Image: Ninth Lake Pictograph, Spanish River. Appropriated from: https://albinger.me/anishinaabe-pictographs/

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Leaving Metagama Station on the Canadian Pacific Railway we put out our canoes in a small stream a little east of the station and paddled 1 1/2 miles west parallel with the line of the railway, the creek winding its way through a marsh, between low ridges of pink granite. At about 1 1/2 miles from the station the creek expands into a small lake, from the west of which the creek runs and taming northeast crosses the railway near the depot camp of the Metagama Lumber Company.

We then paddled northeast about one mile across a lake to a short portage on the right, where we were able to draw our canoes up with a line from the shore. Here the rock is pink granite varying in texture from fine-grained to a pegmatitic variety. From this point we paddled northeast up stream, for about 4 miles, passing through three small expansions. Here a branch of the the Spanish River enters from the north, while what is called the Lost Channel turns southeast for 2 1/2 miles and joins the Mattagami Branch of the Spanish River, thus forming a large island. At a distance of 2 miles down this channel there is a 5 chain portage on the right over granite, the glacial striae here observed having a direction north 10 degrees east. A quarter mile below is a second portage 20 chains in length on the right, around a rapid; the river running between walls of granite 50 to 75 feet high, which leads to the Mattagami branch.

MATTAGAMI BRANCH. Turning north-north-east, we paddled through a lake for about three quarters of a mile to the dam of the lumber company, where a short portage on the left was necessary. From the dam our course was through two small expansions. There are ridges of sand and gravel on either side, but these give place to pink granite about two miles above the dam. The timber has been cut and a fire has been through this part recently so that the rock is exposed in many places. A paddle of nine miles north through a series of small expansions of the river, brought us to one of the Metagama Lumber Company's camps. The rock at this point is reddish grey gneiss.

Above this is Lake Mosquitowagemaw, which is quite narrow and about 4 miles long, on which the pine is now being cut. To the north of this are two small lakes which are bounded on each side by terraced ridges of sand. For the next three miles the river is very crooked, flowing between sandy banks; above this is a small lake. From this we paddled one quarter of a mile up a small creek, with very brown water, pushed through some reeds into a small clear water pond, at the north side of which is a 14 chain portage leading northward over a level, sandy plain to Perch Lake, which is about half a mile in length and contains beautifully clear water. From the north end of this lake a 30 chain portage leads to Blue Lake, about 1 1/2 miles in length, to the north of which is the height of land between Hudson Bay and St. Lawrance River waters.

J. L. ROWLETT PARSONS, B. A Geologist with Exploration Survey Party Number 3 to GEO. B. KIRKPATRICK, A Commissioner, &C. December 31, 1900

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We never intended to cross the watershed. Our intent, as directed by Gray, was to seek the portage out of Perch Lake, the final lake on the East Branch of the Spanish River. We were to work our way across a series of small lakes and swampy ponds to join the headwaters of the Montreal River. From there, we would descend the Upper Montreal in a North-East direction, until the river makes its turn to the South. Since this was to be a short trip added on to the end of our original charge, and because Jimmy had warned us the headwater portages would likely be difficult, we had taken with us only basic survey and note-taking equipment and only the food provisions necessary for us to reach Fort Matachewan on the Montreal River. We would resupply at the Hudson Bay Post with enough dry beans, oil, and flour for our return voyage to Sudbury, the route being a retracing of our earlier downstream journey.

But something happened on the trail that day. Perhaps we mistook the portage to Blue Lake to be the trail we sought; perhaps our trust in Jimmy's uncanny sense of direction overtook our need for us to take our own bearings; perhaps we were simply overtired from another long day and wished to finally complete the upstream journey. Regardless, behind the landing where Jimmy pulled up his canoe there was a clearly marked trail and although it had not seen a great deal of recent use, we assumed it was the portage route that would begin our downstream trek home.

