That same evening, as we stood in the centre of the massive depression in the land, a dark crater whose sides blocked the setting sun, I felt the same quiet power of the land as I felt earlier on the water when we were floating in front of the rock paintings. Perhaps I was overtired, but I sensed there was a spirit about this place, or, more accurately, a spirit missing from it.

At Gray's command, we carried all the gear into a small clearing in the heart of this depression and waited as Jimmy circled the walls looking for the path out. Finally, after a number of revolutions around the enormous hole, we heard the hacking of axe on wood. The men gathered the packs and followed the sound of Jimmy's blazing into the forest. We proceeded across a level, sandy plain, very uncharacteristic of the topography we had encountered thus far in our journey. In the exact centre of the depression was a small clearing where nothing grew. Outside of the centre circle, the entire area, it seemed, had been burned over recently and the earth was covered with a thick growth of small, densely spaced jackpine that had sprung up from the fallen and burnt timber which covered the forest floor. Progress was slow and walking nearly impossible. When the light had all but faded, Gray pronounced that we return to the opening in the centre of the kettle hole and camp there for the night.

Gray barely spoke to the men that night. We huddled around the evening campfire for warmth but Gray remained distant from the men. Typically, he would be found sitting with the lads or sharing a story about a victory on the field, be it the defeat of an opponent in athletics, or the taking of game in a hunt, but this night he remained in his tent studying maps and making calculations. Jimmy sat with the men and laughed as he sipped tea between his missing teeth.

The night was cold and by morning a thick frost had settled into the crater. The lichen and moss that lined the clearing was white and frozen and crunched under our boots. We had no water, other than what we carried with us on the portage, so we broke camp early without a meal and resumed the battle against the surrounding forest.

The final twenty-five chains proved to be the most difficult trial of the entire summer's journey. We hacked a path wide enough for a man to walk over the charred and fallen logs. It took a full day of struggle to escape from that place, like we were heroes of mythology, returning from the depths of Hades. Everyone was covered in soot from the burn, the ash from the fire adhered to the pine and spruce gum that covered our hands and faces when we hacked away the new growth. Our pants were torn, our shirts ripped open. Despite the sweat we generated from our labours, the air remained frigid and the fog of our breath lingered in the air.

Finally, when the sky was visible through the trees, we thanked Jimmy for leading us out of the darkness and washed and drank from the lake. The water, we noticed, was darker and much colder than Blue Lake. It was only later, after we returned to fetch the canoes and set out again on the water, did we discover the current of the tiny river moved in our desired direction. We named the lake Dividing Lake, for we knew we had crossed a watershed. We did not understand, until much later, the watershed we crossed was not simply traversing the drainage from the Spanish River into the Montreal River, in fact, it was what divided the world between South and North, the civil and the wild, between present and past.

It was Gray who first noticed we were heading down the wrong river. From the moment we dipped our paddles into Dividing Lake, a dark cloud seemed to loom over us and we lost sight of the sun for many days. The advantage of knowing our position in relation to the sun was lost in the grey sky and we needed to rely on the compass for our bearings. Since we knew the Montreal River ran in a northward direction before it turned south near Fort Mattachewan, it was reasonable to assume we were on our intended course on the West Branch of the Montreal River. Plus, no one doubted Jimmy's ability to find our way through the bush—except Gray.

"Jimmy," Gray asked, "why do you think the water is so dark on this creek, where the water in the Montreal River is not nearly this stained."

"Because John threw the leftover tea in the lake. Water changes when you dump stuff in it, you know?" Jimmy laughed.

And later, when we paddled in the shallow swifts below a small set of rapids, a large sturgeon darted away from the lead canoe, broke the surface and jumped clear out of the water. We had never seen a sturgeon in the rivers, let alone rolling through the air.

"Jimmy, is it not unusual to see sturgeon in the Montreal River, and this far upstream? And why is it jumping?"

Jimmy laughed. "Because it's happy."

But after three days of paddling northward in the tannic water, hopping from headwater pond to small lake to a long lake to a wide, slow river, along shorelines which became increasingly covered in grey clay, where the only time we saw exposed bedrock or boulders was at the waterfall, we all began to question our exact whereabouts.

Gray pulled the men together at the top of a large waterfall. We had followed a deep channel through the boulder field to reach the portage. The rocks here were undoubtedly moved by man or creature to create a canoe path through the shallows and the access the trailhead. This was not the work of a white man.

"Boys, I think we all know where we are heading here. These waterfalls confirm my suspicion: we are on the Mattagami Branch of the Moose River, lads. Jimmy has led us to the wrong river."

I looked over at Jimmy who was unloading packs from his canoe, preparing to portage the falls. He was laughing, as usual.

"But here's the thing lads: we had planned to reach Fort Mattachewan by tomorrow at the latest, and have two day's extra provisions. I know we lost a lot of time on the height of land portage, but still, if we were to retrace our steps, find the proper trail to the Montreal River and get to Mattachewan, we are looking at a week, at least. The game is plentiful here, but it takes time to hunt and fish, which will only further delay our progress. We still have to make it back to Sudbury, and freeze up isn't that far off."

The men stood looking at the ground or glancing back upriver or to the portage trail, waiting for Gray to announce the next step.

"I believe Fort Mattagami to be three or four day's paddle from where I think we are. Maybe less if the river remains this navigable. I say we push for the Hudson Bay post there and see if we can resupply."

The men remained silent but nodded in agreement.

"I know the fur brigades have portages between Fort Mattachewan and the Mattagami River. Maybe at Fort Mattagami we can find someone reliable to guide us back to the Montreal River."

Parsons and Silvester looked up at Gray with surprise. DeMorest turned to watch Jimmy, who was still out of earshot.

Of all the minor mishaps and setbacks during our season together, this was the first time Gray was clearly angered by one of the men. His stoic, "toughen-up boys" mantra or spinning the man's fault to become a life lesson was what we expected, not the open criticism of a member of our expedition team, the one for whom most of us had come to have the utmost respect. Gray was putting the blame for our misstep squarely on the shoulders of the elder Native. I believe the other men shared the chill I felt when we heard Gray say those words. Something would not be right if we continued without Jimmy.

While the men remained kicking the ground of the portage trail, Jimmy had already hoisted two packs onto his back, and with one hand pulling down on the leather tumpline and the other using a paddle like a walking stick, he brushed past us and headed down the trail in the direction of Fort Mattagami. Seeing this, the men followed his lead and began preparing for the portage.