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.  I was willing that day almost 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 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 very 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 northeast round the foot of Bald Mountain, and less than half a mile below us bent away to the southeast.  At the bend a tributary stream came in from the northwest 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.