"Goodness," I thought; "here's a predicament," but I didn't know
what to do. I remembered a western adage, "When you don't know a
thing to do, don't do a thing." I only said: "Tell Bezkya to go home,
go to bed, and stay there till to-morrow, then come here again."
Away went the Indian to his lodge. I felt rather uneasy that day
and night, and the next morning looked with some eagerness for the
return of Bezkya. But he did not come and I began to grow unhappy.
I wanted some evidence that I had not done him an injury. I wished
to see him, but professional etiquette forbade me betraying myself
by calling on him. Noon came and no Bezkya; late afternoon, and
then I sallied forth, not to seek him, but to pass near his lodge,
as though I were going to the Hudson's Bay store. And there, to my
horror, about the lodge I saw a group of squaws, with shawls over
their heads, whispering, together. As I went by, all turned as one
of them pointed at me, and again they whispered.
"Oh, heavens!" I thought; "I've killed the old man." But still
I would not go in. That night I did not sleep for worrying about
it. Next morning I was on the point of sending Billy to learn the
state of affairs, when who should come staggering up but old Bezkya.
He was on two crutches now, his complexion was a dirty gray, and
his feeble knees were shaking, but he told Billy--yes, unmistakably
this time--to tell the Okimow that that was great medicine I had
given him, and he wanted a dose just like it for his wife.
CHAPTER XIII
FORT SMITH AND THE SOCIAL QUEEN
Several times during our river journey I heard reference to
an extraordinary woman in the lower country, one who gave herself
great airs, put on style, who was so stuck up, indeed, that she had
"two pots, one for tea, one for coffee." Such incredible pomposity
and arrogance naturally invited sarcastic comment from all the
world, and I was told I should doubtless see this remarkable person
at Fort Smith.
After the return from Buffalo hunt No. 2, and pending arrangements
for hunt No. 3, 1 saw more of Fort Smith than I wished for, but
endeavoured to turn the time to account by copying out interesting
chapters from the rough semi-illegible, perishable manuscript
accounts of northern life called "old-timers." The results of this
library research work appear under the chapter heads to which they
belong.
At each of these northern posts there were interesting experiences
in store for me, as one who had read all the books of northern travel
and dreamed for half a lifetime of the north; and that was--almost
daily meeting with famous men. I suppose it would be similar if
one of these men were to go to London or Washington and have some
one tell him: that gentle old man there is Lord Roberts, or that
meek, shy, retiring person is Speaker Cannon; this on the first
bench is Lloyd-George, or that with the piercing eyes is Aldrich,
the uncrowned King of America. So it was a frequent and delightful
experience to meet with men whose names have figured in books of
travel for a generation. This was Roderick MacFarlane, who founded
Fort Anderson, discovered the MacFarlane Rabbit, etc.; here was
John Schott, who guided Caspar Whitney; that was Hanbury's head
man; here was Murdo McKay, who travelled with Warburton Pike in
the Barrens and starved with him on Peace River; and so with many
more.
Very few of these men had any idea of the interest attaching
to their observations. Their notion of values centres chiefly on
things remote from their daily life. It was very surprising to see
how completely one may be outside of the country he lives in. Thus
I once met a man who had lived sixteen years in northern Ontario,
had had his chickens stolen every year by Foxes, and never in his
life had seen a Fox. I know many men who live in Wolf country, and
hear them at least every week, but have never seen one in twenty
years' experience. Quite recently I saw a score of folk who had
lived in the porcupiniest part of the Adirondacks for many summers
and yet never saw a Porcupine, and did not know what it was when
I brought one into their camp. So it was not surprising to me to
find that although living in a country that swarmed with Moose, in
a village which consumes at least a hundred Moose per annum, there
were at Fort Smith several of the Hudson's Bay men that had lived
on Moose meat all their lives and yet had never seen a live Moose.
It sounds like a New Yorker saying he had never seen a stray cat.
But I was simply dumfounded by a final development in the same line.
Quite the most abundant carpet in the forest here is the uva-ursi
or bear-berry. Its beautiful evergreen leaves and bright red berries
cover a quarter of the ground in dry woods and are found in great
acre beds. It furnishes a staple of food to all wild things, birds
and beasts, including Foxes, Martens, and Coyotes; it is one of the
most abundant of the forest products, and not one hundred yards from
the fort are solid patches as big as farms, and yet when I brought
in a spray to sketch it one day several of the Hudson's Bay officers
said: "Where in the world did you get that? It must be very rare,
for I never yet saw it in this country." A similar remark was made
about a phoebe-bird. "It was never before seen in the country"; and
yet there is a pair nesting every quarter of a mile from Athabaska
Landing to Great Slave Lake.
