Voyageurs 1957:

Reindeer Lake to Stony Rapids

In the summer of 1957, Sigurd Olson and the Voyageurs made a 400-mile canoe trip in Canada's far north—almost to the 60th parallel—from Reindeer Lake and along the Fond du Lac River to Stony Lake along a route first explored by David Thompson in 1796. The diary reprinted below was recorded by Denis Coolican, president of the Canadian Bank Note Company. It was originally published in the Ottawa, Ontario Evening Journal. Joining Denis and Sigurd Olson on this trip were Omond Solandt, a doctor who planned Canada's national defense research; Major General Elliot Rodger, vice chief of general staff of the Canadian Army; Tyler Thompson, U.S. minister to Canada; and Eric Morse, national director of the Association of Canadian Clubs. Left to right in the photo, taken by Sig: Tyler, Omond, Denis, Eric and Elliot.

Saturday, July 20, Reindeer Lake:

We are camped on the north point of an island three miles up the lake from South End

Tyler, Eric and I left Ottawa Friday afternoon, joining Sig in Winnipeg and spending the night there. Omond and Elliot met us in Flin Flon, then by chartered plane to South End.

We have seen old friends: the Huttons and Gerry Malahar in Winnipeg and Ben Grimmelt and Harry Moody (both from our Churchill trip two years ago) in Flin Flon.

We have been the grateful recipients of Flin Flon hospitality at the Engineers' Mess and a Chamber of Commerce lunch. Flin Flon with its enthusiasm for grass, its civic pride, its bi-provincial geography, its wood encased surface-laid sewers that double as sidewalks and its green neatness is good to see and should be seen for more than the 3 1/2 hours we had before taking off in our chartered Trans Air seaplane.

At South End the three canoes we had used two years ago on the Churchill trip—freshly painted and repaired—were put in the water, quickly loaded and we were off up the lake almost before the plane left.

After about an hour we found this campsite, pitched the tents, cooked supper and we are turning in.

Sunday, July 21, Reindeer Lake:

The air chilled noticeable last night when the sun went down and I was glad of my heavy pajamas and within less than an hour I had on bed socks. The cold night ended in full sunlight at 5:30 and Omond said there was enough sunlight at 3:15 for him to read his watch. We are about 600 miles north of Ottawa.

Now after 27 miles in a bright, hot, windless day and on water that is unbelievably clear, so transparent that the bottom is seen in all detail even at depths of 20 feet, we are, at a quarter to five, within sight of Butler Island. Though the water is really too cold for comfort (except for Eric) the day has been so hot that everyone has had a quick dip.

We are sunburnt, happy and looking forward to the cold short night and another 20 days.

Monday, July 22, Reindeer Lake:

By a checked measure we are 32 miles from where we started this morning. We were away early and it has been one of our longer days, made easier by a wind that shifted from east to southwest until it was pushing us merrilly and at times almost too vigorously on our course up the lake. Though it was a following wind, we were glad of any shelter we could get because a strong following wind, though more rewarding, is almost as hard work as a head wind.

Today was Elliot's day for food. At lunch we had pemmican he had had made at the Hudson's Bay Company (a tasty ration if hungry) and at supper on Murray Island just where our course changes from NE to N we are eating two large lake trout he caught as we came up the west side of the lake. The fish is good, the campsite mediocre.

We have been very lucky with winds and our gamble in going up the open part of the lake to avoid the portages of the Nokomis and Reilly Lake inland routes has paid off. But it was a gamble and it could have given us at best hard, hard work and at worst two or more days' delay. Let's hope our luck holds for the open stretches to Bedford Island and in Wollaston Lake.

Tuesday, July 23, Reindeer Lake:

At the end of this, our third full day, we are 90 miles along.

Sig (the boss) says the party is well shaken-down and when necessary we can get into the canoes in the morning about one hour and 20 minutes after getting up.

The hot sunshine of the last two days was broken this afternoon by thunderstorms and our rain gear was brought out for the first time. The rain was over before we camped on a point just short of Robinson Bay.

