." 3 Mingan and Seven Islands (Sept-lies). Communities in Quebec on the north shore of the Gulf of St Lawrence; see Figure 9. 4 Mush-a-wau e-u-its. Meaning "Barren Ground People," it is another of the words that MBH wrote down at the end of her diary; see also chapter 2, annotation 16. 5 To return by way of Davis Inlet would mean turning east and taking the Kogaluk River (called Assiwaban by Cabot) to the coast, whereas to return by Grand River would mean crossing to the west side of Lake Michikamau and going south to the Grand (now the Churchill) River, then making a major portage around Grand (Churchill) Falls. In other words, this would be an arduous journey indeed. My thanks to Bryan Greene for his information on these two routes. 6 "Still small voice." i Kings, 19:12—"And the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice." 7 Mossberries. See WW, 147, for MBH's own description of mossberries. CHAPTER SIXTEEN 1 Indian House Lake, Mush-au-wau-ni-pi or "Barren Ground Water." For the correct placing of the lake, see MBH's map, Figure 6. 2 Bon/our. French for hello, literally "good day." 3 See Cabot's description of this trip and his decision to return in In Northern Labrador (179).

4 Peace Conference. On 5 September 1905 the Treaty of Portsmouth was signed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It ended the Russo-Japanese War, which had been underway since February 1904. 5 Tshishtemau. Tobacco; in Cree, tchistemaw; see Davidson and Rugge, 1997, 312. 6 Saltatha, Warburton Pike's famous Yellowknife guide. See The Barren Ground of Northern Canada (1891) for Pike's description of "the best Indian" he had met in the North (116, 302). CHAPTER SEVENTEEN i Indians put great faith in dreams; see GE's description of an important dream he had on 9 October 1903 (WW, 189). LH makes no comment about this dream in his diary,

248

2 3 4 5

6 7 8 9

Annotations to pages 144-57

but Wallace described the dismissal of GE's dream as mere superstition in Lure of the Labrador Wild (223). With the benefit of hindsight and in contrast to her husband and Wallace in 1903, MBH treats Job's dream seriously, and the dangers that lie just ahead on the George River prove the prophetic value of this warning. Slanting Lake. Named by MBH for a series of rapids at the head of the lake that creates an illusion of sloping water; see Richard. Hades Hills. Named by MBH for their sombre look, which suggested the realm of the Greek underworld or hell; see Richard. Cerberus. The three-headed dog in classical mythology who guards the entrance to Hades. The direct use of her diary here and in following passages is interesting, and she possibly thought it would add an air of authenticity or immediacy to her narrative. However, MBH is not quoting exactly; see her diary entry for 24 August. Riviere Gasnault. See Bryan Green's map (Buchanan). Kaniapiscau. A river in Ungava whose name, in Montagnais (ka-neapiskak), means "long rocky point." Bridgman Mountains. Named by MBH for Herbert L. Bridgman; see my introduction (xlvii). Helen Falls. Named by MBH for Helen Bartlett Bridgman (1863-1935), wife of Herbert Bridgman. See her description of the jokes caused by this naming in Within My Horizons (81). CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

1 Larigans. Also called "shoe-packs"; see chapter 2, annotation 9. 2 The close to two months spent at the HBC post before her departure on the Pelican are described in her diary, where she records, among other things, her struggle to write her book and her great distress when Dillon Wallace arrives. Her decision to end her expedition narrative on the high note of arrival at Ungava brings a dramatic sense of closure to her story. 3 "God's country." See LH's use of this phrase (WW, 179). Canada was popularly known as "God's Country," an epithet that continued to hold well into the twentieth century as films like Nell Shipman's Back to God's Country (1919) demonstrate. MBH disembarked at Quebec City on 20 November 1905. GE, Iserhoff, and Chapies were with her to this point; Blake had left the group at Rigolet. GE came to Williamstown to work with MBH on 24 November and stayed into December (see Hart). DIARY OF LEONIDAS HUBBARDJR i To date, no complete transcription of LH'S diary has been published; see the discussion in my introduction of MBH's text as compared with others (xlix). I have annotated the diary to highlight only those connections with A Woman's Way Through Un-

