13 - Womans Way Through Unknown Labrador by Mina Benson Hubbard

In 1905, Mina Benson Hubbard embarked on a remarkable 576-mile canoe expedition through the uncharted wilderness of Labrador, guided by four skilled companions. This journey was not only a personal quest but also a tribute to her late husband, Leonidas Hubbard, who tragically lost his life while attempting the same route in 1903 as a writer for an outdoor magazine. Mrs. Hubbard became the first to accurately document the river paths of her expedition, and her story is complemented by her husbands diary detailing his ill-fated adventure, along with George Elsons gripping account of survival and the recovery of Mr. Hubbards remains. A map created by Mrs. Hubbard during her travels is also featured on this page—narrated by Zach Hoyt.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter thirteen of A Woman's Way through Unknown Labrador by
Mina Benson Hubbard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
Chapter thirteen. I crossed the divide. The gale continued all
night with passing showers which threatened to riddle the tent
with their force, and it was not till ten the
following forenoon we were able to proceed, hugging the shore.

(00:21):
As we went, deer were about in all directions, And
as we rounded a point near the head of the lake, George,
standing the bow of the canoe and looking across to
the woods beyond the big marsh which stretched away northward, said,
the wood over there is just moving with them. Camp
was pitched on the point among the spruce and tamerak,
preparatory to scouting for George, river waters and lunch over.

(00:41):
Job and Joe were off to the task while George
and Gilbert built a stage and put the caribou meat
over the fire to smoke and dry. Again. It was
my golden opportunity to air my camp. Stuff and bags
were emptied, and everything spread out in the sunshine and wind. Later,
my washing, neglected on Sunday on account of the storm,
was added to the decorations, how very much I wanted
to go scouting with Job and Joe. Here I expected

(01:03):
difficulties in finding the way. The map I carried indicated
a number of detached lakes stretching miles northward from Lake Michikamats,
and to find among the lakes of this upper plain
the one which should prove the source of the George
River promised to be interesting work. Inwardly impatient, I waited
for the return of the men. Less than two hours
later I saw them come down across the marsh to
where they had left the canoe. There, mounting a huge boulder,

(01:26):
they sat down to watch the caribou. This was trying,
when I had so eagerly waited for the news they
were to bring. But a little reflection convinced me that
it meant simply nothing definite about the George River. Otherwise
they would have come immediately to camp. The conclusion proved correct,
and when towards evening they came in, the report was
more streams and lakes heading northward up the slope of
the plateau. We had not yet reached the real head

(01:48):
of th Naskapi River. Thursday morning, August tenth, we began
our portage across the marsh. Before leaving, the men had
a few careless, ineffectual shots at a crow which had
delighted near the camp, the first of its kai and
we had seen on the trip. The marsh was one
mile wide from east to west and reached almost two
miles northward from upper end of the lake. It was
cut by many little streams, which, issuing from a tiny

(02:10):
lake one mile and a half above camp, wound about
among the grassy hummocks of the marsh, collecting half a
mile below in a small pond to break again into
innumerable tiny channels leading down to Lake Mishakamats. The pond
and streams above gave us some paddling, then came more
portaging into the little lake below it lay a stretch
of higher ground. It was a queer sort of collection
of moss covered hummocks, criss crossed by cariboo trails cut

(02:32):
deep into the soft soil. Here, cloud berries grew in abundance,
and though not yet ripe, they were mature enough to
taste almost as good as the green apples I used
to indulge in surreptitiously in the days of my youth.
They seemed a great treat now, for they were the
first fruit found in abundance on the trip, though we
had seen a few that were nearly ripe on an
island in Lake Michikamau, and on the eighth of August
Gilbert togathered a handful of ripe blueberries on Cariboo Hill.

(02:54):
The lake was about one mile long two hundred yards wide,
and was fed by a good sized stream coming down
for the north in continuous rapids. The stream was deep,
and the canoes were pulled up with all the outfit
in them to the lake above, and on a great
bed of huge packed boulders at the side of the stream,
we halted for lunch. The quest was becoming more and
more interesting. When was our climbing to end? When would
be really going to find the headwaters of the Nascapi

(03:16):
extended at the summit of the plateau. It was thoroughly
exciting work, this climbing to the top of things. That afternoon,
our journey carried us northwest through beautiful Lake Adelaide, where
long wooded points and islands cutting off the view ahead
kept me in a constant state of suspense as to
what was to come next. About four p m. We
reached the northern extremity of the lake, where the way
seemed closed, but a little searching discovered a tiny stream

(03:37):
coming in from the north and west of this the
wal marked Indian Trail. What a glad and reassuring discovery
it was, for it meant that we were on the
Indian Highway from Lake Michigan out of George River. Perhaps
our task would not be so difficult after all. The
portage led north one hundred yards to a little lake
one mile long and less than one quarter wide, And
here we found ourselves at the very head of the
Nascopi River. There was no inlet to the lake, and

(03:59):
north of it lay a blog two hundred yards wide,
which I knew must be the height of land, for
beyond it stretched a body of water which had not
in the appearance of a still water lake, and I
felt sure we should find its waters flowing north. It
was just five p m when three hundred miles of
my journey into the great silent wilderness passed. I stepped
out of the canoe to stand at last on the
summit of the divide, the first of the White race
to traced in a Scapi River to its source. I

(04:21):
had a strange feeling of being at the summit of
the world. The country was flat and very sparsely wooded,
but I could not see far. It seemed to fall
away on every hand, but especially to north and south.
The line of the horizon was unnaturally near, and there
was more than the usual realizing sense of the great
space between the Earth and the sky. This was enhanced
by the lifting of a far distant hilltop above the line,

(04:43):
as if in an attempt to look across the divide.
That morning, I had found myself with only a few
films left for the fascination of taking the first photographs
of the region traversed had betrayed me into using my
material more lavishly than I should. But now I squandered
two films in celebration of the achievement, taking one picture
looking out over the water flowing south to Lake Malvo
in the Atlantic, and facing about without otherwise changing my position,

(05:04):
one over the waters which I felt sure we should
find flowing north to Angova Bay. In a wonderfully short time,
the outfit had been portaged to cross, and we were
again in the canoes, the quest now being not for
the inlet but for the outlet of the lake. A
much less difficult task. Less than an hour's paddling carried
us to the point where the George River, as a
tiny stream, steals away from its source and lake cupboard,
as if trying to hide in this rocky bed among

(05:26):
the willows, to grow in force and volume in its
three hundred miles journey to Angava to let its discharge.
There was a great river three miles in width here
at its beginning, on the bloggy margin of the stream,
we went into camp. Here I saw the sunset and
rise again. And as I lay in my tent at dawn,
with its wall lifted so that I could look out
into the changing red and gold of the eastern sky,
I heard a splashing of water near, and looking up,

(05:47):
saw a little company of caribou cross at the head
of the stream and disappear towards the sunrise. End of
Chapter thirteen.