I could not keep up at all. George wanted to carry my
rifle for me, but I would not let him. I was not pleased with him
just then.
We reached the head of the rapid, and it was beautiful there. A
long terrace stretched away for miles ahead. It was thinly wooded,
as they all were, with spruce and a few poplars, smooth, dry, and
mossy, and thirty feet below us was the river with North Pole Brook
coming in on the other side. It was an ideal place for Sunday
camp.
Though it rained hard through the night the morning was beautiful,
and again I breathed a little sigh of thankfulness that we were not
in the other desolate place farther back. The day would have been
a very restful one had it not been for the flies which steadily
increased in numbers, coaxed back to life and activity by the warm
sunshine. I wanted very much to climb the mountain behind our camp
in the afternoon, but I could not go alone, and the men were taking
a much needed rest. So I wandered about watching the hills and the
river for a while, took a few photographs, and lay in the tent.
Towards evening the flies swarmed over its fly front, getting in in
numbers one could not tell where or how.
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