Annotations to pages 157-77

2 3 4 5

6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

249

known Labrador and with MBH's narrative. Unless people or places are specifically annotated, they are of local Labradorian origin and interest, and further information, albeit limited, on them can be found in Dillon Wallace's Labrador books, in Davidson and Rugge, and in the volumes of Them Days. Liveyeres. See Cabot's introduction, annotation 9. Lumbago. A form of rheumatic pain in the lower back from which GE suffered; it would bother him again on the 1905 expedition. Caplin. A species of small codfish. Mr Frazer. Fraser, the HBC agent at Rigolet in 1903, was helpful at the outset and later when the expedition failed; see GE's narrative (WW, 214, 219). Clarence Campbell Chipman (1856-1924). Worked for the new Canadian government before joining the HBC; served as commissioner of the HBC from 1891 to 1911. Donald Blake. According to the genealogy in The Diary of Thomas L. Blake (2-3), Donald was Thomas's son; see chapter 2, annotation 3. No Joe or Joseph Blake is listed, so LH may be referring to Tom Blake. "Risin." Baking powder. "Bruise." Also "brewis," hardtack soaked in water and boiled, or bread soaked in fat. Duff. A flour pudding, sometimes made with suet and raisins, boiled in a cloth bag. Dr Simpson. An English doctor and lay missionary with Grenfell's Deep Sea Mission, based at Indian harbour; see Cabot's introduction, annotation 11. Thomas M'Kenzie. HBC clerk and post manager at North West River from 1902 to 1904. Lake George. LH is remembering an earlier, happier time on this lake in the southern Adirondacks in Vermont; see MBH's reference to LH's article on the Adirondack Park (WW, 39). His parents' home. Mouth of river. Unfortunately, this was only the Susan, which is not much more than a brook, and not the Nascaupee River. It is here that LH makes his fatal mistake. See Cabot's introduction, annotation 23, and GE'S narrative (WW, 206). Low's map was incorrect, as MBH would prove; see Figure 6. Yellow-legs. North American shore bird with yellow legs, and the plural form is used to designate a single bird; GE may only have shot one bird. Fontanalis. Correct spelling is "fontinalis" and it refers to brook trout, one of LH's favourite game fish; see his story "Off Days on Superior's North Shore." Almost certainly the Beaver River; see GE's comments in his narrative (WW, 211). Kenamon and St Augustine Rivers. LH is studying Low's map; see Figure 4. See MBH's quotation of this LH "proverb" in her diary entry for 7 July 1905. Carcajou. A Canadian-French corruption of the Montagnais kakachu (wolverine). The expedition stalled at what would be called Windbound Lake; see chapter 9, annotation 4. Philemon. LH is referring, not to the figure from classical mythology, but to the Epistle by Paul addressed to the Christian convert called Philemon.

250

Annotations to pages 178-206

24 Namaycush Lake. Lies due east of Seal lake; see Bryan Greene's map (Buchanan). 25 Hunting shanty. LH is thinking of Donald Blake's cabin, where GE would find help; see GE's narrative (WW, 205) 26 Missanabie. See chapter 2, annotation 5. 27 "The Bay." James Bay, not Hudson Bay. Rupert House, where GE grew up, is at the southern tip of James Bay. 28 Wurtsboro'. The village near New York City, where LH and MBH first lived after their marriage and before their move to Congers. 29 Wenastica. LH may be referring to Panastica, a type of wild parsnip, but my inquiries with specialists have not led to a positive identification of this plant or substance. 30 See MBH's description of LH's near starvation while looking for work in New York (ww, 38). NARRATIVE BY GEORGE ELSON 1 GE prepared this narrative during December 1904 and January 1905 at MBH's request and while staying in Williamstown. She was already planning to include it, with LH's diary, in the book she would write. If GE was working from a 1903 diary, it has not survived, and his use of diary entries may be his chosen narrative style. It is conceivable, however, that there was a 1903 diary and that this diary was the "other book" that tantalized Davidson and Rugge (see Great Heart, 349). As with the LH diary, I have kept annotations to a minimum; further details concerning the people and places he mentions can be found in Great Heart and in my bibliography. Roberta Buchanan is preparing GE's 1905 diary for publication. 2 Virginia Lake. The postal boat that supplied the Labrador coast and had brought LH and his party to Rigolet. 3 1 Coro 13. This is the second time in twenty-four hours that LH has asked for this reading from the Bible. Clearly, it held special importance for him. Its verses are familiar and relevant; they read in part: When I was a child, I spake as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. (Verses 11 to 13) 4 5 6 7

