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PostPosted: May 17th, 2018, 7:22 am 

Joined: January 22nd, 2005, 12:16 pm
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Location: Toronto
Journal of Moffatt-party participant Lanouette.
Post 8 of 8. 10 September to 16 September.

Copyright to all the following belongs to the Lanouette family.

Sunday, September 11 – Camp #48 (Dubawnt River end of falls of 10’ drop).

Up around 8 A.M. – temperature = freezing—many grubby looking clouds and snow squalls as we make another short “warm up” portage over a low sandy ridge to a suitable landing for the canoes. Another “gray day” all around—wind from northwest still with us.
Shoved off into shallow little unnamed lake on river around 11:30—took in a couple of waves trying to get to lee shore of lake. Slightly lost for awhile—couldn’t tell where lake ended and river continued—shallowness of lake obscured current, so could not tell exactly where to go.
Finally found river again. Wind still big problem and progress slow despite current—very tiring paddling in parka. Saw a doe and fawn swimming across river just before lunch stop—also saw several eskimo stone “men.” (Note: Tyrrell met his first eskimos on this stretch of river—I kept hoping for same luck—why, I don’t know—security, I guess).
Stopped for lunch near willow patch—made fire to dry out damp gear—Bruce’s feet nearly frozen from getting them wet while loading canoe—fire good, cheering—drank tea and shoved on again after long lunch stop.
Rest of river into Wharton Lake very swift—2 rapids before hitting lake—Shot one rapid—no trouble—then came out onto pleasant little lake about 3 miles long—heavy broadside wind made for damp legs, but sun was out and whole world took on a more promising aspect.
By around 4:00 clouds closed in once again. Got to 2nd rapids—near its end, a 10-foot waterfall blocked our way. Unloaded canoes and portaged over rocky ground on left side of river to below the falls. Was glad to portage—this is one of the few activities to keep feet anywhere near warm.
While Art and Bruce cooked up caribou-beet glop on Coleman stove, the rest of us lugged our gear over and set up a secure camp.
Pudding for dessert, then to bed with the “sun.” Cloudy, cold.
(Note: Ever since their tent tore, George and Pete have been staying in the other tents—3 men in a 2-man mountain tent is quite a sardine-like proposition, but not too bad—besides, extra body heat keeps the tents quite a bit warmer. George moved in with us, and Pete is sacking with Bruce and Skip. Also, in our tent, the 3 of us put part of the big white cook tarp under our sleeping bags and up over us—like a giant blanket.

Monday, September 12 – Camp #49 – (N. Wharton Lake near entrance to Dubawnt River).

Another below-freezing morning—cloudy, bleak, but not too windy—off by 10:30 or so—ran the remainder of the shallow river into Wharton (about 3 miles)—river here very swift, though shallow and broad—had many narrow escapes from barely submerged boulders, but, luckily came through unscathed except for a wet parka sleeve. Once on Wharton, we had a quartering tail wind which helped us get behind a long, narrow island off the eastern shore—made good time in the lee—saw a large buck caribou on the island and an Arctic fox.
Some sun in afternoon—temperature climbed above freezing though we got cold the minute we stopped paddling. The wind wasn’t too bad, so we paddled until quite late to get off the lake while we could. Must have paddled 25-30 miles before making camp at entrance to the river. The northeast coast of this lake is very unusual; peppered with a maze of small, rounded, rocky islets—very barren looking—felt like I was running around on the moon or Mars—water so shallow in spots we could not get between islands and had to zig-zag to find channels deep enough to navigate between islands.
Finally, we approached a mountain with a crest made up almost entirely of quartzite—at first we thought this was snow, but closer inspection showed it to be mineral rather than ice. The hill ran into the lake, and we camped on a narrow, rocky beach along its lower slopes.
At sack time it was again completely clouded over and below freezing.

Tuesday, September 13 – Camp #50 (Dubawnt River North end, large sand esker about half way to Lady Marjorie Lake).

