On Great Slave Lake, in the vicinity of the Snowdrift River, there is a trading post managed by a halfbreed. Here a number of Indians and a handful of white trappers have assembled at the close of the winter hunting season. The year is well on into April, and the melting of the snows has reached its most disagreeable stage. In amongst the tents, gleaming white in the clearing, there is a veritable network of gurgling brooklets. Jutting out over the eaves of the store itself is a tremendous fold of wet snow from which long icicles hang like glittering spears. Lake and forest lie knee-deep in slush. 

There are five of us in our tent — four white trappers and an Indian, named Souzi. We are all planning to go out after beaver, the others two by two, I as a lone hand. Outside in the snow our toboggans are lying in a row, each simply waiting for the dogs to step into the harness. Our outfits are packed, ready to go. These consist of a gun and ammunition, an ax, matches, a woolen blanket, and any number of smaller articles. Some of the men are also taking with them canvas, nails, and paint in order that they may cut ribs from the willow and build themselves a canoe. Thus they will be able to make use of the rivers after the ice has broken up. Grub consists of a pail of dried meat and fat, which is enough to last the first few days; there-after we shall have to rely upon wild game. The beaverhunter must have as little as possible to drag with him, must be willing to go hungry often, and must be tireless on the trail.