Monday, September 7th.—­Temp. at 5 A.M. 48 degrees.  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, boiled and thickened with flour.  Drank last bit of cocoa.  No sugar.  Boys not 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 degrees l minute 21 seconds.  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 degrees.  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 of ten ptarmigan.  They were in the burned-over 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