Up early enough for breakfast but, as usual, Art dawdled with camera—he climbed the mountain this morning and, by the time he got back and we loaded up, it was nearly noon. Pete and Skip each caught a couple of fish for lunch and tonight’s glop.
Wind shifted to northeast bringing breaks in clouds and patches of sunlight to very dramatic and interesting country. After a short paddle on a small lake connecting Wharton Lake with the river, we got to a swift but not-too-tricky rapids and, after looking it over, shot it down the right side.
After another stretch of swift river, we came to a 6-foot rapids (the 1st one had a 15-foot drop) and took in a bit of water from hitting a big wave—We pulled ashore right after and, while I hoisted the bow onto a rock, Art bailed with one of our enameled cups. Soon we were again on our way—from here on, the river broadened out into several different channels.
When we stopped for lunch, we saw a huge, terraced esker ahead of us—its sand looked a lot like snow, and the effect of space and cloud and light made it feel we had entered some sort of fairy-tale never-never land.
Lunch was delightfully belly filling—2 ‘tacks and a chowder made with Skip’s fish. A strong breeze and sunny skies in the afternoon. Cold, though, I was glad to be paddling hard.
The river wound around all over the place—at times it seemed like a collection of connected lakes. The closer we got to the esker, the farther away it seemed—but finally, after shooting a very long, slow-moving rapids, we rounded a point of land, and there, directly ahead, rose a huge sand hill.
We paddled a few more miles with the sandy bank on the right and small, rocky, grayish hills on the left. Around 4 P.M., we came to a large rapids near the north end of the esker, and decided to camp at its head. We pulled into a small bay next to the esker and unloaded. We hoped to make a short portage to the foot of the rapids but, as it turned out, this was a long, 2-step rapids, so we portaged about a mile and camped near a small brook feeding into the river.
We each carried a load to camp and, while Bruce and Art got dinner on the stove, the rest of us brought over the remaining supplies.
The portage trail was quite pleasant, except for a small boggy stretch. Beyond the esker, the country opened into a vast, steppe-like plain covered with grass, moss, and sand. A multitude of caribou trails traced through the moss and sand. Many converged on our camp.
Camp itself was on a small, flat meadow of red-topped wire grass with a low sand cliff on one side and the brooklet on the other, a beautiful location. A shallow bay, part of the sprawling river as it wandered toward Lady Marjorie Lake, lay close by. We pitched our tents side by side in a square formed with the 3 canoes.
It was cold that evening as we filled ourselves with the best glop ever—thick with chunks of lake trout, well seasoned with curry. Bully beef and lots of cabbage and carrots brought this taste treat to near perfection—for dessert, a big pot of chocolate pudding and a steaming kettle of tea. We were filled to the brim (except me, of course) and quite confident about the future—our plans, nebulous and untenable as they often turn out: Reach Lady Marjorie Lake tomorrow (about 10 miles) and travel 15 miles up the lake until it reaches the Dubawnt once again. Camp at Canoe-cassé Rapids (Broken Canoe Rapids) then, the next day, drift downriver, portage around Louden Rapids and, with luck, reach the mighty Thelon River…
Earlier in the afternoon, while the others were out walking to keep warm, Bruce and I sat around talking about school and reaching Baker Lake in 3 weeks. We also counted our dwindling cigarette supplies and talked about food—conjuring up a super-omelet breakfast that gave us something to look forward to: Inside a huge greasy skillet we heap an enormous batch of powdered eggs mixed with Klim (powdered milk). Then we add bacon and fried onions and dump the whole works into the omelet—To garnish, we lay thin slices of Canadian cheese on the steaming, nearly done omelet. Then, just before shutting off the gas, we pour tomato paste over the omelet, add sliced tomatoes, sprinkle salt and blacken with pepper! The very thought of this dish drives us to paroxysms of joyful anticipation! As a side dish, we also have fried oatmeal cut into squares or hardtacks, blackened underneath and slathered with marmalade or tinned butter—Klim so thick you can barely drink it!

Wednesday, September 14 – Camp #51 (2 miles south of Lady Marjorie Lake).