Tonight is relaxed and the Bourgeois [Sigurd Olson] sings and hums over a brew of pea soup, ham fat, dried onions and other ingredients that are his secret. The relaxation is from the feeling of urgency in getting over the open stretches while the fine weather lasts and the breezes are favorable. Almost every three hours of the paddling day we have come to reaches where a high wind could have immobilized us as long as it lasted but each day so far the weather has been with us.

The trees, especially the jack pine and spruce, are noticeably small. They grow from a carpet of moss and lichen over a granite floor. At lunch stop Sig counted, with a magnifying glass, the rings of a jack pine that is only one-half inch in diameter and estimates it to be about 75 years old.

We saw a prospector whose Indian helper, named MacDougal, on being questioned by Elliot said that he comes from Maniwaki and knows the Cronier family from Messines.

This morning as we came around a point of Tate Island we saw a fishing camp, stopped and were met by Mrs. Rupert who had been sunbathing and heard us, as she said, "just in time." She and her two-year-old daughter, Sandy, gave us a cup of coffee in a friendly, comfortable cabin decorated with pictures of lake trout (the largest 54 lbs.). She told us the ice had gone our ot the lake on June 18 and that August is the best month of the year for both weather and fishing.

It has been a good three days, our luck with wind and weather unbelievable. What a large, clear lake this is!

Wednesday, July 24, Reindeer Lake:

This campsite is a compromise. A good campsite has a flat rocky shore that rises slightly to a wooded background where there are flat places for pitching tents with trees spaced to fit the tents stays. Tonight we have a sandy shore with weeds and dead trees.

But, as usual, after a hard day and a tot of rum, attitudes that are gay and good humored, sometimes verging on the hilarious.

As Tyler reminded us, this was to have been a short day. We had 18 miles to cover and we were to stop at 3 p.m. so that the packs could be well organized for portaging up the Swan. In fact, we paddled until a quarter to 5, most of the time against or across a stiff West wind that did not slow us down but did tire us out and prolonged the sleeping after lunch. And we only found the Swan river after going up a bay that led to a stagnant creek where the spruce and jack pine had criss-crossed themselves into a maze at points where the banks were undermined. With these delays we are tired but happy to make ourselves comfortable almost anywhere.

The water at this end of the lake is brownish, less clear, and warmer. Pulling the canoes up the first of the Swan rapids tomorrow.

Thursday, July 25, Swan Lake:

We have come up the Swan river for 10 miles, then 2 miles on Swan Lake and are camped on a point on the east side of the gut between the south and north parts of the lake. It has taken us from 7:45 this morning until 4:30 this afternoon.

There have been seven portages, four of them of about half a mile, the last one about three quarters and the first two quite short. All but the last were easy to find and all were well traveled as this river is still the main highway between Wollaston and Reindeer Lakes just as it was before David Thompson first came this way in 1796. He called it Lily river for the white plants, shaped like Calla Lilies but smaller, that line the banks.

The portages start in a moss bog where the track forms a deep, wet rut and end the same way. The centre generally over a ridge, is dry and comfortable, the moss orange, red and green with signs and sometimes tracks of moose, cariboo and timber wolf.

The exertion, exercise, often hard work, and wet shoes; the solitude under a canoe on a portage, the companionship of a partner in the canoe and the community of the campsite make these good days. Omond, quoting his Mother, described them as days that "take the wrinkles out of the soul."

Tomorrow we go up the Blondeau River.

Friday, July 26, Blondeau River:

We have traveled two miles on Swan Lake to the mouth of the Blondeau River and up the Blondeau to the beginning of the portage to the lakes that lead to Middle Lake.

The Blondeau is a winding river with steep grassy banks, that flows at one-half to three-quarters of a mile per hour. We have paddled against this current, or portaged around its rapids, since about 7:40 a.m., arriving at our campsite at 6 p.m.

Both portages were good ones, the second was longer and over an esker (a sandy ridge of about 70 feet) covered with jackpine but no underbrush—something like a well-kept picnic ground.

