Illustration of George Gray: "A Canadian Athlete", Harper's Young People Vol. XI. October 14, 1890 Harper and Brothers, New York. 

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SIR: We beg to submit the following report of our work, during the season of 1900, in connection with Exploration Party No. 3, sent out under your instructions, in charge of Mr. Geo. R. Gray.

OUTLINE OF WORK.

The party left Sudbury and proceeded via Wahnapitae and Metagam-asing Lakes to Dewdney Lake. Commencing where the north boundary of the Township of Mackelcan crosses Dewdney Lake, a micrometer, log and compass survey was carried forward through Dewdney, Ohinicoochichi, Saw Horse, Adelaide, Button, Dougherty, Frederick and Stoufier Lakes, to the Sturgeon River. The survey was then carried up the river to where Stull's branch comes in from the north-east. The route through to Shusawagaming or Smoothwater Lake, via this branch and its chain of lakes, was then explored; and the survey carried through, connecting at Shusawagaming Lake with Sinclair's traverse of the Montreal River.

The party then proceeded down the east branch of the Montreal River to its con fluence with the west or main branch, and after calling at Fort Matachewan, turned and travelled down the main Montreal River to Bay Lake, returning to Mattawapika Lake, the outlet of Lady Evelyn Lake. After exploring the vicinity of Mattawapika and Lady Evelyn Lakes, the Lady Evelyn River route was traced through to Apex Lake just south of Shusawagaming Lake on the route to the Sturgeon River. A compass and canoe traverse of this route was made on the return trip to Lady Evelyn Lake.

The party then proceeded via Non-wakaming or Diamond Lake to Lake Temagami. From this lake as a centre, the territory around White Bear, Net, Cedar, Rabbit, Cross and Gull Lakes was examined. Obabika Lake was next visited, with Wakemika and Round Lakes and the Obabika River. From the month of the Obabika River to Sturgeon River was followed down to the portage route leading westward to Maskinonge Lake. Via this route the party passed through to Metagamasing and Wahnapitae Lakes, and down the Wahnapitae River to Wahnapitae Station on the Canadian Pacific Railway.

DEMOREST and SILVESTER, Ontario Land Surveyors on Exploration Survey Party No. 3. To the Honourable E. J. DAVIS, Commissioner of Crown Lands, Toronto, Ontario. 1901

***

On the twelfth of June, 1900, we set out from the town of Sudbury. Our gear, provisions and support crew had arrived on schedule and were assembled for us at the train station by the local government agent. From the CPR station we travelled by stage north to Wahnapitae Lake, a long and rough trail more severe than any of the tote roads I was familiar with in the Ottawa Valley. Here, the swamps were longer and more frequent and the high ground was bare of soil; the roadway always canted to one side or another, and on two occasions, our cart lurched to the side and toppled, its contents spilling down the hill. The very retrieval raised questions as to whether the vast amount of our kit was necessary, how we would fit all the gear into our five canoes, and if my stipend of thirty-five dollars per month was equitable to the physical work the expedition would entail.

We did, somehow, manage not only to arrive at the lake at the planned hour, but were successful in packing all the gear into our canoes. We must have appeared to be a strange lot to the loggers who were repairing the quay as we struggled to stuffed the boats with packs and poles. The photography equipment, the care of which I was charged, was most difficult to pack, owing to the size of the tripod. Gray directed every aspect of the vessel loading and had previously determined who would be responsible for each piece of survey and climbing implements. The scientific equipment was divided among the four surveyors' canoes so, in the unlikely event of a capsize, not all would be lost; the expedition would still be able to fulfill its mandate. Jimmy's canoe, which was to be paddled by the Indian in the solo fashion, carried the necessities for the camp and most of the provisions.

The canoes were heavily laden and when we pushed off from shore, there were little more than a few inches of freeboard between the ash gunwale and the water. I shuddered to think what might happen should a wave break upon the canoe from the side. Still, the boat seemed to be designed to roll with the waves and stable enough, and appeared to handle the load well. Gray had me paddle from the stern position with Silvester as my bowman. The surveyor seemed to have a natural seaman's balance and after a few paddle strokes into our journey, I felt at ease with my partner.

I was continually impressed with Gray's organizational ability in the leadership of the expedition. The first part of the trip proceeded according to Gray's rigid schedule. Having had some experience as a timber scout in the Temagami District, Gray had a realistic notion of the difficulties modern surveying techniques would present in this rugged landscape. Imagine being tasked with slashing a ten mile survey line, two yards wide, through bush and scrub, rock and cliff, swamp and quagmire, whilst your colleagues are doing the same, hacking and blazing trees at an unseen distance on either side of the base survey line. The final objective was to score the new territories with a grid of parallel and intersecting lines, straight and precise, from which every data point and map coordinate would hereafter refer. The way Gray explained it, envision an immense screen or cage dropped down from the skies and placed over the land, capturing and holding the natural world beneath it. From this point in time onward, every lake and stream, hill and gully would exist as part of the official plan developed and managed by the Department of Crown Lands. The exploitation and settlement of these wild lands would be dependent upon the lines we drew. We, the men of Expedition Number Three.