Today has been the most harrowing day of my life! Today, Arthur Roy Moffatt met an untimely end on the Dubawnt River near Lady Marjorie Lake.—Today I, too, came within a whisker of not writing this entry, or any others.
Today started like many others we have been having recently: Bleak and dismal when we got up at 7:30 for our breakfast of boiled prunes, oats, and tea. It was below freezing; the sand was crunchy and hard from layers of frost and ice. We broke camp soon after breakfast and portaged to the nearby bay to launch our canoes.
As we were leaving, I noticed 2 white wolves on a nearby ridge and remarked: “It’s a good thing the sun isn’t out, or Art would be scrambling all over the hills getting them to pose for him.”
After loading, we shoved out into the bay and had no trouble reaching the river (we thought the bay might be too shallow to navigate in a couple of spots).
Once on the river, the pleasant sandy esker country dropped rapidly behind and we were again on a river with poorly defined banks and an indolent drainage system. Here and there we passed low islands of gray rock—in some places the river was fairly swift, and its broad, gray surface was wrinkled with currents and cross-currents as it swerved and wallowed down toward Lady Marjorie Lake.
The wind had again shifted to the northwest and the low, gently rolling banks afforded us little leeward protection.
We paddled along, no one saying much of anything (we are not conversational giants once in the canoe)—finally, we washed around a bend in the river and pulled into a gravelly bay for lunch. George, Bruce and I scurried around looking for wood scraps, Art heated a kettle to make chicken-noodle soup, and Pete, fishing from shore, latched onto, a 17 ½ pound, lake trout (no roe). He wrestled with it for more than 20 minutes—Skip caught 2 smaller fish and put them into the warming water—we found no wood to speak of, and I wound up cleaning Pete’s big fish.
After a satisfying lunch, chowder and 3 ‘tacks apiece, we shoved off again around 2:30. The weather was still dismal, even though the wind had dropped almost completely. The river flowed on swiftly and within a few minutes we heard and saw another rapids on the horizon (Note: At this time, Art figured we had shot the last 2 rapids into Marjorie so this surprised us—actually, what we earlier thought were rapids were only riffles. What lay ahead was the real beginning of the first rapids). From the top, these rapids looked easy—a few small waves, rocks…nothing serious—we didn’t even haul over to look it over, as we usually did. The river was straight and we could see both the top and foot of the rapids quite clearly. What we didn’t realize, is that we couldn’t see the middle, even though we thought we could. We barreled happily along. We bounced over a couple of fair-sized waves and took in a couple of splashes but I didn’t mind, as I had made an apron of my poncho and remained dry enough. I was looking a few feet in front of the canoe for submerged rocks. Suddenly, Art shouted “Paddle”—I took up the beat, at the same time looking farther ahead to see what we were trying to avoid. To my surprise, what I saw was two parallel lines of white coming closer with every passing instant—I looked at them in helpless fascination. (Note: The white lines were the crests of two huge waves formed by the water as it rushed over two 3- or 4-foot ledges or falls). It was too late to pull for shore—all we could do was to pick what seemed to be the least turbulent spots and head for them. I swore at Art (mentally) for not looking over the rapids—I was not frightened, but had an empty, sinking “it’s-all-over-now” feeling. We went over the falls and plunged directly into the four-foot wave—the bow sliced in and a sheet of foaming green engulfed me—the canoe yawed, slowed. The current caught it again and plunged it toward the next falls a few hundred feet away—we were still afloat but had little control over the canoe. By some miracle, Art straightened the canoe out a little, but we were still slightly broadside to the second wave as we went over the second falls. This time the bow didn’t come up again—the quartering wave filled us to the brim, and I could feel the canoe begin to roll over under me. I swore and jumped overboard, keeping hold of the gunwale—then I spun around and the next few seconds became a vivid recollection of water all around me, foam and clutching currents pulling me along with the canoe which, by this time, had rolled bottom up—I remember clipping a sunken boulder with my leg. Then the foaming roar stopped, the current lessened. Art and I were clinging to the canoe—packs, boxes, paddles were all bobbing along with us. The seriousness of our position had not yet fully dawned on us, and I swore at Art for getting us soaked. At first the water didn’t feel too uncomfortable. My heavy parka was full of air in between its layers and I was quite buoyant—By now we had drifted several hundred yards downstream and were in a big eddy formed by several small islands—I tried to touch bottom, no luck—Art draped himself over the stern of the canoe and yelled to me to do the same at the bow—I did, but felt helpless just hanging on, so I began kicking toward the nearest shore. This did no good whatsoever.
Then I saw George and Pete, in the red canoe, paddling furiously by us for shore. I watched them leap out, dump their packs and head back toward us in their emptied canoe.
Then the current twisted our canoe around and I saw upstream that Bruce and Skip, too, had dumped. What a relief, Art and I weren’t the only dumpees.
Packs floating all around—I was surprised that they floated. Even Art’s 86-pound camera box was afloat. He was holding onto the canoe with one arm, and clutching my personal pack and the camera box with the other hand—I swam to our yellow food box floating nearby, got it, and brought it back. Then I saw Art’s personal pack floating off and swam a few yards after it, but by now my parka was soaked, so I came back to the canoe, (eventually we “caught up” with Art’s pack and I grabbed it). I told Art in a dry, disinterested voice that we had just pulled a damned-fool stunt and that this would likely be the end for us. He assured me through chattering teeth that this was not the case and that, although it would be hard, we would pull through in good shape—I didn’t believe him and insisted we were all washed up. We lapsed into silence and just hung on, waiting for George and Pete to pick us up.