We pulled over beaver dams, forced the canoes around hair-pin turns, dodged rocks that lurked below the surface, ready to embarrass the unwary bowman, saw moose tracks on the reedy banks, ate a hasty lunch harassed by mosquitoes and finally settled down comfortably on sandy gravel and moss amid jack pines beside an abandoned log warehouse.

Saturday, July 27, Wollaston Lake, After 12 Miles:

This has been what Tyler calls one of our shorter days. We woke up at 5:30 in a shower brought on by an east wind that stayed with us all day, blowing away flies and bringing clouds to screen us from the sun. By seven o'clock we had eaten breakfast, broken camp and started on the first of nine portages that took us through eight small lakes, over the height of land separating the Hudson Bay drainage from the Arctic and into Wollaston Lake, Compulsion Bay.

The lakes, with the exception of Middle Lake, have been small and the portages, several of them Winter caterpillar tractor roads, easy to find. All of them have started in boggy, mossy, swamp, gone over a gravelly ridge, sometimes with a boggy area in between, and ended in a like swamp at the far end. Two have been close to a mile long and all of them hard work under the canoe. Tyler and Eric have each sunk above the knees in the wet moss. All feet were wet, all shoulders sore when we came over a ridge and saw the broad, clean, bug-free, rocky shore expanse of Wollaston ringed by blue hills at 4 o'clock. An hour's paddling (almost drifting) on course with the wind and we were at a comfortable campsite, pitching tents, eating supper, telling stories and fishing, just as if we had arrived at the portage by car and come over by motor boat. David Thompson, with Indians to carry his canoe, could not have felt better. After a full week we are getting into the swing of it again.

Sunday, July 28, Wollaston Lake, After 25 Miles:

Late to bed last night and up late at 6:15 after a night of thunderstorms and rain, but no discomfort.

Left the campsite just before eight and paddled west out of Compulsion Bay into the lake proper and then North for about 24 miles to a campsite just short of the post where we will replenish supplies tomorrow. The wind has been light and with us; the water clear like that of Reindeer Lake, but warmer. The lake itself seems bigger (because we did not get to the largest part of Reindeer) and more beautiful because of the purple hills and becuase it has no downed grey trees on the fore shore. We have seen three boatloads of fishing Indians.

Omond and I are walking to the village to send mail and I a telegram, for tomorrow is Colin's birthday.

Monday, July 29, Wollaston Lake:

Last night Omond and I met Charlie Salt, the young Saskatchewan government conservation officer whom we first saw two years ago on a portage on the Sturgeon Weir. (Now he is married and has a daughter six months old.) With him we had a quick tour of the fish filleting plant and store which we saw more completely today.

Today we reprovisioned, washed clothes, had a leisurely lunch by the calm lake in the clear sunshine and reflected on what we had to cover in the next 12 days. Having reflected, we decided to break camp, take advantage of the good weather and start across the thirty or so miles of lake that are ahead of us. There is work to be done, so more of the Post, etc., later.

At three o'clock, after mailing a letter at the post, we set out from the east side of the lake to cover what Charlie Salt called the "big opens", those wide, long stretches that are unsheltered for many miles from any direction. We were worried about being windbound because of our tight timetable. Now, after 12 miles in a glassy calm with a rolling swell, we have had dinner and Elliot, Omond and Tyler are fishing. We have set our watches to Mountain Standard time and will soon be ready to turn in. We are camped on the west side of Sandy Island.

Tuesday, July 30, Fond du Lac River:

The ominous, hot, glassy swell of the open East side of Wollaston was replaced this morning at 6 o'clock when we took to the canoes by a light North wind and a slightly clouded sky and what seemed by comparison to be a profusion of islands in the Western half. It was a relief to see islands that were less than an hour's paddle, one from the other; a relief and a reassurance in case the wind freshened.

This was an early start. It took only three-quarters of an hour from waking to canoes for the six of us to have breakfast (French toast, fried eggs, apricots and coffee) wash up, break camp and pack ready for portaging.

