of the first 200 miles, the wind was against us. Gliding along, one could shut one's eyes and imagine oneself motionless, but the ever changing scenery disproved that. Tributaries, large and small, joined our River but were soon left behind. The Whitemud, [Notikewin ??] and at last, Carcajou (Wolverine Point) at the mouth of the Keg river, where I saw my first (and only) real story book Indian. I saw hundreds of Indians later, but never one like him.
When we first saw him, he was stalking a grouse in a church of Willows on the shore. His hair was in two long plaits, he was very bandy-legged, wearing a buck-skin shirt – dark trousers – moccasins (Indian shoes) on his feet and his shooting-iron was an old muzzle loader.
