At our first night's camp we were still in sight of the Landing,
which looked absurdly near, considering the men's hard pull; and
from there messengers were sent to Baptiste Lake, the source of
Baptiste Creek, which joins the Athabasca a few miles up, and
where there was a settlement of half-breed fishermen and hunters,
to procure additional trackers if possible. On their unsuccessful
return, at eleven a.m., we started again--newo pishawuk, as they
call it, "four trackers to the line," as before and early in the
afternoon were opposite Baptiste Creek, and, weather compelling,
rowed across, and camped there that evening. It rained dismally
all night, and morning opened with a strong head wind and every
symptom of bad weather. A survey party from the Rocky Mountains,
in a York boat, tarried at our camp, bringing word that the
ice-jam was clear in Lesser Slave Lake, which was cheering, but
that we need scarcely look for the expected assistance. They
also gave a vague account of the murder of a squaw by her
husband for cannibalism, which afterwards proved to be groundless,
and, with this comforting information, sped on.
It is ridiculously easy to go down the Athabasca compared with
ascending it. The previous evening a Baptiste Lake hunter, bound
for the Landing, set on from our camp at a great rate astride
of a couple of logs, which he held together with his legs, and
disappeared round the bend below in a twinkling.
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