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.  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 for 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 snowshoes 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 degrees.  Back to northwest 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 today.  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 degrees.  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.