Apparently they had killed a Moose, as their dung was full
of Moose hair.
We were now in the Canyon of the Athabaska and from this on our
journey was a fight with the rapids. One by one my skilful boatmen
negotiated them; either we tracked up or half unloaded, or landed
and portaged, but it was hard and weary work. My journal entry for
the night of the 18th runs thus:
"I am tired of troubled waters. All day to-day and for five days
back we have been fighting the rapids of this fierce river. My
place is to sit in the canoe-bow with a long pole, glancing here
and there, right, left, and ahead, watching ever the face of this
snarling river; and when its curling green lips apart betray a
yellow brown gleam of deadly teeth too near, it is my part to ply
with might and main that pole, and push the frail canoe aside to
where the stream is in milder, kindlier mood.' Oh, I love not a
brawling river any more than a brawling woman, and thoughts of the
broad, calm Slave, with its majestic stretches of level flood, are
now as happy halcyon memories of a bright and long-gone past."
My men were skilful and indefatigable.