Determined to complete the series of carries before dusk (in September darkness came noticeably earlier with each passing day), we hoisted our packs and canoes and bore down on the trail Jimmy marked for us with axe blazes. The portage of thirty chains was overgrown with alder and ferns and difficult to follow. It eventually led us to a beautiful and clear lake Gray named Blue Lake. There was some discussion as to whether we should make camp on the tranquil lake that night, but since it was not yet four o'clock, and the lake barely one and a half miles long, Gray announced that we would strike out for the Montreal River and that night, we would fill our glasses in toast to the homeward journey. With a loud "Huzzah," we charged across the lake, paddling hard, the sun still on our backs.

Jimmy found the portage trail out of the lake in a deep cleft that split a massive outcrop of pink rock into two. Here, the rock was exposed on either side of the trail and Parsons unpacked his microscope to examine a thin section, which he determined to be crushed granite. About seventy-five chains into the portage, the trail crossed a large depression; Parsons believed it to be a kettle hole. It was about two hundred acres in extent and we measured it to be seventy-five feet deep. If it were, in fact, a kettle hole, a feature created by the continued circular erosion of water and stones caught in a prehistoric whirlpool, the water flow would have needed to be a deluge of biblical magnitude, an entire continent's water rushing over the very place we stood. Admittedly, I had difficulty accepting this concept and privately, I chose not to believe Parsons' explanation of glacial runoff. I wondered, silently, if perhaps this place held a more sacred significance. It certainly had a coldness to it, a strange sensation like an absence of something, as opposed to a presence. I quickly dispelled any divergence into these mystical thoughts and listened as Parsons explained how, in the view of the science, the melting and retreating of ice sheets, and all the water the melting ice produced as the climate warmed, shaped every aspect of the land over which we had travelled these past four months. Throughout the trip, Parsons was continually pointing out places where the glaciers scoured a rock here, or deposited a boulder there, or eroded a channel in another place. Everything, it seemed, was attributed to the warming of the earth's temperature, fifteen thousand years ago.

Yet, earlier that day, we passed by a rock feature on the Ninth Lake in the chain of lakes on the East Branch of the Spanish that had nothing to do with glaciation. On a smooth rock face, just above the water level, were painted images, hand-drawn in a deep red ochre, the tracks of an ancient finger. 

We had seen similar sites earlier that summer in the Temagami District on Diamond and Lady Evelyn Lakes.  Gray noted the location of those sites on his map and joked about the primitive looking stick figures, asking Jimmy if they were his cousins too. At the pictograph site  on Diamond Lake, Jimmy pointed to a red, squiggly line crawling up the rock cliff and said, "Not this one." The image resembled a long snake with a pair of horns. The snake stood like a guard on the left side of a gap in the rock and looked back at the earthly creatures depicted on the right side of the cleft—men, birds, moose and a variety of other stick images. Behind the snake were the creatures of the spirit world. Most notable was the painting of a little man, like a sprite or a fairy, arm outstretched and playfully jumping in delight of something. Gray and the others paddled ahead and I held back and marvelled at the paintings while Jimmy, who didn't smoke, pulled some tobacco from his pack and placed a small pile on the lake surface in front of the image of the little jumping man. Not wanting to disturb what was a rare, serious moment for Jimmy, I silently observed from a distance and never asked the Indian about the meaning of those rock paintings.

Having previously witnessed Jimmy's deep respect for the pictograph sites in the Temagami lakes, I made a point of noting how different Jimmy's reaction was here as we examined the pictographs on the Ninth Lake of the Spanish River. Here, he didn't leave a tobacco offering but simply lowered his head. Out of respect, I too bowed my head and took in the spirit of the present moment: I am listening to waves gently lapping against the rock wall, in the distance a raven squawks, a chickadee flutters among the small pines, green moss and cedar whiffs are in the air.

From the bow of my canoe, I heard Silvester pick up his paddle. I drew my boat closer to Jimmy's and quietly asked him about the meaning of the pictures. At first, he said nothing, then, after looking like he was thinking about whether he should let me in on a secret, he mumbled something about a shaman. I couldn't decipher his words but I didn't want to pry further.