Now, after ten hours and 24 mils, we are in the Fond du Lac River on a point just short of the second rapids. Elliot has landed often and found moose and caribou antlers where the wolves have caught them; the concern about timetable and adverse winds that is sometimes oppressive has lifted. Tyler is looking forward, as always, to good fishing. The river, our first downstream this trip, has been shallow and disappointing. There is only a trickle of Wollaston Lake that flows to the Arctic. The first rapids was portaged by one canoe; the others took to wading and dragged themselves and the canoes waist deep over the boulders.

Wednesday, July 31, Fond du Lac River:

Today we have shot three rapids and talked about each at the foot. Tyler, Omond and Elliot have fished—at first with such little success that one was afraid to ask about their lures and what they were angling for. The Bourgeois has examined a cabin abandoned in a hurry with axes and equipment and a canoe left uncovered and uncared for, in April of this year according to the calendar still there. We have more or less drifted before a SW wind across Hatchet Lake and we are camped at 3 o'clock. In spite of this dawdling and early stop we have done about 14 miles.

The rapids have been exciting, the two before Hatchet Lake preparing our eyes and nerve for the one at the Western outlet where fast flowing water went first on both sides of an island then formed a fast, narrow path through a broad avenue of boulders and dropped about 20 feet in half a mile. All made it successfully, breathlessly and, at times, holding on grimly. Exciting, but perhaps a little far from home for such thrills.

It has rained, it is colder and we are glad to be camped reading Tyrell's diary and telling stories.

P.S.—Tyler caught a large pike, Omond too had luck and we have had fish chowder bourgeois.

Thursday, August 1, Fond du Lac River:

It was a grey, cold, wet morning at 5:15 and it had been that way for some hours by then for Omond, after 8 hours sleep, had started reading a "who dunit" at 3:30 a.m. by the light of the sun. By 6:45 we were away, preoccupied this time by wet socks and feet but heartened by clear sky in the West.

This was our first cold day since Reindeer Lake. A North wind following last night's rain cleared the skies and chilled our wet socks, shoes, trousers and feet. We wore heavy sweaters for breakfast but Eric had his swim nothwithstanding.

The Fond du Lac gets bigger as it gathers tributaries.

We shot part of the first rapids, and portaged the remainder. The second we shot for the first part and "lined down" the second.

"lining down" is a procedure that looks more attractive than carrying a canoe. In fact, it consists of wading, often waist deep, over slippery rocks in fast flowing water, one man holding the painter, the other keeping the canoe off the rocks and in the current with a paddle. Sounds easy if the rocks are flat and the current co-operative. Often it is but on the second part of the second rapids today the downstream part of the canoe got between two rocks on the shore and the upstream part into the current. We took some water and spent some time bailing. We spent one and a half hours at it.

Fishing was good. Thirteen Arctic grayling were kept. Tyler and Elliot were pleased, even gay, and the Bourgeois and Omond fished well too. The graylings are a beautiful fish with iridescent back fin rimmed in orange.

We have had hors d'oeuvre of pumpernickel and cheese, rum cocktails and finally all the brayling and mashed potatoes we could eat. Life is good. We are 18 miles farther along our way, about 2 miles beyond the Waterfowl River.

At the end of a day like this (and it would seem to be a pattern for this trip), we have been glad to get to bed when the sun sets. It is true that the sky remains bright, in fact it never really darkens, but one usually gets to sleep quickly and wakes up only after seven or eight hours. A lot depends, of course, on how level the campsite and how much air there is in the mattress. It should be hard enough to just be able to feel the ground with a hip. Sometimes if sleeping on a slope you slide sideways off the mattress, get twisted in the sleeping bag and wake your neighbor in the process. Then you will hear some of the night noises of the woods which, in this caribou country, have included distant howling of a wolf and almost always a loon.

Night really ends at about 4 a.m. and we are up a little after 5 o'clock. If there was one unnecessary piece of equipment this time it was a flashlight.

