ith low-bent heads, tugged steadily onward; the half-breeds and Indians
who drove our teams wrapped their blankets round their heads. To run was
instantly to freeze one's face; to lie on the sled was to chill through
the body to the very marrow. It was impossible to face it long, and over
and over again we had to put in to shore amongst the trees, make a fire,
and boil some tea. Thus we trudged, until we arrived at the Forks of the
Athabasca on the last day of February.

In the small fort at the Forks we camped for four days to enjoy a rest,
make up new dog trains--Cerf-Vola never gave out--and partake of the
tender steak of the wood-buffalo. For many days I had regularly used
snow-shoes, and now I seldom sought the respite of the sled, but tramped
behind the dogs. Over marsh and frozen river and portage we lagged till,
on March 6, a vast lake opened out upon our gaze, on the rising shore of
which were the clustered buildings of a large fort, with a red flag
flying above them in the cold north blast. The lake was Athabasca, the
clustered buildings Fort Chipewyan, and the flag--well, we all knew it;
but it is only when the wanderer's eye meets it in some lone spot like
this that he turns to it as the emblem of a home which distance has
shrined deeper in his heart.

Athabasca means "the meeting place of many waters." In its bosom many
rivers unite their currents, and from its northwestern rim pours the
Slave River, the true Mackenzie. Its first English discoverer called it
the "Lake of the Hills." A more appropriate title would have been the
"Lake of the Winds," for fierce and wild storms sweep over its waves.

Once more the sleds were packed, once more the untiring Cerf-Vola took
his place in the leading harness, and the word "march" was given. On the
evening of March 12 I camped alone in the wilderness, for the three
Indians and half-breeds who accompanied me were alien in every thought
and feeling, and on the fourth day after we were on the banks of the
Peace River.

Through 300 miles of mountain the Peace River takes its course.
Countless creeks and rivers seek its waters; 200 miles from
its source it cleaves the main Rocky Mountain chain through a chasm
whose straight, steep cliffs frown down on the black water through 6,000
feet of dizzy verge. Farther on it curves, and for 500 miles flows in a
deep, narrow valley, from 700 feet to 800 feet below the level of the
surrounding plateau. Then it reaches a lower level