Then came more
portaging to the little lake. Below it lay a stretch of higher
ground which was a queer sort of collection of moss-covered
hummocks, crisscrossed by caribou trails cut deep into the soft
soil. Here cloudberries grew in abundance, and though not yet
ripe, they were mature enough to taste almost as good as the green
apples I used to indulge in surreptitiously in the days of my
youth. They seemed a great treat now, for they were the first
fruit found in abundance on the trip, though we had seen a few that
were nearly ripe on an island in Lake Michikamau, and on the 8th of
August Gilbert had gathered a handful of ripe blueberries on
Caribou Hill.
The lake was about one mile long and two hundred yards wide, and
was fed by a good-sized stream coming down from the north in
continuous rapids. The stream was deep, and the canoes were poled
up with all the outfit in them to the lake above, and on a great
bed of huge, packed boulders at the side of the stream we halted
for lunch. The quest was becoming more and more interesting. When
was our climbing to end? When were we really going to find the
headwaters of the Nascaupee, and stand at the summit of the
plateau? It was thoroughly exciting work this climbing to the top
of things.
That afternoon our journey carried us northwest through beautiful
Lake Adelaide, where long wooded points and islands cutting off the
view ahead, kept me in a constant state of suspense as to what was
to come next. About 4 P.M. we reached the northern extremity of
the lake, where the way seemed closed; but a little searching
discovered a tiny stream coming in from the north and west of this
the well marked Indian trail. What a glad and reassuring discovery
it was, for it meant that we were on the Indian highway from Lake
Michikamau to George River. Perhaps our task would not be so
difficult after all.
The portage led north one hundred yards to a little lake one mile
long and less than one quarter wide, and here we found ourselves at
the very head of the Nascaupee River. There was no inlet to the
lake, and north of it lay a bog two hundred yards wide which I knew
must be the Height of Land, for beyond it stretched a body of water
which had none of the appearance of a still water lake, and I felt
sure we should find its waters flowing north.
It was just 5 P.M. when, three hundred miles of my journey into the
great, silent wilderness passed, I stepped out of the canoe to
stand at last on the summit of the Divide - the first of the white
race to trace the Nascaupee River to its source.