The wife of Donald Blake. Harriet Goudie Lloyd. Susan River. See LH diary, annotation 14. Beaver River. See LH diary, annotation 18. Allan Goudy and Duncan M'Lean. Allan Goudie was a local man from a well-known Labrador family, and he appears in a 1907 photograph published in Them Days 13.4 (i988):46; for Duncan M'Lean, see chapter 6, annotation 4.

Annotations to pages 207-22

25 I

8 Thomas Baikie, a Scot from Stromness, was a trapper married to Margaret Campbell Baikie, author of Labrador Memories. 9 S.A. King. The HBC factor at Missanabie who had recommended GE to LH. It was important to GE that a good report be made to King about him. 10 Gilbert Blake. The same young man who helped guide MBH. She called him Gil (instead of Bert, the name he was known by); see illus., p. 116. 11 Tom Blake. Father of Gilbert and Donald; see chapter 2, annotation 6. 12 Cape Corbeau. See chapter 2, annotation 15. 13 The tension between GE and Wallace is palpable here, although GE says so little; he rarely complained. Given this history of strain, it is not surprising that he chose to go with MBH in 1905. 14 Coopers Bite. One of many small coves along the Labrador coast; I have not been able to confirm any toponymic references to any of these coves having been called "New York." 15 Mount Repose, Haverstrawe. Mount Repose Cemetery is in the town of Haverstraw, Rockland County, New York.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Note: Items listed include those used to prepare the Introduction and the Annotations. Newspaper articles and anonymous reviews of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador are listed separately at the end. BOOKS AND ARTICLES Adams, Amy. "Arctic and Inuit Photography." Inuit Art Quarterly 15.2, 15.3, 15.4 (2000):

4-16, 4-19, 4-11. Adams, Timothy Dow. Light Writing and Life Writing: Photography in Autobiography. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 2000. Anderson, Anne. Dr. Anne Anderson's Metis Cree Dictionary. Edmonton: Duval House, 1997. Anderson, J.W. Fur Trader's Story. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1961. "Archaeology at Meshikamass, August 1995." 10 June 2002.

Arden, Roy. "After Photography." Canadian Art 17.4 (2000): 48-56. Assiniwi, Bernard. Lexique des Noms Indiens du Canada: Les Noms Geographiques. Ottawa: Lemeac Editeur, 1996. Atwood, Margaret. "The Labrador Fiasco." In Turn of the Story: Canadian Short Fiction on the Eve of the Millenium, edited by Joan Thomas and Heidi Harms, 1-13. Toronto: Anansi, 1999. Baikie, Margaret. Labrador Memories: Reflections at Mulligan. Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: Them Days, 1984. Barr, Patricia. A Curious Life for a Lady: The Story of Isabella Bird, Traveller Extraordinary. London: Penguin, 1986. Beaudet, Gerard, O.M.I. Cree-English, English-Cree Dictionary. Winnipeg: Wuerz Publishing, 1995. Berton, Pierre. The Wild Frontier: More Tales from the Remarkable Past. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1978. Blake, Dale. "Women of Labrador: Realigning North from the Site(s) of Metissage." Representing North, edited by Sherrill E. Grace. Essays on Canadian Writing 59 (Fall 1996): 164-81.

