Half A Mile Farther On We Discovered Him In A Thicket A Little Way Off The Trail, Explained Our Wants, Marched Him Back To His House, And At Length Obtained A Little Sour Bread, Sour Milk, And Old Salmon, Our Only Lonely Meal Between The Lake And Telegraph Creek.

We arrived at Telegraph Creek, the end of my two-hundred-mile walk, about noon.

After luncheon I went on down the river to Glenora in a fine canoe owned and manned by Kitty, a stout, intelligent-looking Indian woman, who charged her passengers a dollar for the fifteen-mile trip. Her crew was four Indian paddlers. In the rapids she also plied the paddle, with stout, telling strokes, and a keen-eyed old man, probably her husband, sat high in the stern and steered. All seemed exhilarated as we shot down through the narrow gorge on the rushing, roaring, throttled river, paddling all the more vigorously the faster the speed of the stream, to hold good steering way. The canoe danced lightly amid gray surges and spray as if alive and enthusiastically enjoying the adventure. Some of the passengers were pretty thoroughly drenched. In unskillful hands the frail dugout would surely have been wrecked or upset. Most of the season goods for the Cassiar gold camps were carried from Glenora to Telegraph Creek in canoes, the steamers not being able to overcome the rapids except during high water. Even then they had usually to line two of the rapids - that is, take a line ashore, make it fast to a tree on the bank, and pull up on the capstan.

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