The following day, the 29th, I had to wait for the men to come back, so did not start till 10.30. The track led up the steep hill behind Ryan's house. It was rough going, but nothing in daylight, and the air that morning made one feel glad to be alive. After a steady rise of about two miles we came on to a great wild plateau with hardly a tree to be seen, and I had my first experience of the great barrens of Newfoundland. The colouring was exquisite, and though desolate in the extreme the scenery had a great charm of its own, chiefly due to effects of light and shade.

Deep shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds overhead fell on ridges far away and gave an idea of immensity and distance without which the view might have been monotonous. The air was extraordinarily clear: a ridge which looked a couple of miles away was pointed out to me as six-mile ridge, the head of the divide, from which the ground sloped away to our destination, Hungry Grove Pond. It took us till 3 o'clock to reach the top of the ridge, which at first sight looked so near. The rise the whole way was very gradual, in fact hardly perceptible. The whole country was undulating, low ridges alternating with little valleys, and in each bottom was a small pond from which issued a noisy stream. Dwarf balsam was scattered in patches. A bright yellow grass showed where the marshes, locally called "mishes," which we had to cross, lay, and though there had been a spell of dry weather, very wet and boggy some of these "mishes" were.

When we reached the six-mile ridge we caught our first glimpse of the top of Mount Sylvester, just showing a pale blue on the sky-line, while far down below in a valley lay Hungry Grove Pond.

I calculated we had come eight miles, for the six-mile ridge had been measured from the old Telegraph Office instead of the new.

Dark clouds were now coming up from the coast, and it looked as if we were in for a bad night. I asked Steve if he were certain he had brought the pack with my blankets and waterproof sheet. On examining the packs we found that this, the most important to me at least, had been left behind. Here was a pleasant position. Heavy rain coming up with a cold driving wind and no bedding for the night. But Steve was equal to the occasion and showed me what a first-rate man he was. Our camp was three miles ahead, Ryan's house eight miles behind, and it was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Steve quietly said, "My fault, I go back and fetch up the pack." None of the others offered to go in his place, so laying down his own pack, for which I was to send back from camp, away went Steve at a trot.

We pushed on to camp, which John had pitched in a small droke, and just as we got in, down came the rain in torrents.

Getting a tent pitched in heavy rain is poor fun, but camp was soon comfortable and a roaring fire going. I had shot three grouse with my little rook rifle on the march, out of season I may say, but when it is a question of food I fear game laws are apt to be disregarded in the wilds. I soon had a good stew of grouse, potatoes and onions cooking, which was pronounced excellent later on. John was shy of showing his own abilities as a chef and sat humbly at my feet as a learner. After dinner we were talking of poor Steve's bad luck and how wet and uncomfortable he must be, and discussing when we should send one of the men back with a lantern to meet him. It was then quite dark, about 7.30 p.m., when Steve walked quietly into the camp with his pack and simply remarked: "Don't think I made bad time." I should think not. He had covered nineteen miles, eleven of them carrying a pack, in four and a half hours—a fine performance. He well deserved the tot of rum which I served out to him. I heard afterwards that in June he had left Ryan's house at 4 a.m. with a light pack and arrived at Conne River, his home, a distance of forty-eight miles, at 8 o'clock the same evening.

I had gathered from Millais' book that Steve was rather addicted to rum, which was confirmed by a letter from him to Mr. Blair, saying, "Don't forget some rum, for you know how fond I am of it." I rather chaffed him about this letter and he assured me that it was a mistake—he could not write himself and some girl in his settlement had written for him and put the passage in without his knowledge. I can only say that I had no difficulty with Steve or any of the others over the question of liquor. I kept the whisky and rum locked up in a box, but I think I might have left it open. I had only six bottles of whisky and three of rum, and on opening the box one of the latter was found broken. I spread this amount over our entire trip till I got back to St. John's. John told me he did not care for rum. Joe acknowledged he liked it, but Steve more than once refused a tot, even after a hard day.

It was a cold camp that night, the ground was saturated, the balsam bedding dripping, and the cold and damp struck up through the thick waterproof sheet and two blankets.

The following morning was perfect, a bright sun shining and a cold nip in the air.

John had packed two loads down to the Pond the previous day, so we started together carrying four loads. Track down to the Pond there was none, and the ground after last night's rain was soaking. The swamps were full of water and the going very hard, but we had only three miles to cover. On the way I stalked a lot of geese, but only got a shot with the rook rifle at about 150 yards and the bullet fell short. Once at the lake all troubles were over and I had to look forward to a comfortable trip in the two Peterborough canoes lying ready. Micky John was sent home. We had seen a doe caribou on the way and he announced his intention of having a try for venison. Joe was sent back to Ryan's for the last light load, and Steve and John to bring up the two remaining loads from last night's camp. I pitched my tent and made things generally shipshape till the men came back. The camp was an ideal one, situated on a wooded spit of land which separated the main pond from the smaller arm. The ground was sandy and dry, firewood abundant, and a brilliant sun was shining over the glassy lake, the shores of which were densely wooded. Packing was done with for the time, two canoes, which enabled us to travel in comfort, were lying pulled up on the sandy beach, and the caribou grounds were a couple of days ahead. What more could a hunter's heart desire. No more letters would be received, no news from the outside world for at least a month, only the joy of solitude in communion with nature, a joy which once experienced can never be forgotten. In the rush and turmoil of life which was to come, when my holiday was over, I could at least have the memories of the happy time now before me to look back on.

The men all turned up in good time in the afternoon, so I tried the lake and got three trout about half-a-pound each on the minnow. After an excellent dinner we were soon sleeping the sleep of the just, with roaring fires in front of my tent and the men's fly.