Hour by hour we crept along a like succession of majestic bends of the river, not yet flushed by the summer freshet, but flowing with superb volume and force.

Fully ten miles were made that day, the men tracking like Trojans through water and over difficult ground, but fortunately free from mosquitoes, the constant head winds keeping these effectually down.

The cool weather in like manner kept the water down, for it is in this month that the freshet from the Rocky Mountains generally begins, filling the channel bank-high, submerging the tracking paths, and bearing upon its foaming surface such a mass of uprooted trees and river trash that it is almost impossible to make head against it.
The next morning opened dry and pleasant, but with a milky and foreboding sky.

Again the boats were in motion, passing the Pusquatenao, or Naked Hill, beyond which is the Echo Lake--Katoo Sakaigon--where a good many Indians lived, having a pack-trail thereto from the river.
The afternoon proved to be hot, the clouds cumulose against a clear, blue sky, with occasional sun-showers.

The tracking became better for a time, the lofty benches decreasing in height as we ascended.