George boiled a little bacon
and rice together, and a little flour made sort of porridge for
breakfast. Very, very good. No fish or game ahead. Went to big
hill mentioned yesterday. George and I walked about 4 miles and
back getting to its top through spruce burnings. Awful walking.
Very tired when about to top. Wondering about next meal and
thinness of soup mostly to blame, I guess. Then things began to
get good. First we ran across a flock of ten ptarmigan. They were
in the burned-over semi-barren of the hill-top. They seem to lack
entirely the instinct to preserve themselves by flying. Only ran
ahead, squatting in apparent terror every few feet. We followed
with our pistols. I killed eight and George one, my last was the
old bird, which for a time kept away from us, running harder than
the rest, trying to hide among the Arctic shrubs. George says they
are always tame on a calm day. Their wings are white, but the rest
is summer's garb. "Not rockers, but the real kind," says George.
Then we went on across the mountain top and looked west. _There
was_ MICHIKAMAU! And that's what made it a BIG DAY. A series of
lake expansions runs east from it.
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