That morning I had found myself with only a few films left, for the
fascination of taking the first photographs of the region traversed
had betrayed me into using my material more lavishly than I should;
but now I squandered two films in celebration of the achievement,
taking one picture looking out over the waters flowing South to
Lake Melville and the Atlantic and facing about, but without
otherwise changing my position, one over the waters which I felt
sure we should find flowing north to Ungava Bay.
In a wonderfully short time the outfit had been portaged across,
and we were again in the canoes, the quest now being, not for the
inlet but for the outlet of the lake, a much less difficult task.
Less than an hour's paddling carried us to the point where the
George River, as a tiny stream, steals away from its source in Lake
Hubbard, as if trying to hide in its rocky bed among the willows,
to grow in force and volume in its three hundred mile journey to
Ungava, till at its discharge there it is a great river three miles
in width.
Here at its beginning on the boggy margin of the stream we went
into camp. Here I saw the sun set and rise again, and as I lay in
my tent at dawn, with its wall lifted so that I could look out into
the changing red and gold of the eastern sky, I heard a splashing
of water near, and looking up saw a little company of caribou cross
at the head of the stream and disappear towards the sunrise.
CHAPTER XIV
THROUGH THE LAKES OF THE UPPER GEORGE
How little I had dreamed when setting out on my journey that it
would prove beautiful and of such compelling interest as I had
found it. I had not thought of interest - except that of getting
the work done - nor of beauty. How could Labrador be beautiful?
Weariness and hardship I had looked for, and weariness I had found
often and anxiety, which was not yet past in spite of what had been
achieved; but of hardship there had been none. Flies and
mosquitoes made it uncomfortable sometimes but not to the extent of
hardship. And how beautiful it had been, with a strange, wild
beauty, the remembrance of which buries itself silently in the deep
parts of one's being. In the beginning there had been no response
to it in my heart, but gradually in its silent way it had won, and
now was like the strength-giving presence of an understanding
friend. The long miles which separated me from the world did not
make me feel far away - just far enough to be nice - and many times I
found myself wishing I need never have to go back again. But the
work could not all be done here.
Half the distance across the peninsula had been passed, and now on
August 11th we were beginning the descent of the George River.
Would the Labrador skies continue to smile kindly upon me? It
would be almost if not quite a three hundred mile journey to
Ungava, and it might be more. Could we make the post by the last
week in August? The men appeared confident; but for me the days
which followed held anxious hours, and the nights sleepless ones as
I tried to make my decision whether in case it should become
evident we could not reach Ungava in time, I should turn back,
leaving the work uncompleted, or push on, accepting the consequent
long winter journey back across Labrador, or round the coast, and
the responsibility of providing for my four guides for perhaps a
full year. At least the sun shone on the beginning of the journey,
and about nine o'clock, the last pack having gone forward, I set
off down the portage below Lake Hubbard, a prayer in my heart that
the journey might be swift.
The prayer seemed doomed to remain unanswered at first. Before
noon of that day the sun was hidden, and for nearly a week we did
not again see his face. Violent storms of wind and rain and snow
made progress difficult or impossible, and on August 16th we were
camped only thirty miles from the Height of Land.
The upper river proved a succession of lake expansions of varying
sizes, their waters dropping from one to the other down shallow
rapids. At the Height of Land, and for some miles beyond, the
country is flat and boggy, and sparsely wooded with tamarack and
spruce, many of the tall, slender tops of the former being bent
completely over by the storms. The spruce was small and scant,
increasing in size and quantity as we descended from the highest
levels, but nowhere on the northern slope attaining the size
reached in the valley of the Nascaupee.
Gradually low, barren ridges began to appear, their white mossy
sides marked by caribou trails which formed a network over the
country we were passing through, and all were freshly cut with hoof
marks. Every day there were herds or single deer to be seen along
the way, and at a number of points we passed long piles of whitened
antlers. Other game too, ducks, geese, and ptarmigan had become
plentiful since we entered the caribou country, and now and then a
few were taken to vary the monotony of the diet of dried caribou
meat. Loons were about us at all hours, and I grew to love their
weird call as much almost as the Indians do.
We travelled too fast to fish, and it was stormy, but the
indications were that in places at least fish were abundant.