Friday, August 2, Fond du Lac River:

This morning at five o'clock it was cold and overcast. No one felt human until after the Bourgeois fish cakes and hot coffee. Our shoes were damp and clammy and the North wind made us cold even with sweaters and windbreakers.

By eight o'clock our feet were again wet from lining down part of the Demi-charge Rapids and shooting the remainder. And that was the pattern for the rest of the morning that brought us through five miles of rapids and fast water to the delta in Kosdaw Lake at 11:30. The skies had cleared, the lunch spot was sheltered and we dried out our feet in the noonday sun.

It has been a lovely day since then. The river is fast, the water is warm and the rapids, after a hard pull across Kosdaw Lake, are warm too when lined. All resolved to take them cautiously, and all our clothes are dry.

The Fond du Lac has become a considerable river. At our campsite it runs between pinkish sandstone banks about 20 feet high.

With the help of its current we have made 20 miles today.

Saturday, August 3, Manitou Rapids, Fond du Lac River:

These last three days on the Fond du Lac have been as good canoeing as one could want; the river is fast, the rapids manageable and thrilling, the water warm enough so that lining is comfortable and the weather sunny enough to dry clothes. Portages have been few—two of them came today and as a result we have done only 14 miles but they were through woods without underbrush, the footing was on dry moss and on the whole they were a pleasant change from the canoe.

Everywhere we have stopped along the Fond du Lac there have been well-worn game trails with signs of moose and caribou; the lakes and stretches of quick water have as many ducks and duckling as we saw two years ago along the Churchill. Last night just before turning in we saw a large moose outlined against the water about 3/4 of a mile away. Today, as we rounded a point on the South shore of Otter Lake, we surprised a big old yellow timber wolf who had his den under the overhanging sandstone bank beside a sandy point.

It has been one of the best days—we have seen Thompson's Falls where David Thompson lost his gear and cut his feet. We are camped just beyond at Manitou Falls where the whole river funnels through a sandstone gorge, divides in two and part goes through what is almost a tunnel.

We have had one of our two minor mishaps so far—both were the same and both were because the wrong end of the canoe got into the stream when lining around a point in fast water. Each time the canoe partly filled up and some clothes, etc., were put to dry.

The nights and mornings are cold. The air takes on a chill as soon as the sun goes down.

Sunday, August 4, Hawkrock Rapids, Fond du Lac River:

Our time of arrival at Stony Rapids and the crossing of the open water, 14 miles of it, on Black Lake are now a matter of concern so we were up early and away in the canoes by 6:40 a.m. Ten hours later and 26 miles farther at the head of the rapids we came ashore to camp.

The tents are on the top of a high sandstone bank. The fireplace, etc., is on a flat rock below beside the stream. The tents are pitched in "the burn." Brown, crisp-looking, burned-out trees have lined the river and covered most of the hills for the last 24 miles. They are brown only in the distance. Close-up the wood and what is left of the soil is black and charred, the soil and humus has been burned so that even large trees when pushed come out by the roots.

The four sets of rapids marked on the map have been negotiated successfully with a very short lining operation on the Brink Rapids and a let-down over a ledge.

There have been many others, too—short and fast—but the best were the Brassy, a long slide over rounded boulders with a thick, turbulent cushion of water. From the bottom it looked like a wide, steep, frothy lumber chute. From the top it was like all rapids, a little terrifying, only more so; we took in one or two wave tops as we went down and bumped over a few rounded boulders as we had on earlier descents. At the bottom we found that the others had done likewise.

Our canoes are the ones we used on the Churchill trip two years ago and they have some of its scars. Each has a patch; ours (Omond and mine) has a splinted rib, so has the Bourgeois' (Tyler paddles with him), Elliot and Eric have a patch on their canvas. Today, in the rapids, with a 16-foot fall just after Manitou Falls, we bumped hard against a rock and loosened the screws on the splint but because the rocks are rounded the canvas was uncut. We have another one and a half days of this sort of thing before the canoes are returned for refit and repairs. The excitement of it, or the thrill, or whatever it is that makes it exhilarating is heightened by the fact that for the last 10 days we have seen no one, white or red, and that during the whole trip and except for those at the Post at Wollaston Lake we have seen only three people.

