In planning my trip I had the benefit of J. G. Millais' advice. He first recommended me to try the country at the head of the La Poile River on the south coast near Port aux Basques. On inquiry I found out that canoes could not be used. Everything would have to be packed, and it would take six men to pack to the hunting grounds. With the memory of my Vancouver trip before me, I decided against the La Poile country and packing, and chose the ground Millais had hunted with such success in 1906. He had gone in by the Long Harbour River, struck off to the north-west to Kesoquit and Shoe Hill Ridge and the Mount Sylvester region. But the Long Harbour River was very rough, and his canoes being at Hungry Grove Pond, where a series of ponds led up to Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake, its more modern name, I finally decided on this route, which would bring me quite close to Shoe Hill Ridge and Mount Sylvester.

Millais himself had not travelled over this ground, so the map published in his book only gave an approximate idea of the country and its waterways. I had secured the services of Steve Bernard, Millais' head man, and he was to meet me with two other Indians at the head of Long Harbour when I would send a wire.

My route was to be Placentia to Belleoram by the Glencoe. At Belleoram Mr. Ryan, who is in charge of the telegraph station at the head of Long Harbour, was to meet me in his sailing schooner the Caribou, and from Long Harbour we were to pack in to Hungry Grove Pond, where the canoes were to be ready.

We did not get away from Placentia till 1 a.m., and crossing Placentia Bay arrived at Burin the following morning in a thick fog, which occasionally lifted, showing a fine, wild coast with rocky headlands on all sides. Burin was a pretty spot, and I saw it better on my return when there was no fog. We arrived at Grand Bank, a big fishing town, in the evening, but the fog outside was so thick that the Captain decided to anchor till 2 a.m. and then cross Fortune Bay to Belleoram.

Grand Bank was responsible for the change in the sailing date of the Glencoe. Leaving Placentia on Saturday she was due at Grand Bank on Sunday. The inhabitants being very religious objected to loading and unloading on Sunday, so the sailing was changed to Wednesday, and their consciences were satisfied. They forgot, however, that they made some smaller port of call further west break the Sabbath, but being one of the most important shipping centres in the cod season their views had to be met.

We arrived at Belleoram at 6 a.m. on the 26th, feeling our way along the coast with our foghorn.

I and my belongings were turned out on the pier and I felt my trip had at last begun.

The Caribou was in harbour and a boat put off with Steve Bernard, who had come down to meet me and help Mr. Ryan, who was laid up on board with a bad leg. I at once went out to call on Mr. Ryan, as I wanted to get away as soon as possible. I found a sturdy Irishman of about sixty, full of go and energy, and in the cheeriest spirits, only extremely annoyed at the bad leg, which made him pretend to lie up, for lie up he never did, his restless nature would not allow it, and he was always on the move.

His illness began with a boil, but he would go off into the woods after caribou and so irritated it, that the boil had developed into a large sloughing ulcer with considerable inflammation. He did not seem to mind it much and insisted on hobbling about the deck.

There was only one place at which I was recommended to put up in case I had to stay in Belleoram, so I went up to call on Mrs. Cluett and incidentally forage for breakfast. I received a courteous welcome and had plenty of eggs, bread and butter, and tea. Getting back to the Caribou I persuaded Ryan to make a start. There was a thick fog and it was blowing hard; however, away we went in grand style, steering for the different points which loomed through the fog. As soon as we got into the open and had to cross some twelve or fourteen miles of open sea, an ancient and dilapidated compass was produced from the confusion of below, for the Caribou was not altogether a tidy boat; the compass gave a certain moral support, but the needle refused to point in any direction steadily for more than five minutes. Ryan would give it a smack, "Sure I think she's only about five points out now," and in a few minutes, "She's gone all wrong again."