254

Bibliography

Blake, S.L. "A Woman's Trek: What Difference Does Gender Make?" Women's Studies International Forum 13.4 (1990): 347-55. Blake, Thomas L. The Diary of Thomas L. Blake. Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: Them Days, 2000. Bloom, Lisa. Gender on Ice: American Ideologies of Polar Expeditions. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993. Blunt, Alison. Travel, Gender, and Imperialism: Mary Kingsley and West Africa. New York: Guilford Press, 1994. Bohls, Elizabeth A. Women Travel Writers and the Language of Aesthetics, 1716-1818. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Bridgman, Helen Bartlett. Within My Horizons. Boston: Small and Maynard, 1920. Brody, Hugh. The Other Side of Eden: Hunters, Farmers, and the Shaping of the World. Vancouver: Douglas & Mclntyre, 2000. Bryant, Henry G. A Journey to the Grand Falls of Labrador. Philadelphia: Geographical Club, 1892. Buchanan, Roberta, ed. With Anne Hart and Bryan Greene. "It's All So Grand and Beautiful": The Life and Labrador Diary ofMina Hubbard. In press. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen's University Press. Bursey, Marilyn. Trekking Through Northern Labrador: A Woman's Odyssey. St John's, Nfld: Oceanside Publishing, 1998. Buss, Helen. Mapping Our Selves: Canadian Women's Autobiography in English. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1993. Byrne, Nympha, and Camille Fouillard, eds. It's Like the Legend: Innu Women's Voices. Charlottetown, P.E.I.: gynergy books, 2000. Cabot, William Brooks. "The Labrador Expedition." Forest and Stream: A Weekly Journal of the Rod and Gun, 11 June 1904: 478. - In Northern Labrador. Boston: Gorham Press, 1912. Campbell, Lydia. Sketches of Labrador Life. Grand Falls, Nfld: Robinson-Blackmore, 1984. Carriere, Gaston. Histoire documentaire de la Congregation des Missionaires Oblats de Marie-Immaculee dans I'Est du Canada, 2e Partie. Dans la seconde moitie du XIXe siecle (1861-1900). Ottawa: Editions de 1'Universite d'Ottawa, 1973. Cooke, Alan. "A Woman's Way." Beaver 291 (Summer 1960): 40-5. Cruikshank, Julie. The Social Life of Stories: Narrative and Knowledge in the Yukon Territory. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. Dagg, Anne Innis. The Feminine Gaze: A Canadian Compendium of Non-fiction Women Authors and Their Books, 1836-1945. Waterloo, Ont: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2OO1.

Davidson, James West, and John Rugge. "George Elson." In Lobsticks and Stone Cairns: Human Landmarks in the Arctic, edited by Richard Davis. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1996.

