trout caught during the afternoon, to which, as a Sunday luxury,
was added a cake of bread.

When we gathered around the fire in the evening Hubbard had entirely
recovered from his depression and took a more hopeful view of the
river. We discussed the matter thoroughly, and decided that the river
George and I had seen coming from the eastward must take a turn farther
north and break through the Kipling Mountains, and that it might prove
to be Low's Northwest River we all thought was possible.

At the same time we could not disguise the fact that it was extremely
probable we should have to portage over the mountains, and the prospect
was far from pleasing; but, ragged and almost barefooted though we
were, not a man thought of turning back, and on Monday morning, August
17th, we prepared to leave Camp Caribou and solve the problem as to
where lay the trail of Michikamau.

VIII. "MICHIKAMAU OR BUST!"

The temperature was three degrees below freezing when grey dawn at half
past four o'clock that Monday morning bid us up and on. The crisp air
and the surpassing beauty of the morning stirred within us new hope and
renewed ambition. And the bags of jerked venison and the grease gave
us faith that we should succeed in reaching our goal. Though we had
some food in stock, there was to be no cessation in our effort to get
fish; our plan was for Hubbard to try his rod at the foot of every
rapid while George and I did the portaging.

Before midday Hubbard had forty trout, one of them sixteen inches
long--the biggest we had caught yet. We stopped for luncheon on the
sandy shore of a pretty little lake expansion, and ate the whole
morning's catch, fried in caribou tallow, with unsweetened coffee to
wash it down. Then on we pushed towards the Kipling Mountains. At a
narrow strait between two lakes we left Hubbard to fish, George and I
going on two miles farther to the place where we had spent that chilly
night while scouting, and where our camp for this night was to be
pitched.

Our object in going there was to give George another chance to view the
country on the other side of the mountain range. This time he was to
try another peak. As he disappeared up the mountain side, I paddled
back to get Hubbard, who was awaiting me with a good string of big
trout. The two-mile stretch of lake from where Hubbard was fishing to
our camping ground was as smooth as a sheet of glass. The sun hanging
low over the mountains and