I was entrusted with the steering, which may account for our sighting land about four miles north of the entrance to Long Harbour. It was a pretty rough crossing, but the old Caribou was a seaworthy and dry boat. The weather was what one expects of Newfoundland, wild and foggy, and the mountains looming up out of the fog looked bigger and grander than they really were.

We had a rattling following breeze, and notwithstanding Ryan's assertion that there would be no fog at his house, we ran up the fourteen miles of Long Harbour and arrived there about 4 o'clock in the afternoon in a dense fog, having left Belleoram at 10 a.m. Here I found waiting my two other Indians, John Denny Jeddore and Steve Joe. My party consisted then of Steve Bernard, head man and hunter, John Denny Jeddore, generally known as John Denny, and Steve Joe, who had to become Joe.

John Denny at once told me he had signed on as cook, but added quaintly: "I have never cooked for gentles." All the same he was an excellent plain cook, ready to learn anything, scrupulously clean in all his cooking, and a first-rate fellow. Joe was general utility man and always cheery. Steve Bernard was a pure bred Micmac, his father having been chief of the Micmac tribe, and the other two were half-breeds. John Denny's mother was a Frenchwoman, which perhaps accounted for his extraordinarily nice manners. My men were somewhat shy and reserved at first, but we soon became great friends, and I can only say I never wish for better men or comrades on a hunting expedition. We never had a word of difference. They were always bright and willing, and under the most uncomfortable circumstances never uttered a word of complaint. I think I may say we parted with mutual regret. They all spoke English, but Steve Bernard was the most fluent. Amongst themselves they chattered in their own soft Micmac language, and they never seemed to stop talking. All Newfoundlanders have a specially charming accent, which is neither Irish nor Canadian, and certainly not American. It is very soft and mellifluous. "All right," pronounced as if it were "aal," is the most common expression, and seems to be used on every possible occasion.

All my men, instead of dropping their "h's" in the Cockney fashion, seemed to aspirate almost every word beginning with a vowel, for instance they always spoke of h'oil, h'oar, h'eat, and h'arm, and so with many other words.

The Micmacs are Catholics, and their headquarters in Canada are at Restigouche. Their settlement in Newfoundland is on the Conne River. A priest from Restigouche visits Conne River from time to time and preaches in Micmac. At Restigouche are published the Bible, Catechism and other books in Micmac, which has the same character as English but only sixteen letters. A Micmac paper is also published at Restigouche and received once a month at Conne River. Steve was very amusing over the raising of funds for the construction of a new church at Conne River. Apparently a sort of bazaar was held at which the chief feature was a "Wheel of Fortune." Steve felt rather sore that he had gambled fifteen dollars and won nothing. All the Micmac colony, however, seemed to have enjoyed themselves hugely, gambling, dancing, and eating; they provided the food and afterwards paid for each meal—good for the church!

Ryan's niece kept house for him at Long Harbour—a lonely spot with only one other settler within twelve miles, and I received from uncle and niece the warm welcome which every traveller in Newfoundland is sure to meet with. The morning of the 27th was exquisite, the fog had cleared away, the sun was shining brightly, and the placid head-waters of Long Harbour lay without a ripple at our feet. The hills were not high but beautiful in colour and outline, and I might easily have imagined myself in a Scotch deer forest. Cases of stores had to be unpacked, tent and camp equipment looked out, and the morning was spent in making up the loads.

I had brought an 11-feet square fly for the three men, two tents for myself, both of the lean-to pattern, one heavier and stronger tent of green canvas 7 feet × 7 feet, the other the 6 feet × 7 feet silk tent I had used in Vancouver, and which weighed only 5 lb, my idea being to use it for short trips from the main camp. One pair of Hudson Bay blankets made into a sleeping bag, a pillow, the usual cooking tins in nests, and the folding baker completed my outfit. This latter is simply invaluable; I purchased one locally in St. John's.

