"Smith still ill and Lansdown now sick and very sorry for himself—query, too much wapiti meat—we are a sorry crew, but my knee is free from pain for the first time since the accident occurred."
In all the discomforts I was to be "up against," none of my friends had mentioned the possibility of bad weather in September.
August at the Campbell River had been simply an ideal climate, but from August 30th to September 26th, it had rained fifteen days out of the twenty-eight, and by rain I don't mean showers, which were common and did not count, but a steady downpour which lasted all day, and made marching through the undergrowth, alike on fine or wet days, like going under a continual shower bath.
September 13th. It was still raining heavily and the men were not very keen on starting. Carrying a pack in wet weather is hard work and apt to chafe the back. On the other hand, I had no prospect of more sport and did not care to pay my men 13½ dollars a day that they should rest in camp till the weather cleared. I determined, therefore, to move on, but it was noon before I could get a move on the men, and it required some determination to effect this. It was certainly a miserable march, steady rain the whole time. About 3 o'clock the men gave up and said they could pack no further in such weather.
We had struck the Kitsewa, which was rushing down in heavy flood, so camped on its bank.
Thomson was now feeling seedy, and every one was out of sorts and a bit out of temper at the vile weather.
September 14th. The river was down about a foot but still very full. After crossing and recrossing it about ten times and getting wet through, we arrived at our old camp at the trapper's hut about 1 p.m.; a short but fatiguing march owing to the state of the river. We had intended pushing on further after our midday meal, but once more torrential rains had set in and we decided to remain where we were for the day.
The river was now simply alive with humpbacked salmon and dozens were lying dead on the banks. Bear marks were numerous, but the dense undergrowth rendered any chance of seeing one remote. "Nigger" was revelling in his pursuit of fish and repeatedly dashed into the shallows which were boiling with salmon struggling up stream, bringing out a fish each time, one must have been about six pounds. On the march "Dick" had come on the fresh track of two wolves and promptly started after them. He gave us some anxiety for the half-hour he was away, for with all his pluck, he would have had a poor chance if he had come up with them. I suppose it was the deserted hut which recalled to Lansdown's mind a grim tale of a trapper's fate.
The man had started out from civilization on his usual winter expedition. Spring came and he failed to return, but this did not cause any anxiety as trappers lead a nomadic life, and it was thought he might have pushed further than he intended or found some specially good hunting ground. Two years passed and his existence had been practically forgotten, when a party cruising the woods for timber came on a log hut in a lonely part of the forest. Inside they found a man's skeleton lying on the little shelf which constituted the bed. By the side was a rifle and the bony hand still grasped a twig attached to the trigger, a shattered skull told the rest of the tale.
On a bench beside the bed were the tin plates, a cup and the mouldy remains of what once had been food.