Gray had already determined, unbeknownst to the Crown Land's Commissioner, the line cutting work would need to be assigned to a winter crew, when the water and marshlands were frozen and leafy foliage absent—and when there would be no mosquitoes. Gray had his own plan. From the very outset, our leader had the men of our team set a course for the highest hill that could be seen from any particular body of water. At his command, the surveyors, and sometimes myself or another canoeman, would trek to the summit, where Gray would use the provided climbing equipment and his sheer strength, skill, and fearlessness to ascend the tallest tree with notebook, compass and field glasses tied to his neck. From his perch high above, sitting on a limb of a massive pine, he looked like a mariner of old, high on the mast's crow's-nest, scanning the horizon for new lands. From this vantage, Gray would take measurements and notes. Not only could he conclude the species of timber stands within his view, he could also estimate the monetary value of the timber in each stand, and project its future worth, given current market conditions.

Later, at the night's camp, Gray would mark onto his maps the finer details recorded during his treetop examinations: the exact location of streams and swamps, topographical variations, drainage and vegetation patterns. He would mark his gridlines onto the charts, each numbered according to their relationship to the base meridians recognized by the Department of Crown Lands. He would then pass me his ledger for transcription. The canoemen set the tents and prepared the meals whilst the surveymen worked on their journals. My task of transcribing and organizing the team's notes needed to wait until after the camp chores were completed. While the men took pause to enjoy a pipe and a bit of whisky, I would take my cup and sit away from the group against a tree or on a rock and try my best to recall the day's events.

When struggling for words or at a lapse of memory, I would sit next to the river and watch the water flow over a rock in the stream, studying how bubbles form downstream of a submerged boulder. I am still amazed how a rock can remain hidden beneath the smooth surface of the stream, where water seems to effortlessly slide over, as if the stone itself does not exist. If the water is clear enough, one can see the dark shape of the earth beneath the water yet, if not for the fine and subtle lines drawn on the water's surface by the current, one would not understand the stone's significance until later, downstream, when the river surface sinks into a hole created by that very rock. And just after the rock there is, inevitably, turbulence and disruption of the flow. Water smashes and crashes against itself, wave backfilling wave, eddy lines drawn from white bubbles and back currents, attempting to refill the interrupted flow. It is as though only once the water has passed by the depression does it realize the hole left behind and tries violently, and futilely, to return, to restore equilibrium. If the water was not flowing, the rock would exist unnoticed and forever in peace, but add the progress of the current and the placid state of the river is forever altered, its danger is only revealed by the disruption of movement.

Often, however, my observations were less philosophical and instead took notice of the men. Jimmy Noland, the Indian, and George Gray, the leader, were most interesting. Gray was well liked by the men. He had about him a quiet yet firm disposition and was able to command the men's obedience regardless of the task. He had the capacity to lead a man to find within himself the drive and strength needed to complete a climb or a portage or to summon the bravery required to guide one's canoe down a set of wild rapids, where one poorly placed paddle stroke or lean upstream into the current might spell disaster for the vessel, loss of equipment, or loss of a soul. Gray would stand on the shore at the rapid's edge and shout his encouragement over the roar of the river: "Come on lad, paddle hard," or, "That's it laddy, you've beaten her!" And once the shooting of the rapid was complete, the men would celebrate the return to calm water with a cheer or a loud whoop. The possibility of disaster was channelled into progress, thanks to our leader.

For a man who enjoyed so much good fortune and success in the thirty-five years of his life, both as a champion athlete (he still held the world record for the Putting of the Shot) and as a manager in the timber trade, Gray made it known he was not one to accept defeat lightly. A mishap which occurred as a result of a team member might cause a setback in his plan, but Gray never placed the blame on the perpetuator of the mishap.

 One day Parsons had been alone in the woods to collect rock samples from a nearby cliff. When the geologist failed to return to the lake, I asked Rudy if we should be concerned. He looked up from the axe he was sharpening and grumbled, in his mix of French and English, "Go hask 'im den." I proceeded to the other side of the rocky point to find Gray sitting by himself, writing. He looked at me as though I had disturbed his peace.

"Sir, I was wondering if you think I and one of the other lads should head to the cliff and look for Parsons?"

Gray paused a moment before looking at the sun, low in the sky. "It's getting on. No point getting anyone else lost, right? We can make camp here—I'm sure he'll find us." With that, he returned to his notes and I, relieved I had brought my concern to Gray, dismissed myself to tell the crew of his decision.