Monday, August 5, Fond du Lac River:

It has been a truly pleasant day. A warm east wind to help us along the way, a broken but mostly overcast sky to keep us from the sun, a fast current, four sets of rapids to add interest, none of them dangerous but each with problems and ledges to catch the unwary, and finally a fruitful fishing spot where Omond, Tyler, the Bourgeois and I caught enough pickerel for supper. We have done 24 miles.

P.S.—Filleted pickerel, washed in the water of a fast-clowing stream north of the 59th parallel, rolled in a light batter of dried ege and biscuit mix, then cooked over an open fire of jack pine sticks on a sand beach in sizzling fat is tempting to the jaded palate, irresistible to the relaxed voyageur and a tribute to the Bourgeois.

Flies have been with us, bulldog black flies and mosquitoes. But they have not been bad, not nearly as bad as the "unbearable" that Gerry Malahar had described in Winnipeg. Wht with "612," "Replex," and "Off," as well as the few portages and our mosquito bars on our tents, we have been comfortable and unbothered.

Tuesday, August 6, Black Lake, Lunchtime:

Up at 5:30 and broke camp slowly, getting into the canoes about 7. Last night the sky was clear, the air calm and at midnight Sig woke us to see the Northern Lights that seemed to converge on the horizon into a point overhead. The display probably accounted for our slow pace.

We shot the four-foot drop rapids blow our camp and took pictures of Sig and Tyler as they came down.

After about five miles in the fast current, we came out of sandstone on to the shield, saw large hills and rounded granite shores dropping sharply into the water.

The Fond du Lac takes a 43-foot drop into Black Lake at Burr Falls—we portaged three-quarters of a mile on the first distinct path we have seen since Wollaston Lake, arriving at the end to photograph the falls, paddle into the lake examining a squared timber cabin on the point and face a quite strong west wind that filled us with indecision about crossing the lake. we faced it for half an hour, reaching a comfortable rocky point where we are having lunch and hoping it (the wind, not lunch) will go down.

After waiting two hours, the wind was no worse so we set out, pulling towards Fir Island for two and a half hours in shallow, sandy bays, being washed by spray from high waves and facing the late afternoon sun. As we reached the last bay and the wind dropped an aircraft with Roger Phillips and cameraman Hills came in to interview us. They stayed for an hour or so, took pictures, told us about the transportation over the portages between Black Lake and Stony Rapids and asked questions.

The wind has dropped. Our tents are pitched on a high, sandy ridge with many flies and mostquitoes, looking out on a large, calm lake surrounded by high hills.

Wednesday, August 7, Black Lake, Near the Outlet:

Fourteen miles down the lake before a north wind after a shave and latish start and we were at the fishing camps at the outlet just after lunch. It was cold and Sig lit a fire, made tea and heated the beans he cooked last night.

We looked at the camps—no one there—inspected the river and rapids and portages, decided to fish this p.m. and decide tomorrow whether to reach Stony by portage, walk or jeep.

We have a campsite on the north side with flat rocks—level with the lake and a mint-carpeted tent site on the same level just behind.

Tyler and Elliot have caught eight grayling; we are cleaning them and then to bed.

Thursday, August 8, Fond du Lac River, Stony Rapids:

The sun came up about 3:20 this morning. It was broad daylight when I woke up at four o'clock. By six o'clock we were up and after discussion—more prolonged than usual—we left one canoe and all unnecessary gear at the fishing camp at the end of the motor road, and decided to make the two long portages and paddle into Stony Rapids in two canoes. Taking two packs in each canoe made it that we crossed each portage only once. So we did the Elizabeth Falls portage, 3 1/2 miles, in less than two hours and the Woodcock, 153 chains, in about one hour. Elizabeth Falls portage is a broad avenue through jack pine on a sandy footing. We had lunch on Middle Lake and then over Woodcock—not so good through some swamp and burnt country into the river between high granite banks and finally into Stony Lake at the top of the rapids into the town.

