After some time spent at the point it was time to camp. We crossed
to the island, north, and as we landed a white-winged ptarmigan
flew back to where had just been enacted one of the endless
succession of wilderness tragedies. I wondered if he would not
wish he had stayed to share the fate of his little family, and what
he would do with himself now. It was a beautiful camping place we
found. The Indians had found it too, and evidently had appreciated
its beauty. There were the remains of many old camps there, well-
worn paths leading from one to the other. It was the first place
we had come upon which gave evidence of having been an abiding
Place of some permanence. There must have been quite a little
community there at one time. The prospect south, west, and north
was very beautiful.
My tent was pitched in a charming nook among the spruce trees, and
had a carpet of boughs all tipped with fresh green. The moss
itself was almost too beautiful to cover; but nothing is quite so
nice for carpet as the boughs. We were on a tiny ridge sloping to
the south shore of the island, and over the screen of willows and
evergreens at the water's edge, the wind came in strong enough to
drive away the flies and mosquitoes, and leave one free to enjoy
the beauty of the outlook.
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