any reason to suppose we should find a river at any
place other than the extreme upper end of the lake. Time and time
again Hubbard had asked the few natives who had been there if the
Nascaupee entered Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer
invariably had been: "Yes, sir; he do." Furthermore, it will have to
be taken into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear
that the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and
by the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed.

The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the
Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking
hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic
memories.

On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its
spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water. Proceeding up the
Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low ridges
covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and aspen trees.
For the most part the banks of the river were steep and high; where
they were low the river formed little pond expansions. For a mile
above its mouth we had good canoeing. Up to this point the river was
not more than thirty yards wide, and was deep, with little current.
Then it began gradually to widen and become shallow and swift, with a
boulder-strewn bottom. Soon we had to jump into the water, and with
Hubbard at the end of the tracking line, and George and I at either end
of the canoe, haul, lift, and push the heavily laden boat up the river,
while we floundered over the boulders. Sometimes we would be able to
get into the canoe and pole, but never for long. Around the worst
places we portaged the whole outfit, canoe and all. It was desperately
hard work, and when night came on and we went into camp, we were only
two miles above the little lake.

Hard as it was, we should not have minded our work in the rapids so
much had it not been for the flies. For the first time we now realised
the full form of what had been told us about the fly pest of Labrador.
We had considered them annoying at Rigolet and Northwest River, but as
soon as we began to buck the rapids they came upon us in clouds. They
got into our nostrils, into our ears, into our mouths, into our eyes
even, and our faces and hands were streaked with blood from their
bites. They were villainous, hellish. Hubbard frequently remarked
that the mosquitoe