During the night the cold increased, and when we arose in the morning, we found that ice had formed on the water in the little bay of the lake. We made a number of portages that day, the cold increasing so that in all of the little bays, ice was forming. We succeeded in crossing Burnt Side Lake and entering the river leading to Long Lake as it was getting dark. We were then six miles from what we knew to be a comfortable ranch near the lower end of Long Lake, which Buffalo strongly urged we should try to reach that night, although to do so meant that we must pass between some islands where, in places, we knew the rocks projected out of the water, and therefore were perilous to our birch canoe. We decided to make the effort, and soon after pushing out from shore, we were only able to faintly discern the outlines of the islands that we must pass. Fortunately, these were soon alongside of us, and we had passed the last dangerous reef of rocks. Then, to our great satisfaction, we saw the light from the lantern which had been hung out on a pile driven close by the outer end of the dock at the foot of the lake, about four miles distant, where the ranch, that we hoped to reach that night, was located. The wind had died down so that the surface of the lake was comparatively smooth, but we noticed that our mittens, which had become thoroughly wet, were freezing on our hands. For one hour we paddled in silence, when the light toward which we had been steering, became much more visible, and soon we landed at the little dock, thankful that we had made our journey safely. Our appetites were keen for the good, broiled steak and hot potatoes that previous experience had taught us we were pretty sure to receive, and in this we were not disappointed. The following summer, I passed over this same canoe route under quite different circumstances. My work of examining lands and timber all lay near to the shores of several lakes. My wife's father, J. H. Conkey, and her brother, Frank L. Conkey, had often expressed a wish to see that northern country. Accompanied by them and also by my son, Frank Merton, who was then a boy in short pants, we journeyed by rail to Tower. Before leaving Duluth for Tower, Mose Perrault was added to our number. Perrault was a fine specimen of man, six feet in height, well-proportioned, of middle age, and thoroughly familiar with frontier life. At Tower, we started out with two birch canoes, and after dinner, on a pleasant afternoon in August, we pushed our canoes out into the waters of Lake Vermilion, from the same point from which we had left in the rain, the previous October. We reached the east end of Vermilion early, portaged into Mud Lake, went up the river, and camped on the high ground west of Burnt Side Lake, in a pine grove where we were surrounded by blueberry bushes laden with their large, ripe fruit. [Illustration: "He motors over the fairly good roads of the northern frontier." (Page 180.)]