(Note: Looking back, I am surprised that during this entire incident I was not even slightly afraid or panicky—I realized that all our clothes and sleeping bags were soaking—that the temperature was below freezing, and that even if we made shore, we might freeze, because George and Pete didn’t have enough clothes for four soaked people. I remember thinking that death by drowning or freezing was inevitable and yet managed to look upon it quite impersonally and calmly). I made a few attempts to shove the canoe ashore, but got nowhere, so I gave up. At one time I thought of swimming to shore alone, but by now my limbs were too numb to swim. At no time did I try to take off a stitch of clothing; I knew that, without every thread, our chances of survival, if we got ashore, would be nil.
George and Pete paddled up and asked if we could hold on—we both replied “yes,” and told them to get our personal packs aboard first (they had since drifted away). They left us to get the packs. Then, to our horror, as George struggled to haul my soaked pack into the canoe, he lost balance and toppled overboard—with a lunge, he tried to haul himself back aboard—I cheered him on—Pete half crouched, half standing almost overturned the canoe. Instead it took in a good amount of water. George made several attempts to haul himself out of the water, but each attempt was weaker than the last. Finally, Pete had to paddle to shore, dragging George—Once again they dumped out the water and came back. This time they managed to drag Bruce and Skip to a small rocky island and leave them there.
At one point, I thought that if we righted the canoe we could put some of our packs aboard to keep them from drifting all over the place. I told Art my plan and flipped the canoe. To my surprise, it kept right on rolling until once again it came to rest—bottom-side-up. I was about to try again, but Art told me that if I did so, he would lose his grip on the canoe and drown, so I just held onto the bow.
By now I was almost completely inactivated by the cold water—I wanted to quit fooling around and get to shore—but, I couldn’t swim, couldn’t move.
Bruce and Skip (on the island) began shouting “Hurry up.” Their voices sounded far off and faint—Art also took up the cry and so did I—now all four of us were chanting “hurry up.”
My mind became foggy—I remember Pete shouting to me to grab ahold of his canoe—this I did, so did Art. But I was holding both Art’s and my personal packs—and, unknown to me, my legs were entangled with the bowline from our canoe. George and Pete had to drag Art and me plus the packs and the gray canoe to shore—we seemed unable to move, although George and Pete were both paddling like fiends. Pete then yelled to me to let go of the canoe. I thought he meant his canoe, so I told him to go to hell.
Once, I lost my grip on Pete’s gunwale and shouted for him to come back—he stopped paddling—I grabbed onto the red canoe again. Now barely conscious, I remember my feet scraping over rocks near shore. I took one or two steps, using every single remaining ounce of strength I had, then collapsed unconscious on the rocks and moss ashore.
While lying semi-conscious on the ground I remember thinking that heaven was overwhelmingly green. (It later turned out I was lying face down on a patch of moss).
My next recollection, hazy as it is, is one of being in a sleeping bag, with George giving me a brisk rubdown—he kept asking, “how are you doing, Joe?”, and I kept telling him that I was doing fine and to quit pounding me—I remember that I felt warm and comfortable all over except for my feet, which seemed abnormally cold—I passed out again.
When I came around next, I was surprised to find that I was completely naked and in a tent—I couldn’t figure out why this should be. I sat bolt upright—it was dark out—someone thrust a large can under my nose and told me to take 5 swigs—I did. Then Skip came into the tent, undressed, and got into a sleeping bag—Bruce poked his head into the tent, handed Skip the can and said he and I were to take 7 handfuls—we did. I was really hungry and gobbled down my share—(beets mixed with chicken soup). The mixture tasted so good I was tempted to eat the whole works.
When I finally went out of the tent, the setting sun cast a bright red streak on the horizon. The rest of the sky was a mass of gray clouds. I came back inside, now fully aware of what had happened, and casually asked Skip where Art was—he replied that Art was outside. We lay in silence—finally I asked what would Art be doing outside. Skip replied, “You might as well know, Art is dead.”
I said, “Oh,” and lay back. Then it dawned on me that Skip was pulling my leg and I accused him of it—he assured me this was no joking matter and, with no great emotion, I fell asleep secure in the knowledge that I was still alive and kicking.
One by one the others crowded into the tent, until all 5 of us were crammed into Art’s and my tent (the other had been lost, along with the green canoe). Somehow we found room. George and I squeezed into his sleeping bag—Bruce was at the left of the tent in Skip’s—Skip and Pete, heads toward the door, jammed into Pete’s bag.
Before sacking out, Bruce brought in a cheese slab that I sliced 5 ways and passed around. The shock of Art’s death had not yet sunk in and we were in pretty good spirits once we were crammed into place and passed our share of cheese—my feet were still cold as ice cubes. Throughout the night, Bruce was wracked by such spasmodic chills that he woke us up by shivering violently and chattering—I slept reasonably soundly, although I got cramps from being in one position so long.