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- Great Heart: The History of a Labrador Adventure. Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen's University Press, 1997. Davidson, Lillias Campbell. Hints to Lady Travellers at Home and Abroad. London: Iliffe & Son, 1889. Davis, Richard, ed. Lobsticks and Stone Cairns: Human Landmarks in the Arctic. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1996. Desbarats, Peter, ed. What They Used to Tell About: Indian Legends from Labrador. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1969. Dickason, Olive Patricia. Canada's First Nations: A History of Founding Peoples from Earliest Times. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1997. Dictionary of Canadian English: A Dictionary of Canadianisms on Historical Principles. Toronto, Ont: W.J. Gage, 1967. Dictionary of Newfoundland and Labrador Biography. St John's, Nfld: Harry Cuff Publishing, 1990. Dippie, Brian W. "Representing the Other: The North American Indian." In Anthropology and Photography, 1860-1920, edited by Elizabeth Edwards, 132-6. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992. Dougarg, Ginny. "Something Else: The Deserts of Arabia and the Arctic." In Amazonian: The Penguins Book of Women's New Travel Writing, edited by Dea Birkett and Sara Wheeler, 12-33. Hammondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1998. Drapeau, Lynn. Dictionnaire Montagnais/Francais. Sillery, Que.: Presses de 1'Universite du Quebec, 1991. Dyke, A. Prince. "The Hudson's Bay Company in Labrador." Polar Notes 10 (October 1970): 1-14. Eakin, John Paul. Fictions in Autobiography: Studies in the Art of Self-invention. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1985. - How Our Lives Become Stories: Making Selves. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1999. Edwards, Elizabeth. Anthropology and Photography, 1860-1920. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992. Egan, Susanna. Mirror Talk: Genres of Crisis in Contemporary Autobiography. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999. - and Gabriele Helms, eds. Autobiography and Changing Identities. Special issue of biography 24.1 (Winter 2001). Encyclopedia of Newfoundland and Labrador. Vol. 3 of 5 vols. St John's, Nfld: Harry Cuff for Joseph R. Smallwood Heritage Foundation, 1991. Faris, James C. "A Political Primer on Anthropology/Photography." In Anthropology and Photography, 1860-1920, edited by Elizabeth Edwards. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992. The Focal Encyclopedia of Photography. Vol. 2. London and New York: Focal Press, 1965. Foot, Richard. "Englishwoman Paddles to Arctic Coast." National Post, 18 July 2000: A8.

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INDEX

Adelaide, Lake, 117 Albanel, Charles, Pere, 20 American Geographical Society, 7 Angell, James B., 37 "The Arrival at Ungava," Ivii, 151 Ashini, Jean-Pierre, Ixxi Atwood, Margaret, 233n6 autobiography, xix, li, lix, Ixiii, Ixxiv-lxxv; by MBH, xxxix, lii-liv, Ixxiv-lxxvi Babel, Louis, Pere, 21 Baikie, Bob, 219 Baikie, Margaret, xix, Ixxii Baikie, Thomas, 207-8, 211 bannock: art of making, 57 Barren Ground People. See Naskapi Beaver River, 26, 76, 206, 210, 211 Benson, James, xx Berton, Pierre, xlvi, Ixix, 235n16 Bible: importance of, xxxviii, Ixiii, Ixvi, 60,196,197, 200 Blake, Donald, 44, 64, 87,159, 205, 206, 207,

2O8, 2O9, 21O, 211

Blake, Douglas, 213 Blake, Gilbert, xxxi, 44,116, 209 Blake,Joe,159 Blake, Thomas L., 180,186,187,188, 213-14, 215 Blunt, Alison, Ixviii Boas, Franz, xix

Breakwater: edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, xlvi Bridgman, Herbert, xxviii, xxxi, xlvii, 7,148 Bridgman Mountains. See Bridgman, Herbert Briggs, S. Edgar, xxiv, xxx Briggs, William, xix, xliii, lxiv, 235n17; edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, xlii-xlv, lxii Bryant, Henry Grier, 21 Buchanan, Roberta, 25on1 Bunyan, John, xxxviii, lxiii, 2371131 Byrne, Nympha, xix, lxxii Cabot, William. B., xviii, xxi, xlii, xliii, xliv, xlv, xlviii—xlix, li, liv-lv, lvi, lviii, lix, lxxi, 7,113,136; defence of Leonidas Hubbard, Jr, 24-7 Cabot Lake, 113,120,122 Cameron, Agnes Deans, xix Campbell, Lydia, xix, lxxii Cape Corbeau, xxxv, 47, 215 Captain Gray, 159 caribou herds: MBH sights, 109-12 Carman, Bliss, lxiii, 235n17 Gary, Austin, 21 Chapies, Job, xxi, 21,44, 49, 225; canoe accident of, 61-2 Chipman, Clarence Campbell, 158, 2

