It was nearly midday on Saturday when we left Red Rock Camp, and the rain was still falling a little; but the prospects were for a fine evening and a dry camp, so it was decided to push on as already we had been delayed more than half the week.  Soon the rain ceased, and, passing the portages round Seal and Cascade Rapids, we found ourselves on smooth water again.  The sky cleared as we proceeded, and an occasional gleam of sunshine lent its charm to the scenes of quiet beauty through which we were passing.  The river was soft and smooth as satin, with a slightly raised cushion-like appearance, that I had never noticed on smooth water before.

About the middle of the afternoon, as we rounded a bend of the river, we saw far ahead on the low drift shore, five large black objects close to the water’s edge.  There could be but one animal of such size and colour in this region, and I became quite stirred up over the prospect of an encounter with what looked like a bear picnic.  I watched eagerly as we approached, rather wondering how we were going to manage five of them, when in a most inexplicable manner they dwindled suddenly, and my five bears had become as many ducks.  It was the first time I had ever seen so striking an example of mirage.  We secured three of the transformed bears, and on Sunday morning had stewed duck and fresh bannocks for breakfast.

Owing to the enforced rest through the week we decided to go forward on Sunday.  After a late breakfast the task of loading the outfit into the canoes was not yet complete when Gilbert was heard to exclaim:  “What’s that?  A duck?  No, it’s a deer.”

Immediately all was excitement.  Up in the, little lake above our camp a caribou was swimming across to the north shore.  The movement in camp suddenly became electrical.  The last of the load was thrown into the canoe.  I stepped in as George cut the rope, which tied it to the willows, and we were off.

I was much excited at first, especially as the caribou was a long distance away, and I was sure he would reach land before we could come near enough to shoot him.  He was almost ashore, and in my thought I saw him bounding up over the hills away out of our reach, and was glad.  When George took the rifle to shoot I was not in the least afraid for the caribou, because I knew he would not be hit and he was not.  But, Alas!  I soon learned that it was not meant he should be.  The bullet dropped, as it was intended to, in front of him, frightened him, and turned him back into the lake.  My heart sickened as I realised what it meant.  He was so near to safety.  If he had only gone on.  If he had only known.