Fort Smith, being the place of my longest stay, was the scene of
my largest medical practice.
One of my distinguished patients here was Jacob McKay, a half-breed
born on Red River in 1840. He left there in 1859 to live 3 years
at Rat Portage. Then he went to Norway House, and after 3 years
moved to Athabaska in 1865. In 1887 he headed a special government
expedition into the Barren Grounds to get some baby Musk-ox skins.
He left Fort Rae, April 25, 1887, and, travelling due north with
Dogrib Indians some 65 miles, found Musk-ox on May 10, and later
saw many hundreds. They killed 16 calves for their pelts, but no
old ones. McKay had to use all his influence to keep the Indians
from slaughtering wholesale; indeed, it was to restrain them that
he was sent.
He now lives at Fort Resolution.
One morning the chief came and said he wanted me to doctor a sick
woman in his lodge. I thought sick women a good place for an amateur
to draw the line, but Squirrel did not. "Il faut venir; elle est
bien malade."
At length I took my pill-kit and followed him. Around his lodge
were a score of the huge sled dogs, valuable animals in winter,
but useless, sullen, starving, noisy nuisances all summer. If you
kick them out of your way, they respect you; if you pity them, they
bite you. They respected us.
We entered the lodge, and there sitting by the fire were two squaws
making moccasins. One was old and ugly as sin; the second, young
and pretty as a brown fawn. I looked from one to the other in doubt,
and said:
"Laquelle est la malade?"
Then the pretty one replied in perfect English: "You needn't talk
French here; I speak English,' which she certainly did. French is
mostly used, but the few that speak English are very proud of it
and are careful to let you know.
"Are you ill?" I asked.
"The chief thinks I am," was the somewhat impatient reply, and she
broke down in a coughing fit.
"How long have you had that?" I said gravely.
"What?"
I tapped my chest for reply.
"Oh! since last spring."
"And you had it the spring before, too, didn't you?"
"Why, yes! (a pause). But that isn't what bothers me."
"Isn't your husband kind to you?"
"Yes--sometimes."
"Is this your husband?"
"No! F----- B----- is; I am K-----."
Again she was interrupted by coughing.
"Would you like something to ease that cough?" I asked.
"No! It isn't the body that's sick; it's the heart."
"Do you wish to tell me about it?"
"I lost my babies."
"'When?"
"Two years ago. I had two little ones, and both died in one month.
I am left much alone; my husband is away on the transport; our
lodge is nearby. The chief has all these dogs; they bark at every
little thing and disturb me, so I lie awake all night and think
about my babies. But that isn't the hardest thing."
"What is it?"
She hesitated, then burst out: "The tongues of the women. You don't
know what a hell of a place this is to live in. The women here don't
mind their work; they sit all day watching for a chance to lie about
their neighbours. If I am seen talking to you now, a story will be
made of it. If I walk to the store for a pound of tea, a story is
made of that. If I turn my head, another story; and everything is
carried to my husband to make mischief. It is nothing but lies,
lies, lies, all day, all night, all year. Women don't do that way
in your country, do they?"
"No," I replied emphatically. "If any woman in my country were
to tell a lie to make another woman unhappy, she would be thought
very, very wicked."
"I am sure of it," she said. "I wish I could go to your country
and be at rest." She turned to her work and began talking to the
others in Chipewyan.
Now another woman entered. She was dressed in semi-white style,
and looked, not on the ground, as does an Indian woman, on seeing
a strange man, but straight at me.
"Bon jour, madame," I said.
"I speak Ingliss," she replied with emphasis.
"Indeed! And what is your name?"
"I am Madame X-------."
And now I knew I was in the presence of the stuckup social queen.
After some conversation she said: "I have some things at home you
like to see."
"Where is your lodge?" I asked.
"Lodge," she replied indignantly; "I have no lodge. I know ze Indian
way. I know ze half-breed way. I know ze white man's way. I go ze
white man's way. I live in a house--and my door is painted blue."
