September came with a leaden sky and cold wind, but the clouds were soon dispelled, and the sun came bright and warm. Our progress was good, though we had several portages to make. On September second, at noon, we left the larger canoe for the men to get on their way back, and continued with the eighteen-foot canoe, which, with its load of outfit and five men, was very deep in the water, but no wind blew and the water was calm.
Here the character of the lakes changed. The waters were deep and black, the shores were steep and rocky, and some labradorite was seen. One small, curious island, evidently of iron, though we did not stop to examine it, took the form of a great head sticking above the water, with the tops of the shoulders visible.
Sunday, September third, was a memorable day, a day that I shall never forget while I live. The morning came with all the glories of a northern sunrise, and the weather was perfect. After two short portages and two small lakes were crossed, Pete said, “Now we make last portage and we reach Michikamau.” It was not a long portage—a half mile, perhaps. We passed through a thick-grown defile, Pete ahead, and I close behind him. Presently we broke through the bush and there before us was the lake. We threw down our packs by the water’s edge. We had reached Michikamau. I stood uncovered as I looked over the broad, far-reaching waters of the great lake. I cannot describe my emotions. I was living over again that beautiful September day two years before when Hubbard had told me with so much joy that he had seen the big lake—that Michikamau lay just beyond the ridge. Now I was on its very shores—the shores of the lake that we had so longed to reach. How well I remembered those weary wind-bound days, and the awful weeks that followed. It was like the recollection of a horrid dream—his dear, wan face, our kiss and embrace, my going forth into the storm and the eternity of horrors that was crowded into days. Pete, I think, understood, for he had heard the story. He stood for a moment in silence, then he fashioned his hat brim into a cup, and dipping some water handed it to me. “You reach Michikamau at last. Drink Michikamau water before others come.” I drank reverently from the hat. Then the others joined us and we all stood for a little with bowed uncovered beads, on the shore.
Our camp was pitched on an elevated, rocky point a few hundred yards farther up—the last camp that we were to have together, and the forty-sixth since leaving Northwest River. We had made over half a hundred portages, and traveled about three hundred and twenty-five miles.
The afternoon was occupied in writing letters and telegrams to the home folks, for Richards to take out with him; after which we divided the food. Easton and I were to take with us seventy-eight pounds of pemmican, twelve pounds of pea meal, seven pounds of pork, some beef extract, eight pounds of flour, one cup of corn meal, a small quantity of desiccated vegetables, one pound of coffee, two pounds of tea, some salt and crystallose. Richards gave us nearly all of his tobacco, and Pete kept but two plugs for himself.
Toward evening we gathered about our fire, and talked of our parting and of the time when we should meet again. Every remaining moment we had of each other’s company was precious to us now.
The day had been glorious and the night was one of rare beauty. We built a big fire of logs, and by its light I read aloud, in accordance with our custom on Sunday nights, a chapter from the Bible. After this we talked for a while, then sat silent, gazing into the glowing embers of our fire. Finally Pete began singing softly, “Home, Sweet Home” in Indian, and followed it with an old Ojibway song, “I’m Going Far Away, My Heart Is Sore.” Then he sang an Indian hymn, “Pray For Me While I Am Gone.” When his hymn was finished he said, very reverently, “I going pray for you fellus every day when I say my prayers. I can’t pray much without my book, but I do my best. I pray the best I can for you every day.” Pete’s devotion was sincere, and I thanked him. Stanton sang a solo, and then all joined in “Auld Lang Syne.” After this Pete played softly on the harmonica, while we watched the moon drop behind the horizon in the west. The fire burned out and its embers blackened. Then we went to our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to prepare for the day of our parting.
The morning of September fourth was clear and beautiful and perfect, but in spite of the sunshine and fragrance that filled the air our hearts were heavy when we gathered at our fire to eat the last meal that we should perhaps ever have together.
When we were through, I read from my Bible the fourteenth of John—the chapter that I had read to Hubbard that stormy October morning when we said good-by forever.
The time of our parting had come. I do not think I had fully realized before how close my bronzed, ragged boys had grown to me in our months of constant companionship. A lump came in my throat, and the tears came to the eyes of Richards and Pete, as we grasped each other’s hands.