It has been stated that this winter of 1874 and 1875 was the coldest of which the Weather Bureau for Minnesota furnishes any history. Besides the intense cold, there were heavy snows. Nevertheless, no serious injury or physical suffering of long duration befell any member of our band of hardy woodsmen. Not one of our number was yet thirty years old, the youngest one being eighteen. Two only of the party were married, Fendall G. Winston, and myself. On leaving Grand Rapids in August, we separated ourselves from all other white men. The party was as completely separated from the outside world as though it had been aboard a whaling vessel in the Northern Seas. No letters nor communications of any kind reached us after winter set in, until our arrival in Grand Rapids in the month of February following. Letters were occasionally written and kept in readiness to send out by any Indian who might be going to the nearest logging camp, whence they might by chance be carried out to some post office. Whether these letters reached their destinations or not, could not be known by the writers as long as they remained on their work, hidden in the forest. I had left my young wife and infant daughter, not yet a year old, in Minneapolis. Either, or both might have died and been buried before any word could have reached me. It was not possible at all times to keep such thoughts out of my mind. Of course every day was a busy one, completely filled with the duties of the hour, and the greatest solace was found in believing that all was well even though we could not communicate with each other. As I recall, no ill befell any one of the party nor of the party's dear ones, during all these long weeks and months of separation. Every man of the party seemed to become more rugged and to possess greater endurance as the cold increased. It became the common practice to let the camp fire burn down and die, as we rolled into our blankets to sleep till the morning hour of arising. Not every night was spent in comfort, however, though ordinarily that was the average experience. The less robust ones, of whom there were very few, sometimes received special attention. It was during the arduous journey, getting away from the scene of our first survey to that of the upper waters of Swan River, that one of our men fell behind all of the others, on a hard day's tramp. P. B. Winston, who had all the time been very considerate of him, observing that he was not keeping up to the party, but was quite a long way back on the trail which the men were breaking through the snow, said that he would wait for him until he should catch up. Concealing himself behind a thicket close to the trail, he quietly awaited our friend's arrival. He told the following incident of the poor fellow's condition: