We had caribou roast for supper, and, to my surprise, I found it one of the most delicious things I had ever eaten, altogether different from any venison I had before tasted.  An astonishing amount of that roast was stowed away before the camp was quiet for the night.

The northern lights were that evening very brilliant.  When I put out my light at bed-time it was as if a bright moon was shining.  I looked out, and above were three broad circles of light with long-pointed fingers raying up to the centre directly over my tent as I watched.  It seemed like a benediction from the hand of God Himself.  Gradually they drew off to the northwest in great, beautiful scrolls.

The day following, Monday, July 24th, the river continued most bewildering.  Beside the portage at our camp, we had one, about half a mile long, farther up where the old trail was quite well marked, and carried us past a fall of about seven feet with a heavy rapid below.  All day our way led among high hills till towards evening, when they spread out to the north and south, and we saw ahead a terraced sand plain, several miles wide, with the hills again beyond.  Here, coming in from the northwest, was a brook, where, according to our map, the Indian route again leaves the river.  This meant another long stretch of rough water, but our plan was still to keep to the river as far as it was possible, finding our own portage route where necessary.

The river’s course was now cut deep into the plain, the banks being from thirty to forty feet in height, and the current very swift.  The plain had once been sparsely, wooded but was burned over and very desolate looking now.  Huckleberries, cranberries, and Labrador tea grew in profusion, and were in blossom, while patches of reindeer moss were seen struggling into life where we made our camp.

During the last part of the day’s journey the current had been increasingly swift, and some distance ahead we could hear the sound of a heavy waterfall.  We reached it the following morning about two miles or more above our camp.  It was a beauty, about thirty feet in height.  The canoes could be taken close to the foot of the fall, and after a short carry over the high, rocky point were put in the water again not twenty feet from the brink of the fall.

As the morning was fine, I had walked from camp to the fall while the men brought up the canoes.  I was striding along the terrace, not thinking at all about my surroundings, when I suddenly became conscious of a most delightful fragrance, and looking down I found myself in the midst of a tangle of the long, trailing vines of the twin flower (Linnea borealis), sweetest of all Labrador flowers, with hundreds of the slender, hair-like stems bearing their delicate pink bells.  How delighted I was to find it.  Other Labrador flowers were beautiful, but none so lovely as this.