I went to her house, a 10 by 12 log cabin; but the door certainly
was painted blue, a gorgeous sky blue, the only touch of paint in
sight. Inside was all one room, with a mud fireplace at one end
and some piles of rags in the corners for beds, a table, a chair,
and some pots. On the walls snow-shoes, fishing-lines, dried fish
in smellable bunches, a portrait of the Okapi from Outing, and a
musical clock that played with painful persistence the first three
bars of "God Save the King." Everywhere else were rags, mud, and
dirt. "You see, I am joost like a white woman," said the swarthy
queen. "I wear boots (she drew her bare brown feet and legs under
her) and corsets. Zey are la," and she pointed to the wall, where,
in very truth, tied up with a bundle of dried fish, were the articles
in question. Not simply boots and corsets, but high-heeled Louis
Quinze slippers and French corsets. I learned afterward how they
were worn. When she went shopping to the H. B. Co. store she had
to cross the "parade" ground, the great open space; she crowded her
brown broad feet into the slippers, then taking a final good long
breath she strapped on the fearfully tight corsets outside of all.
Now she hobbled painfully across the open, proudly conscious that
the eyes of the world were upon her. Once in the store she would
unhook the corsets and breathe comfortably till the agonized
triumphant return parade was in order.
This, however, is aside; we are still in the home of the queen. She
continued to adduce new evidences. "I am just like a white woman.
I call my daughter darrr-leeng." Then turning to a fat, black-looking
squaw by the fire, she said: "Darrr-leeng, go fetch a pail of
vaw-taire."
But darling, if familiar with that form of address, must have been
slumbering, for she never turned or moved a hair's-breadth or gave
a symptom of intelligence. Now, at length it transpired that the
social leader wished to see me professionally.
"It is ze nairves," she explained. "Zere is too much going on in
this village. I am fatigue, very tired. I wish I could go away to
some quiet place for a long rest."
It was difficult to think of a place, short of the silent tomb,
that would be obviously quieter than Fort Smith. So I looked wise,
worked on her faith with a pill, assured her that she would soon
feel much better, and closed the blue door behind me.
With Chief Squirrel, who had been close by in most of this, I now
walked back to my tent. He told me of many sick folk and sad lodges
that needed me.
It seems that very few of these people are well. In spite of their
healthy forest lives they are far less sound than an average white
community. They have their own troubles, with the white man's maladies
thrown in. I saw numberless other cases of dreadful, hopeless,
devastating diseases, mostly of the white man's importation. It is
heart-rending to see so much human misery and be able to do nothing
at all for it, not even bring a gleam of hope. It made me feel like
a murderer to tell one after another, who came to me covered with
cankerous bone-eating sores, "I can do nothing"; and I was deeply
touched by the simple statement of the Chief Pierre Squirrel, after
a round of visits: "You see how unhappy we are, how miserable and
sick. When I made this treaty with your government, I stipulated
that we should have here a policeman and a doctor; instead of that
you have sent nothing but missionaries."
CHAPTER XIV
RABBITS AND LYNXES IN THE NORTH-WEST
There are no Rabbits in the north-west. This statement, far from
final, is practically true to-day, but I saw plenty of Lynxes, and
one cannot write of ducks without mentioning water.
All wild animals fluctuate greatly in their population, none
more so than the Snowshoe or white-rabbit of the north-west. This
is Rabbit history as far back as known: They are spread over some
great area; conditions are favourable; some unknown influence endows
the females with unusual fecundity; they bear not one, but two or
three broods in a season, and these number not 2 or 3, but 8 or 10
each brood. The species increases far beyond the powers of predaceous
birds or beasts to check, and the Rabbits after 7 or 8 years of
this are multiplied into untold millions. On such occasions every
little thicket has a Rabbit in it; they jump out at every 8 or 10
feet; they number not less than 100 to the acre on desirable ground,
which means over 6,000 to the square mile, and a region as large as
Alberta would contain not less than 100,000,000 fat white bunnies.
At this time one man can readily kill 100 or 200 Rabbits in a day,
and every bird and beast of prey is slaughtering Rabbits without
restraint. Still they increase. Finally, they are so extraordinarily
superabundant that they threaten their own food supply as well as
poison all the ground. A new influence appears on the scene; it is
commonly called the plague, though it is not one disease but many
run epidemic riot, and, in a few weeks usually, the Rabbits are
wiped out.
