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.
I had a strange feeling of being at the summit of the world. The
country was flat and very sparsely wooded, but I could not see far.
It seemed to fall away on every hand, but especially to north and
south. The line of the horizon was unnaturally near, and there was
more than the usual realising sense of the great space between the
earth and the sky. This was enhanced by the lifting of a far
distant hill-top above the line as if in an attempt to look across
the Divide.
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