Elliot and Eric have been into the village, arranged for transport of our remaining gear by truck from Black Lake—picked up Sig's mail, brought back Omond's wallet lost at Wollaston, and we are celebrating Sig's wedding anniversary. All is well and we rejoice that we came this last leg by canoe and portage and not by truck or jeep.

Friday, August 9:

Tyler caught a grayling just before breakfast on Elliot's rod just as Elliot was handing it to him and we shared it for breakfast, then paddled over to the church around the point from our camp, left our packs to be picked up by truck and shot the rapids into the village.

Elliot and Eric paddled one canoe, Omond and I the other with Tyler and Sig sitting in the middle. It was a proper end to our water travel. We came down on the left side without trouble, though the other canoe bumped over a rock, and arrived at the village dock in style, pulling out the canoes beside a seaplane.

The town's radio operator, Mrs. Hawkins and her husband gave us coffee and we met Corporal Ketch, RCMP, and Jeanie Gledsdale, the nurse at the hospital who had been at Cumberland House two years ago.

Saturday, August 10, TCA Flight 4, Edmonton to Ottawa:

Sig and Elliot are with me, we left Omond in Edmonton and Tyler with Eric in Stony Rapids to return through Prince Albert and Saskatoon.

We have again had a wonderful trip, no mishap and no more than ordinary wear and tear on the canoes and it has been done on schedule over unfamiliar country. Sig, with his wide experience always comments on this. We have been fabulously lucky with wind and weather.

This year we have been able to look forward to meeting people we know, like Charlie Salt, the young conservation officer, and Harry Moody, and it has given us the feeling of perhaps not quite belonging to this part of the country but at least of being less out of place. And we way Jean Gledsdale, the nurse we met at Cumberland House two years ago just after she had come out from England, who now runs the hospital at Stony Rapids. Her two months' leave last Winter was spent in Egypt.

One remembers the tenseness and thrill and exhilaration of shooting rapids, the immensity of lakes like Reindeer and Wollaston and the isolation of the small ones that are like ponds between portages, the serenity that can be dissipated by one outboard motor and an isolated fishing camp, the relaxation of being preoccupied with the essential details of existence—sunburn, rain, food, shelter, sleep, heat; and one recalls a tired Tyler telling how he got out of the bog by resting the canoe on the surface and pulling himself up to it.

One recalls as characteristic of today's northland, the story of Omond's wallet. Omond had carried it, along with a little more cash than usual, because he had been travelling for almost a week before joining us at Flin Flon and because after the trip he was meeting young Andy and Sigrid not far from Edmonton. It carried, in addition, his papers and passes and similar things that are inconvenient to replace. He discovered it was missing as we were paddling back to our campsite Sunday morning from the Wollaston Post. We turned around and searched the surface of the water and likely places along the shore. Then we enquired at the fish filleting plant and at the trading post and from Charlie Salt. Charlie Salt questioned some Indians and they shook their heads impassively. No one held out much hope except Charlie Salt who said that if it turned up nothing would be missing. We were skeptical and went on our way. But an Indian woman found it on the shore, dried and pressed the papers and bills and dried the wallet too and put the contents back in good order and gave it to the storekeeper at Wollaston Post. He, in turn, passed it to one of the aeroplane pilots who was flying out fish and from one aeroplane pilot to another it went by hand from Wollaston Post to Prince Albert and from Prince Albert to Stony Rapids and there it was after two weeks and many miles waiting for Omond when he arrived.

Again, between catnaps on this night flight, one wonders about David Thompson's trip over the same route in 1796 and his description of how Kosdaw, his Indian guide, with great difficulty caught an eaglet but let him eat the fat knowing it would disrupt Thompson's digestion. Why wouldn't they have contrived to fish for food?

It must have been different in those days—but not much! That country won't have changed a great deal. Four hundred miles of peace and hard labor, good fun and good companions: that's what it was for me!