This is an outline of the established routine in Rabbit vital
statistics. It, of course, varies greatly in every detail, including
time and extent of territory involved, and when the destruction is
complete it is an awful thing for the carnivores that have lived
on the bunny millions and multiplied in ratio with their abundance.
Of all the northern creatures none are more dependent on the Rabbits
than is the Canada Lynx. It lives on Rabbits, follows the Rabbits,
thinks Rabbits, tastes like Rabbits, increases with them, and on
their failure dies of starvation in the unrabbited woods.
It must have been a Hibernian familiar with the north that said:
"A Lynx is nothing but an animated Rabbit anyway."
The Rabbits of the Mackenzie River Valley reached their flood
height in the winter of 1903-4. That season, it seems, they actually
reached billions.
Late the same winter the plague appeared, but did not take them at
one final swoop. Next winter they were still numerous, but in 1907
there seemed not one Rabbit left alive in the country. All that
summer we sought for them and inquired for them. We saw signs of
millions in the season gone by; everywhere were acres of saplings
barked at the snow-line; the floor of the woods, in all parts visited,
was pebbled over with pellets; but we saw not one Woodrabbit and
heard only a vague report of 3 that an Indian claimed he had seen
in a remote part of the region late in the fall.
Then, since the Lynx is the logical apex of a pyramid of Rabbits,
it naturally goes down when the Rabbits are removed.
These bobtailed cats are actually starving and ready to enter
any kind of a trap or snare that carries a bait. The slaughter of
Lynxes in its relation to the Rabbit supply is shown by the H. B.
Company fur returns as follows:
In 1900, number of skins taken 4,473
" 1901 " 5,781
" 1902 " 9,117
" 1903 " 19,267
" 1904 " 36,116
" 1905 " 58,850
" 1906 " 61,388
" 1907 " 36,201
" 1908 " 9,664
Remembering, then, that the last of the Rabbits were wiped out in
the winter of 1906-7, it will be understood that there were thousands
of starving Lynxes roaming about the country. The number that we
saw, and their conditions, all helped to emphasise the dire story
of plague and famine.
Some of my notes are as follows:
May 18th, Athabaska River, on roof of a trapper's hut found the
bodies of 30 Lynxes.
May 19th, young Lynx shot to-day, female, very thin, weighed only
12 1/2 lbs., should have weighed 25. In its stomach nothing but
the tail of a white-footed mouse. Liver somewhat diseased. In its
bowels at least one tapeworm.
June 3d, a young male Lynx shot to-day by one of the police boys,
as previously recorded. Starving; it weighed only 15 lbs.
June 6th, adult female Lynx killed, weighed 15 lbs.; stomach contained
a Redsquirrel, a Chipmunk, and a Bog-lemming. (Synaptomys borealis.)
June 18th, young male Lynx, weight 13 lbs., shot by Preble on Smith
Landing; had in its stomach a Chipmunk (borealis) and 4 small young
of the same, apparently a week old; also a score of pinworms. How
did it get the Chipmunk family without digging them out?
June 26th, on Salt Mt. found the dried-up body of a Lynx firmly
held in a Bear trap.
June 29th, one of the Jarvis bear-cub skins was destroyed by the
dogs, except a dried-up paw, which he threw out yesterday. This
morning one of the men shot a starving Lynx in camp. Its stomach
contained nothing but the bear paw thrown out last night.
These are a few of my observations; they reflect the general
condition--all were starving. Not one of them had any Rabbit in its
stomach; not one had a bellyful; none of the females were bearing
young this year.
To embellish these severe and skeletal notes, I add some incidents
supplied by various hunters of the north.
Let us remember that the Lynx is a huge cat weighing 25 to 35 or
even 40 lbs., that it is an ordinary cat multiplied by some 4 or
5 diameters, and we shall have a good foundation for comprehension.
Murdo McKay has often seen 2 or 3 Lynxes together in March, the
mating season. They fight, and caterwaul like a lot of tomcats.
The uncatlike readiness of the Lynx to take to water is well known;
that it is not wholly at home there is shown by the fact that if
one awaits a Lynx at the landing he is making for, he will not turn
aside in the least, but come right on to land, fight, and usually
perish.