49n5

268

Index

Churchill Falls, xxxiv, lxxi-lxxiii Church of Christ, 36, 37 Cole, Dennis ML, 21 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, xxxviii Congers, 36,41,173,185,186,187,191, 227, 228 Cook, Frederick, xxiii Copley, Frank, xxi Cotter, Henry, 45 Daly, Marion McCall, 245n2 Davidson, James West, lxix Davies, Robertson, 234n7 Davis Inlet: MBH considers return by, 130 Deep Sea Mission. See Grenfell, Dr William T. De Poncins, Gontran, xix Dickens, Charles, xxiii Duclos, M., 43,44,45,47,218 Eakin, Paul John, liii, lxxiv-lxxv Egan, Susanna, lxxv elegiac romance, xxi, 234n7, 236n25 Ellis, Harold, xlii, xlvii, 7 Elson George: biography of, xxi, xxvii, lvii, 44, 46, 226-7; creates memorial to Leonidas Hubbard, Jr, 214; describes parting with Hubbard, 197; describes dream, 189; map by, 7; narrative by, xlii, 1, lxii, 7,189-222, 224; photography by, xxxii-xxxiii, xl, xlvii, lvi; retrieves body of Hubbard, 214 exploration and travel writing, xix, 237n32; by women, lxvi-lxvii; conventions of, lii First Nations. See Innu, Montagnais, and Naskapi. See also Cabot, William Flaherty, Robert, lv Ford, John, xxxii, 113,152,153,154, 231; and Mrs Ford, 153-4 Fouillard, Camille, xix, lxxii Franklin, Lady Jane, xliii, lxx, 235n18

Franklin, Sir John, xxi, xxiii, 236n30 Fraser, Mr, 158, 216, 219 gender: on northern expeditions, xxx, xxxi, lxviii-lxix; and MBH, xxxix-xl, lx-lxii, lxvii, lxix-lxx Geological Survey of Canada, lv, 20-2, 25,43 George River: MBH at source of, 118 George River Post, Ungava: MBH arrives at, 151-2, 231 Gertrude Falls, 93, 94 Gillis, Gertrude, 245n2 Gillis, John, xxiv, xxxi, 224, 225, 228, 245n2 Goudie, Allan, 206, 209, 210 Goudie, Elizabeth, xix, lxxii Graham, Jean, xvii, lx, lxii Grand River: MBH considers return by, 130 Gregoire, Charlotte, lxii Grenfell, Dr Wilfred T., 19 Grenfell Mission, xlvii Groves, John, 216-17, 218 Hamilton, Peter, lvii—lviii Hannah Bay Massacre, 122 Hart, Anne, xx, 234-5n15 Havens, Munson Aldrich, lxi-lxii Hearne, Samuel, xxx Helen Falls, xlvii, 148 Hind, Henry Youle, xxxiv, lxiii, 15, 21, 237n30 Hinz, Evelyn, lxxiv-lxxv Holme, R.F., xxxiv, lxiii Hubbard, Lake, 118 Hubbard, Leonidas, Jr, xx-xxi, xliii, xlvi, xlix—1, li, lx, Ixv, 223 biography of, xlii, 1, 33-42; burial of, 222; death of, xvii, xxii, xxvi, lxvi, 41, 188, 241n9; health of, 39,162,170, 171,182 doubts about Low's map, 161,167,170, 171