We set camp, prepared dinner and awaited Parsons' return. The sun was setting and I thought it unlikely that Parsons would be still working in the field; like all of us, Parsons regarded dinner as the high point of the day. Looking around however, none of the others seemed to be worried. The men went about their chores as though nothing was amiss. I imagined if Gray had been pacing across the campsite or standing on the rock point shouting Parsons' name to the surrounding hills, the anxiety level of the group may have been heightened. But his calm disposition was infectious. DeMorest and Silvester, the remaining scientist and surveyor, busied themselves with their paperwork and did not appear to be distraught about the loss of their colleague. I wondered to what extent their calm response was taken from of Gray's lead, and how much was a product of the two men's British heritage. Throughout the trip, Silvester and DeMorest carried themselves with the utmost civility and performed their work professionally. If there was any disagreement with Gray's decisions, the men certainly did not reflect displeasure to the other canoemen. Both men were graduates of King's College, staunch royalists and proud to serve on this expedition through the Crown's land. I could imagine them, years before, serving along with Captain Franklin or some of the other great explorers of the Arctic.

Of the canoemen, Rudy appeared the most distraught. Because his English was so poor, he didn't say much, but every task he performed was accompanied by a "calice de tabarnak" or similar profanity under his breath. The Orkneyman Mac seemed to move in a nonchalant manner and only spoke of the matter of Parsons' absence by saying, "More grub for me, I guess." I could only conclude: for one whose life and whose family's livelihood had been as voyageurs in the wilds of Canada, one might develop a certain expectation that accidents will happen, and factor that into one's emotional response. While this may seem callous to the city man, the longer one spends in the wilds, the more one comes to understand the risks of wilderness living. The Métis, Wally, quietly worked away at his chores half the time, the other half the time, like Rudy, cursing in French.

During dinner, I sat next to Jimmy on the fallen pine tree that we used as a bench. As usual, the Indian would say nothing unless spoken to directly. Quietly, I asked him, "Do you think Parsons is alright out there?"

Jimmy looked up from his cup of broth and grunted a chuckle, before lowering his head again. He pulled a long sip through his missing teeth.

"Do you think you could find him?"

"Why?" Then he laughed some more, as if he was laughing at is own joke.

Gray sat among the men after dinner and recounted yet another tale of his exploits in the far reaches of the Commonwealth, how, after the games in Calcutta, "he showed those Bengals how a true Scotsman celebrates."

"Sir, was there ever a time when you didn't win an event?" DeMorest asked.

"Not on the field, I can assure you." Gray paused for a moment and rubbed his chin.

"Well, there was the matter involving a rowing regatta on Lake Simcoe."

We all stretched out to enjoy the story.

"My older brother John, who, as you know is a first class rower, talked me into competing in a local rowing event. There was a small purse to be won, so the greater the number of competitors, the larger the purse—I am sure that is why he asked me to enter. This was when he first started rowing competitively and I had hardly skulled before. Still, I gave the lads a run, yes I did! But to my amazement, on the final leg, I see John and two other boats heading back before I even reached the final buoy. I knew there was no possible way they could have reached the marker. John was declared the winner, and I—who made it around the buoy—placed fourth. I filed a protest with officials, who denied seeing any wrongdoing."

Gray was speaking faster now, his volume increasing as he continued. "I took matters into my own hands, lads, and wrote the Orillia Packet and Times a letter, yes I did! While I didn't mention the specific details of the offence, not wanting to publicly accuse my brother of cheating, I claimed, instead, that the newspaper fabricated the results based on a falsehood, on the facts they chose to believe!"

I did not dare interrupt Gray to question him, to ask how his brother must have felt. As it turned out, although George Gray never directly accused his brother of cheating, the publication of that letter and the mention of the cash prize, became part of the public record. As a result, John was disqualified from competing as an amateur athlete and he was no longer permitted to row competitively in Canada. The story was well known: John Gray Junior moved to Upstate New York where he could compete without the cloud of scandal.

As it turned out, Gray explained, John's moving to the States serendipitously led to George Gray meeting the woman who would become his wife, Florence Lee Sheridan of Fulton, New York. "We were married on July 27, almost one year ago today." We made a point of raising our whisky glasses in toast to George and Florence on the occasion of their first wedding anniversary.

"Yes, my brother is quite the man," Gray was speaking softer now, "so much like our father. He was named John, too. Although a generation apart, both of them served in the North West Mounted Police, both as the rank of Colonel. Except my father had achieved the greater fame: he is considered a hero, lads, for leading a platoon in the suppression of the Red River Rebellion. And look at me now—I'm leading this group of misfits!"