Thursday, September 15 – Camp #51 (Same).

Pete was the only one with a complete set of dry clothes so, eventually, he left the crowded tent to scrounge up some sort of breakfast. Outside, he whooped and announced a sunny day in the making. This touched off great rejoicing in the tent—a sunny day would probably mean above-freezing temperatures and a much needed chance to dry sleeping bags, clothes and parkas. I hate to think what would have happened had we not had a day like this!
While Pete was outside cooking up a gruel of wet oatmeal, the rest of us planned our next moves. Skip’s idea was to leave 3 of us here and send 2 guys to Baker Lake in a lightly loaded canoe. The route involved an 8-mile portage at the north end of Lady Marjorie. He estimated it would take 3 or 4 days to get through (barring bad weather) and to send a rescue plane back for the rest of us. The canoers would take only bare essentials and leave the tinned meats for those who stayed.
The rest of us did not like this plan; it risked too many lives on unpredictable weather. George proposed the plan we finally adopted: All of us would set out in 2 canoes, leaving what we didn’t need in a cache, along with Art’s body. Instead of paddling to Aberdeen Lake via a 40-mile stretch of the Dubawnt, we would go to the north end of Marjorie Lake and portage across the Marjorie hills. This shortcut would chop off about 25 miles of travel on Aberdeen Lake and thus put us less at the mercy of bad weather on such a long expanse of open water.
While waiting for the cornmeal water to boil, Pete spread icy clothing and sleeping bags on rocks to thaw and dry.
I learned that some of our supplies had been saved. Missing items included the green canoe and a tent jammed (we hoped) into its stern, as well as our dishes, silverware, and pots, Bruce’s and my rifles, 30 tins of bully beef, the “white kitchen box” with its spices, condiments, powdered milk, salt, etc. Most of the other stuff, including Pete’s big fish, had been picked up yesterday. Some gear had been left on a neighboring island and Pete paddled out after breakfast to retrieve it.
Presently, Pete passed in a large can of hot cornmeal. Skip was asleep, so George, Bruce, and I ate our share, using a sugar can lid for a spoon. We woke up Skip then, and passed him the can.
As shirts and underwear thawed and partially dried, Pete tossed them into the tent and, eventually, some of us got dressed enough to go out and help set up the camp.
I felt fine and was amazed at my rapid recovery. But also I was a little weak and shaky. My right hand and nose were lacerated from stumbling on the rocks while partly conscious—but no bones were broken and a few scratches were not much to pay for such a close call.
I was the last one out of the tent. George and Pete scouted around in the red canoe, looking for any equipment that may have drifted ashore. They did find the green canoe and, luckily, the other tent was still jammed into the stern. Nothing else turned up beside the canoe, its tent and several long poles.
As I stepped out of the tent my eyes were dazzled by the sunlight. I had to squint to see, for the first time, our campsite. We were on a small, rocky island in a broad part of the river. Moss and lichens grew profusely between the rocks on our island. Our tent was pitched near the shore, boggy in places with pools of water between the rocks. Clothing and gear was scattered about on every available dry spot. Ice coated the water between the rocks.
I walked about for awhile, turning clothes over in the sun. My sleeping bag, stiff with ice earlier, was drying out nicely, although parts of it were still icy. My parka, too, was beginning to dry.
Art’s body lay out all night in Bruce’s soaked sleeping bag. George and Skip switched it to his own sleeping bag and took it to the island’s highest point, where the cache would be set up.
I wandered about, not doing much. A sad moment was seeing Art’s camera box, his most carefully guarded possession, into which he had put so much time, money, and effort. Now, here it was, half full of water on the shore (eventually Pete dumped out the water and spread the film canisters to dry. Hopefully, the film would survive.
After a hastily prepared lunch of half a fish boiled and mixed with wet oats and dehydrated vegetables, I walked to the island crest to see Art’s body. At first I could not find it because his bag was the color and shape of the rocks. But finally I spotted the bag, dwarfed and pitifully insignificant next to a huge boulder. The bag was completely zippered shut and I saw nothing of his body. I felt no emotion whatever—the body of a man, the body of a caribou, just another body—still, lifeless, not knowing or caring what went on about it…just another victim in the never-ending process of life and death on the barrens. I felt sorrier for his wife, Carole, than I did for him. Art had griped me many times—I never got to know him in anything but a superficial way—now he was dead. The gripes were forgotten, but not replaced by any of the emotions one usually feels when present with the lifeless form of someone he knew.
We spent the rest of the day drying everything we could.
We sacked at dusk, being pretty bushed. Bruce’s sleeping bag was still wet, so he and I squeezed into mine which, though damp in spots, was passably dry. We slept in my tent and the others slept in Skip’s. Beautiful sunset—temperature below freezing.