Index

Labrador expedition of, xxi-xxii, xxxiii, xxxv, xlviii-xlix, 7, 21, 24—6, 40-1, 43, 154—5; diary of, xxi, xlv, xlix-1, lx, 7, 157-88, 234n8; mistakes made on, 24, 163, 206, 208, 229; photographs of, xliii, xlv, 156; praise for George Elson, xxii; praise for Dillon Wallace, xxii works by, xxi, xxxviii, 40, 97 Hubbard, Mina Benson (MBH): articles by, xxii, xxxiv-xli biography of, xvii-xviii, xix-xxi, xxii-xxix, Ixxvi, 238n36, n39, n43 diary of, xxxi, xxxiv, xlvi, 1, li, liii, lviii, 146-7, 237-8n35 Dillon Wallace, relations with, xxiixxiv, xxvii, xxx, xlvi, xlvii, lxii, 223 expedition of, 1905: plans for, xxxi-xxxii, 28, 43, 45, 224-5, 226; praise for George Elson, 8, 44, 224; praise for Job Chapies, 53; respect for guides, 71, 92 films about, 238n37 interviews with, xxv-xxvii, xxix-xxx, 223-32 lectures by, xxxiii-xxiv literary influences on, lxii—Ixiv, lxvii-lxviii literary style of, xxxvii—xxxviii, xxxix, lxiv-lxv map of Labrador by, xxxii-xxxiii, xxxiv, xxxv, xxxvii, xlii, xlvii, lxi, lxxi, lxxvi, 7, 28, 72,154 negative images of, xxiv-xxv photography by, xxxii, xxxv-xxxvi, xl, lv-lix, lxviii roles ascribed to, lxix-lxxi A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador: publishing history of, xlii-xlvi; reviews of, lx-lxii; structure of, xliii, xlvi-xlvii, 1 Hudson's Bay Company, 16, 20-1, 26, 44, 113,124

269

Hutchison, Isobel Wylie, xix imperialism, lv, lix. See also Kipling, Rudyard; Hubbard, Mina Benson: photography by Innu, lxxi-lxxii, 16-18 Isabella Falls, 93 Iserhoff, Joseph, xxxi, 44, 70, 225 It's Like the Legend: Innu Women's Voices, xix, lxxii Iwata, Carol, lxx Jenness, Diamond, xix Johnson, Pauline, lxx Julia Sheridan, 159 King, S.A., 209, 242n5 Kingsley, Mary, xxxviii, lxvi-lxviii, 237n32; My Travels in West Africa, xviii, lxiii, lxvii. See also exploration and travel writing Kipling, Rudyard, xxxviii, lvi, lxiii, 22, 240n19 Klein, Clayton, lxix-lxx Krafft, Elizabeth, 243m Labrador: books about, xix, lxxi, lxxii; changes in, lxxi-lxxiv; exploration of, 20-4; landscape, depiction of, lxiv-lxv; topography of, 13-15 "Labrador Expedition." See Cabot, William B. Lacasse, Zacherie, Pere, 21, 28 Lampman, Archibald, lxiii Lion Heart Mountains, 76 Little Rivers. See Van Dyke, Henry Lloyd, Harriet Goudie (Mrs Donald Blake), 250n4 Lloyd,Joe,158 Long Labrador Trail, The. See Wallace, Dillon Low, A.P., xxx, xxxv, xxxviii, lv, lvi, lxiii, 14, 20-2, 26, 28, 96,148; map of Labrador

270

Index

by, xxxii, xxxiii, 21, 24—5,159,161, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 170,174,177, 192, 208, 225 Lure of the Labrador Wild. See Wallace, Dillon Lynd, Robert, lx Mabelle Island, 58 McClure, S.S.: edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, xliv-xlv, xlix, lxi McKenzie, Peter, 114 McKenzie, Thomas, 159,195-6, 211, 217, 218 McLaughlin, Alonzo, xx, xxiv, xxviii, xxx McLean, Duncan, 73, 206, 209, 210, 211, 213, 214, 215 McLean, John, xxxiv, lxxii, 21, 22, 26, 28 Macpherson, Dr Cluny, xlvii, 8, 216, 217, 221

MacTavish, Mr, 227 Maid Marion Falls, 89, 93 Marchand, Reverand Dr John B., xxviii—xxix, xxx MBH. See Hubbard, Mina Benson Melville, Lake, 118 Methodist Book and Publishing House, xlii, Ixiv. See also Briggs, William Michikamau, Lake, 176: MBH sights, 96; MBH arrives at, 98; record of MBH expedition at, xxxvi, 98 Millais, J.G, lxi Mingan, 127 Missanabie, 44, 181, 191,225, 227 missions: Church of England, 19; Moravian, 19-20; Oblate, 19 Montagnais, liv-lv, lvii, lxviii, 18, 29, 40,