Camp furniture I had none, but as experience had taught me that the comfort of a bed of balsam on the ground was somewhat overrated, I had brought a sheet of strong canvas 7 feet × 2 feet 9 inches, with gussets on either side, and eyelet holes at the top and bottom. Into the gussets were slipped strong poles and these laid on two logs at the head and foot in which notches were cut to receive them, and then the poles were nailed down with one 3-inch nail at each end, and the canvas at the head and foot laced round the logs.

A more comfortable camp bed it was impossible to have and it took about ten minutes to construct. With men such as I had, skilful with their axes, to bring camp furniture was unnecessary: tables, benches, poles for hanging clothes, rifle and gun rests, can easily be made, and one day in a permanent camp is sufficient to have all a hunter can want. My men were as good as, if not better than the French Canadians I employed when hunting moose in Canada some nine years before. They introduced me to a bench or camp seat I had never seen before. A suitable tree with outstanding branches is cut down, a short section chosen, on which, on one side at least, there are four branches to form the legs; this is split in two and an excellent camp stool is the result.

I found we had eight loads, which meant double journeys as far as Hungry Grove Pond, so I started off Joe and John Denny with two packs, while Steve and I took a light camp up to Mitchell's Point, where the river ran into the head of the Long Harbour and from which I was assured I could get some good sea trout fishing. We had camp pitched and our midday meal over by 3 o'clock, so started up the river for the sea trout on which we depended for dinner. It was a rough journey along the river bank or in its bed, and although all the water looked tempting it was 5 o'clock before we reached the pool in which the fish were supposed to be.

Long Harbour River is one of the biggest rivers in the south and in the early summer a large number of salmon and sea trout run up, but like most Newfoundland rivers that I saw, the pools alternated with long shallow runs, where no fish would lie. There were certainly some beautiful pools, so it was a disappointment, more especially as regards dinner, that I only rose one fish and hooked another which broke away. Steve unfortunately cut his foot with the small axe in making camp. It looked nothing, but on his way up the river the wound opened and bled rather freely. I fixed him up with a pad and a bandage, and dressed it on our return to camp with 1/1000 corrosive sublimate solution made from tabloids, without which I never travel.

We had only about half-an-hour to fish if we would get back to camp, some four miles away, before dark, so we really did not give the water a fair chance. We did not get into camp till about 8.30. Steve declared he was first-rate at slapjacks, so while I prepared a square of Lazenby's soup he set to work on the slapjacks. After using half a tin of butter he produced a sodden mass of dough, on which and the soup we made a poor meal.

The flies and mosquitoes were very troublesome, but Farlow's "dope" was fairly successful.

Our camping ground was too near the river and on rather low ground. A very heavy dew fell during the night and everything was soaking in the morning. As the fishing was not likely to prove a success we decided to return to Ryan's and push on after our men. Getting away about 12 o'clock, for I had sent Steve back to Ryan's on foot to borrow their dory which brought our camp up, we stopped to boil the kettle and have lunch near a settler's place just beyond the mouth of the river. He was a hardy old man, by name Joe Riggs, and though he had recently undergone several operations in the hospital at St. John's to remove some diseased ribs, he was working away all alone getting in his hay. He was very lonely and sad for he had only recently lost his wife, and the way he spoke about her was very touching. In winter, however, he went down to Anderson's Cove, a small settlement at the mouth of Long Harbour, where a married daughter lived. Among the solitary settlers I met, of whom Joe Riggs was a type, it was remarkable how the spot they had selected for settling on was the very finest to be found, and to poor old Joe, Long Harbour was a sort of earthly Paradise which he would not exchange for any other part of Newfoundland.

On reaching Ryan's, where I was ashamed to trespass once more on his hospitality for the night, I found John Denny and Joe had taken two packs on about eleven miles, to a spot about three miles from Hungry Grove Pond and returned for more loads.

I took another Indian, Micky John by name, to help and the three men started off about 3 o'clock. Two were to return the next day, while John Denny was to make a double trip down to Hungry Grove Pond.