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Pages 1 to 4
Rediscovery of Hubbard's Rock

Pages 5 to 12
Picture Galley (place cursor on pictures to read captions)

Pages 13 to 18
Comments by Rudy Mauro on NL Studies papers, The Naming Compulsion and The Language of Faith and American Exceptionalism

When my friend, Dillon Wallace III, agreed to accompany me, I lost no time, using aerial survey photos and original sketch maps from 1903 and 1913, in pinpointing the probable location of the rock. Wallace's father had reached the site in 1913 the hard way--a six-week canoe and portage trip by way of the perilous Beaver River. A bronze marker intended for the stone was lost in the rapids on the way to the site. At the risk of offending Wallace readers and wilderness paddlers who might notice, Wallace III and I decided that only the helicopter could assure a reasonable chance of success in completing our mission in the time available.

As the late afternoon shadows lengthened in the Susan valley, a place as wild and unspoiled as in Hubbard's day, Forgie put down on a flat rock in the middle of the river, about 35 kilometres above Grand Lake. With the rotor swinging full tilt, Dillon jumped out, splashed across the boulder-strewn riverbed, and retrieved a plastic canister we had cached nearby. Wallace III retrieving cached canister downstream from Hubbard's rock, July, 1973The orange thermos flask contained papers we had prepared in advance of the earlier flight, but were unable to deposit at Hubbard's rock when the search for it was suddenly terminated after our pilot and crew were ordered to return to Goose Bay. Forgie lifted off and dropped us in the bush about two kilometres upstream, close to where I calculated the inscribed boulder lay.

I began a systematic search through the black spruce growth close to the bank of the river while Dillon probed the bush farther inland. Hubbard's rock as found, July, 1973. Streak of white lead visible below letter L of Hubbard's first name. Hubbard's bed of boughs was at right rear, just beyond the haversackA speck of something white caught my eye on the side of a prominent boulder in a small, caribou-moss clearing a few yards from the river's edge.   Practically speechless at my discovery, I managed in a few minutes to shout for Dillon as I knelt before the stone and ran my fingers over the all-but-invisible inscription his father had carved and painted, sixty years before, with a brush made from a tuft of Gilbert Blake's hair.  It was a trace of white lead in the letter "L" of Hubbard's name that had drawn me to the stone.  We were in the upper reaches of Willie Baikie's trapping ground of the 1940s, but clearly no trapper or traveller had passed this way in a very long time--possibly not since 1913.  (Go to page 3)

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