Up at 8:00 and off at 9:30. The last 4 portages really sucked it out of my sweetie and me, so we slept in. Besides the wind is in our face and we just couldn't cope with it early.As we paddled we plowed headlong into the wind. Neither of us said it, but we were both secretly hoping we could make it to Putahow to Eskimo Charlie's. As luck would have it, we did make it.

In "North of Reindeer; The 1940 journal of P G Downes" edited by R H Cockburn, The Beaver Spring 1983, there is a picture of Charlie and this unique conveyance. Charlie carved a real homestead out of this country, complete with raised bed gardens and a creek that he diverted to run past them. It was quite a job for one man. His cabin, on the other hand, left a lot to be desired. As Downes said, " He had a tiny cabin - quite a contrast to the obvious labour expended evidence of the outside surroundings. Inside it was dark - not a window - and indescribably dirty." Perhaps all Charlie needed was the softening touch of a woman to make his homestead a home. Living alone with only his huskies for company, Charlie died in this spot that he so loved. He wasn't found by RCMP officer Marcel "Chappy" Chapuis until 18 months after his death.

He and the Dene didn't get along at all, according to Downes. They were probably as confused by his attempt at carving permanence out of a landscape that they knew demanded mobility as he was by his view that they were shiftless ne'er do wells. Neither group could forget the imprinting of their forefathers. The Dene had to be nomadic and Charlie had to carve out a homestead.

Last night I walked back to Charlie's homestead with Lynda. And I found what I conjecture may well be the remains of his humble grave. Lance Corporal "Chappy" Chapuis didn't have much to mark this northern grave and I suspect he used what was at hand. There is a rectangular plot of earth covered in juniper that is the size of a man's grave. In one corner stands a three-foot high grayed timber post that has a flat Swede saw cut top. At each other corner of the rectangle there are the same type of posts, now fallen down and mostly rotted.

This morning I told Lynda I wanted to take a last picture of Charlie's esker home in the "good" light of early morning. The truth is I had been thinking about Charlie all night. He kept flitting in and out of my dreams. And I had to go say good-bye to him. As I stood over his grave a deep sadness washed over me as I thought about this man dying alone so far from family or friends and now largely forgotten and buried where no one can visit. It's so unlike the graves of the Dene at Grave's Lake who died with family and friends.

How did he die? Was it a long and lingering illness or, I hope, a sudden flash of pain from a heart attack? Looking at the pitiful remains of this man's dream, I felt so suddenly and completely alone and sad. Something about these northern dreams that have ended tears at my soul. Perhaps it is just that what was once so much is now so little. Perhaps it is just the reminder of my own mortality. Whatever it is, I am reminded of how short life is and how much this north that I travel through means to me.

We made 19 miles, including a portage and many rapids. All into a horrible head wind that all but stopped us dead. We are but a day from Simon's Point on Nueltin Lake. Today and tomorrow I am looking at this land for Charlie. I hope that someday someone will look at it for me.