That night was the first time Gray revealed such detail of his personal life, and, for me, his stories succeeded to relieve my concern about Parsons, alone, somewhere out there.

When the fire had burned down and as the men were turning in for the night, I asked again about our missing geologist. "Oh, don't worry about Parsons," Gray said, "a night away from you lads will be a treat for him!"

Despite Gray's confidence and the other's apparent apathy, I slept fitfully, if at all. I tried to find consolation in the fact that none of the men were upset, and they had far more experience in the wilderness than I. Together, we were a collective of many years of experience and united, we were a company of adventurers. Individually we were nothing. Individually, one would be, like Parsons, alone against the wild. I understood that night my role was to be a member of this community, not to be a lone voice. If we were to succeed in this mission, I needed to defer to the wisdom of my superiors. And get some sleep. I spent the night awake, trying to find a comfortable position between rock and root, listening for a cry from our lost geologist.

The next morning, Gray, resigned to the fact that we should perform a search, instructed us to assemble a party to find the missing explorer. But just as we were about to depart into the woods, I observed Gray standing proudly on the rock point, chest out and outstretched hand pointing across the lake. Sure enough, there, on the far shore, was Parsons.

In the end, all that was harmed was Parsons' pride and all that was lost was a day of our mission. What was gained was an elevated respect for Gray, who never placed any blame on the geologist, rather he asked him to share how might such an event be prevented in the future. With Gray, every setback became a learning. From then on, men were required to be in pairs if they were to venture into the woods, and from that day, the lake from which Parsons was lost, was named by Gray to honour of his wife, Florence.

Gray loved giving names to the various lakes and rivers we encountered on our journey. While the largest bodies of water were referred to by their Indian names (like Lake Temagami or Obabika) or others by the names used by the fur traders (like Montreal River), many lakes and rivers had names given to them by local Indians, whose reach never exited beyond their family hunting grounds. Gray, being the poet he was, enjoyed declaring names for natural features. Gray's river was obvious; other names referred to a story we told around the campfire on a particular night, or others were created to evoke an image in the mind of a future map reader, such as the renaming of Shusawagaming Lake (which was impossible to pronounce, Gray said) to become Smoothwater Lake (he claimed to be a much more civil name). I did wonder privately if Gray's renaming of traditional landmarks might be upsetting to Jimmy, knowing the Native names would be lost forever once the records from our expedition worked their way into the official canon of the government. However, at this point of the journey, I didn't know Jimmy well enough to ask him such a personal question and knew, if I did, all I would get in response would be a laugh.

For a man with a successful and lucrative career as a timber trader, a new wife and a man at the top of his game as an elite athlete, one would question why he might have taken on this endeavour. Certainly, Gray sought adventure and loved the wilderness, both for its challenges and its beauty, yet, to leave a new wife and one's own business interests? The ninety dollars a month which Gray received as the timber estimator and expedition leader was a respectable salary, yet one can only speculate it may not even have compensated for the loss of income he would endure by taking a full season away from his enterprises.

If one were to question his motives, one might consider a second defeat which Gray had recently endured—the loss of the election to be Toronto Fire Brigade Chief.  Gray did not reveal the story of his run for public office to the men on the expedition; this I only discovered later, during my research.

Gray, I discovered, had been working to secure support and votes for the position of Fire Chief for many years, beginning immediately following his capturing of the world title in Shot Put. His celebrity status in Toronto, where he lived at the time, earned his name recognition and numerous invitations to dinners and garden parties of the Toronto elite. I am sure his confidence and charm made him the most sought after invitee in the city's social scene. Some of his socialite friends suggested to Gray that he run for political office, take a crack at winning a seat in the legislature. But Gray would have none of that. He was a man of action and adventure—the Fire Brigade was more his style. Even though he had no experience as a fire fighter and did not have the support of the union members, he did have the ability to convince and instil trust from those with whom he spoke. And he had the endorsement of the Aldermen of Toronto's Council. 

When the Chief's position became vacant in 1899, a bitter election campaign was fought on the issue that new leadership was required to return the Fire Brigade to its former glory, to remove the financial waste and entitlement of its elitist management, to protect the people of Toronto, and George R. Gray was the man most qualified to do this. However, the final result of the vote did not fall in Gray's favour. His opponent—part of the existing guard, a man whose support came from the rank and file of the Fire Department, a servant of the corrupt establishment—won the municipal election by the narrowest of margins. Gray refused to accept the election results. He was convinced there was ballot manipulation and falsehoods in the newspapers, leading the citizens to believe his opponent won the position. But, as a man of class, distinction and grace, he —while never actually admitting defeat nor conceding the election—made a public statement indicating he would be stepping back from political life and reconsidering his future. He promptly went to the United States, married Florence, and soon thereafter, accepted the position as the leader of Expedition Number Three.