This Idea, Borrowed From, Tyrrell, Has Always Proved A
Success; And Not One Of Our Caches Was Touched Or Injured.
Tyrrell has done much for this region; his name will ever be
linked with its geography and history.
His map of the portage was
a godsend, for now we found that our guide had been here only once,
and that when he was a child, with many resultant lapses of memory
and doubts about the trail. My only wonder was that he remembered
as much as he did.
Here we had a sudden and unexpected onset of black flies; they
appeared for the first time in numbers, and attacked us with a
ferocity that made the mosquitoes seem like a lot of baby butterflies
in comparison. However, much as we may dislike the latter, they at
least do not poison us or convey disease (as yet), and are repelled
by thick clothing. The black flies attack us like some awful
pestilence walking in darkness, crawling in and forcing themselves
under our clothing, stinging and poisoning as they go. They are,
of course, worst near the openings in our armour, that is necks,
wrists, and ankles. Soon each of us had a neck like an old fighting
bull walrus; enormously swollen, corrugated with bloats and wrinkles,
blotched, bumpy, and bloody, as disgusting as it was painful. All
too closely it simulated the ravages of some frightful disease, and
for a night or two the torture of this itching fire kept me from
sleeping.
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