Friday, September 16 – Camp #52 (Southern end Lady Marjorie Lake).

Another clear dawn, though quite cold all day. Winds inordinately strong from southeast.
Bruce is now the crew chef—he got up at 7:00, while the rest of us went around drying stuff, packing dry gear, and deciding what to bring or leave behind in the cache. My right hand was very swollen and that left me feeling helpless and ineffective. Breakfast: wet oats (very lumpy but tasty, nonetheless), half of Pete’s big fish, and a slab of raw bacon—also uncooked prunes and sugary water from our sugar rations. Bruce cooked in Ray Moore’s big vegetable tins. They were the only kitchen utensils left and it took him a long time to get eats on the table. We used empty tobacco tins for bowls (the soaked tobacco was tossed—my last 5 packs of treasured cigarettes were soggy mush and also were pitched). For spoons, we used our hunting knives...carefully!
It took longer than anticipated to break camp, make a cache, and get our gear loaded. After breakfast, George, Pete and I took out the red canoe to salvage the gray one, lying upside down like a big fish in the shallows offshore. Righting it from another canoe was tricky because of suction. But, by using poles to steady our canoe and by prying, Pete and George rolled the gray canoe. Inside we found 3 long ridge poles and the white kitchen box jammed under the thwarts by my seat. The box held salt, condiments, and a large tin of powdered milk—valuable even if somewhat wet. The poles would serve as firewood in a pinch.
Bruce and Skip’s green canoe was left behind to protect Art’s body and serve as a marker for search planes. The camera box, the yellow food box, an aluminum fishing rod case, and the gas can, spread next to the canoe, made the cache more visible from the air.
Art’s body was stiff and unyielding as George, Skip, and I slid it onto the thwarts of the overturned canoe. Skip wrote a note identifying the body, describing the accident and giving our route to Baker Lake.
We then made a last-minute check of the camp, ate lunch (Bruce screwed up, making six helpings for five men) and shoved off. I sat in the middle of the gray canoe, doing nothing while the others paddled. We scanned the shores along the way, hoping to find more equipment, but nothing turned up. We shot the second and last rapids into Lady Marjorie—a mild riffle—and reached the lake. Far to the north rose the white-crested peaks of the Marjorie Hills.
We heard several planes but saw none. At a rest stop on a point of land, Pete caught another good-sized fish—the rest of us collected enough driftwood scraps to fill a duffle bag.
We set up camp around 5 o’clock and, after a tasty glop thickened with oats, we sacked out with the sun. Bruce tented with me and the rest went to Skip’s. Bruce’s bag was now pretty well dried out so he used it. We both slept soundly all night.

Jacobs comment. And so ends Lanouette’s journal.

Directory for the items of Lanouette’s journal.
The limit of 60,000 characters required eight posts.
Post 1 of 8. 16 June to 1 July. ... 81&t=46535
Post 2 of 8. 2 July to 16 July. ... 81&t=46555
Post 3 of 8. 17 July to 28 July. ... 81&t=46557
Post 4 of 8. 29 July to 7 August. ... 81&t=46561
Post 5 of 8. 8 August to 20 August. ... 81&t=46610
Post 6 of 8. 21 August to 2 September. ... 81&t=46696
Post 7 of 8. 3 September to 10 September. ... 81&t=46737
Post 8 of 8. 11 September to 16 September. ... 81&t=46738


A literal mind is a little mind. If it's not worth doing to excess, it's not worth doing at all. Good enough isn't.  None are so blind as those who choose not to see. (AJ)

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