108,125-9,132,135,137-8,159,231; MBH meets, 125-6; MBH photographs, 138 Mount Elizabeth. See Krafft, Elizabeth Mount Hubbard, 96 Mount Repose Cemetery, 222

Mount Sawyer. See Sawyer, Reverend James Murray, John, xlvii; advertising for A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, xviii, xliii; edition of A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, xix, xlii-xlv, lxi Murray, Virginia, xlv Musgrave, Susan, lxxi Nascaupee River: MBH reaches source of, 117 Naskapi, liv-lv, lvi, lvii-lviii, lxi, lxviii, 18, 28, 29, 85,122-3,133-41, 146,154,174, 176,179, 225, 227, 229, 231; MBH meets, 132-3 Newell, Steve, 157-8 newspaper reports of MBH, xx, xxii-xxx, xxxiii

Niemi, Judith, lxx Nitassinan, lxxii-lxxiii Nitassinan: The Innu Struggle to Reclaim Their Homeland, lxxii-lxxiii Noel, Lynn, lxx Northern Labrador. See Cabot, William B. Outing magazine, xx, xxi-xxii, xxxviii, li, lxi, 39, 40, 41 "Paddling Song," 58, 76, 93 Peary, Robert, xxiii Peary Arctic Club, xxxi Peck, Annie, lxvi Pelican, xxix, xxxii, 44,152,155,159, 226, 231 Penashue, Elizabeth, lxxii Picturesque Canada, lviii Pike, Warburton, xix, xxi, xxxviii, liii—lv, lvi, lviii, lx, lxiii, 137; The Barren Ground of Northern Canada, xxi, liv,

113 Pilgrim's Progress. See Bunyan, John

Index Point Lucie, xlvii, 51, 243n4 Pratt, Alexandra, lxx-lxxi Pratt, Mary Louise, xl, xlii, lix, lxiv Rae, Dr John, xxiii relational identity, liii, lxxiv-lxxv Resolution Lake, 113,125,128,130 Roberts, Sir Charles G.D., xxxix, lxiii, 235n17 Rogers, John, 33 Roy, Wendy, 235n18 Royal Geographic Society, xxxi Rugge, John, lxix Rupert's House, 122 Saguenay, great fire of, 17-18 Saltatha, 137 Sawyer, Reverend James, xxv, xxx, xlvii, 8,

50,51 Seal Lake, 50; MBH arrives at, 74-7 Seven Islands, 127 Shakespeare, William, xxxviii Shipman, Nell, 248n3 Simpson, Dr, 159 Slanting Lake, 144 starvation: danger of, xvii, xxi, xlviii, 17, 20, 25-6, 208; death from, 114,188, 229; Leonidas Hubbard, Jr's fears of, 178 Stefansson, Vilhjalmur, xix, lv Stevens, John, lv

271

Strathcona, 19 Strong-Boag, Veronica, 238n43 Susan River, 24, 43,48, 206, 210, 211, 213 Swaffield, Mr, 219-20 Syddall, Joseph, xvii, xviii, xxii, xlii, xliii, 2, 156

Tasker, Florence and Stephen, 21 Ty, Eleanor, lix, Ixxvi Van Dyke, Henry, lxiv Virginia Lake, 158,194 Vyvyan, Clara, xix Wadden, Marie, xix, lxxii, lxxiii, 238n38 Wallace, Annie, xxv, xxx Wallace, Dillon, xxi, xlv, liii, liv-lv, lviii, lix, lxii, 236n25; rescue of, 209-10: Lure of the Labrador Wild, xix, xxii, xxv, xxvi, xlix, 1, lxi, lxii, lxiii, 233-4n8 Whitney, Caspar, xxi—xxii, xxviii, xxx, xliii, xlix Williams, Daisy Hubbard, xxvii Windbound Lake, 96 Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador, A. See Hubbard, Mina Benson Woolf, Virginia, lxxvi, 238n44 Wordsworth, William, lxiii, lxiv, lxvi Wurtsboro, 40,185,186