A quarter of an hour passed, then the up-turning stem of the dorie went thud against an immovable barrier, and I knew that we were indeed ice-jammed beyond the possibility of forcing a passage with the oars. Nor could we return, for the ice-pack we had negotiated for miles was now seemingly welded together in one solid mass.
Cautiously Mac put his moccasined foot over the prow and bore heavily on the glittering ice; it neither strained nor yielded.
With a fervent malediction he jumped on "shore," and felt the edge of the sheet.
"It's mair than twa inches," he said sorrowfully. "Hoo can we get through this?"
Very sadly we got out of our boat, and, taking the cooking utensils, the tent, and some flour and coffee, sought a sheltered spot among the dense timber on the lake side. Soon we had almost forgotten our woes, and were regaling ourselves with copious draughts of coffee and much hard damper.
From our tent door we could see our boat stuck fast amid the ice. How we were to get it free I could not well imagine. In the morning, however, we awoke with renewed energy and more hopeful hearts.
"We cannot have far to go, boys," I said. "We'll cut down a couple of trees and use them to break a passage."
After breakfast we lost no time in making the effort. Armed with the heavy logs, we re-embarked, and soon the ponderous hammers had begun their work and a passage was slowly made towards the Yukon. With great reluctance our boat moved ahead, leaving a trail of glittering ice boulders. Mac leaned over the bow and opened the channel, while Stewart and I belaboured the masses that closed in on either side.
About midday we neared the end of the lake, and the channel beyond appeared a rippling, crackling flood of jagged ice-floes.