The ancient feud between cat and dog is not forgotten in the north,
for the Lynx is the deadly foe of the Fox and habitually kills it
when there is soft snow and scarcity of easier prey. Its broad feet
are snowshoes enabling it to trot over the surface on Reynard's
trail. The latter easily runs away at first, but sinking deeply
at each bound, his great speed is done in 15 or 6 miles; the Lynx
keeps on the same steady trot and finally claims its victim.
John Bellecourt related that in the January of 1907, at a place 40
miles south of Smith Landing, he saw in the snow where a Lynx bad
run down and devoured a Fox.
A contribution by T. Anderson runs thus:
In late March, 1907, an Indian named Amil killed a Caribou near
Fort Rae. During his absence a Lynx came along and gorged itself
with the meat, then lay down alongside to sleep. A Silver Fox came
next; but the Lynx sprang on him and killed him. When Amil came
back he found the Fox and got a large sum for the skin; one shoulder
was torn. He did not see the Lynx but saw the tracks.
The same old-timer is authority for a case in which the tables were
turned.
A Desert Indian on the headwaters of the Gatineau went out in the
early spring looking for Beaver. At a well-known pond he saw a
Lynx crouching on a log, watching the Beaver hole in the ice. The
Indian waited. At length a Beaver came up cautiously and crawled
out to a near bunch of willows; the Lynx sprang, but the Beaver
was well under way and dived into the hole with the Lynx hanging
to him. After a time the Indian took a crotched pole and fished
about under the ice; at last he found something soft and got it
out; it was the Lynx drowned.
Belalise ascribes another notable achievement to this animal.
One winter when hunting Caribou near Fond du Lac with an Indian
named Tenahoo (human tooth), they saw a Lynx sneaking along after
some Caribou; they saw it coming but had not sense enough to run
away. It sprang on the neck of a young buck; the buck bounded away
with the Lynx riding, but soon fell dead. The hunters came up;
the Lynx ran off. There was little blood and no large wound on the
buck; probably its neck was broken. The Indian said the Lynx always
kills with its paw, and commonly kills Deer. David MacPherson
corroborates this and maintains that on occasion it will even kill
Moose.
In southern settlements, where the Lynx is little known, it is
painted as a fearsome beast of limitless ferocity, strength, and
activity. In the north, where it abounds and furnishes staple furs
and meat, it is held in no such awe. It is never known to attack
man. It often follows his trail out of curiosity, and often the
trapper who is so followed gets the Lynx by waiting in ambush; then
it is easily killed with a charge of duck-shot. When caught in a
snare a very small club is used to "add it to the list." It seems
tremendously active among logs and brush piles, but on the level
ground its speed is poor, and a good runner can overtake one in a
few hundred yards.
David MacPherson says that last summer he ran down a Lynx on a
prairie of Willow River (Mackenzie), near Providence. It had some
90 yards start; he ran it down in about a mile, then it turned to
fight and he shot it.
Other instances have been recorded, and finally, as noted later,
I was eye-witness of one of these exploits. Since the creature can
be run down on hard ground, it is not surprising to learn that men
on snow-shoes commonly pursue it successfully. As long as it trots
it is safe, but when it gets alarmed and bounds it sinks and becomes
exhausted. It runs in a circle of about a mile, and at last takes
to a tree where it is easily killed. At least one-third are taken
in this way; it requires half an hour to an hour, there must be
soft snow, and the Lynx must be scared so he leaps; then he sinks;
if not scared he glides along on his hairy snow-shoes, refuses
to tree, and escapes in thick woods, where the men cannot follow
quickly.
CHAPTER XV
EBB AND FLOW OF ANIMAL LIFE
Throughout this voyage we were struck by the rarity of some sorts
of animals and the continual remarks that three, five, or six years
ago these same sorts were extremely abundant; and in some few cases
the conditions were reversed.
For example, during a week spent at Fort Smith, Preble had out a
line of 50 mouse-traps every night and caught only one Shrew and
one Meadowmouse in the week. Four years before he had trapped on
exactly the same ground, catching 30 or 40 Meadowmice every night.
Again, in 1904 it was possible to see 100 Muskrats any fine evening.
In 1907, though continually on the lookout, I saw less than a score
in six months. Redsquirrels varied in the same way.
Of course, the Rabbits themselves were the extreme case, millions
in 1904, none at all in 1907. The present, then, was a year of low
ebb. The first task was to determine whether this related to all
mammalian life. Apparently not, because Deermice, Lynxes, Beaver,
and Caribou were abundant. Yet these are not their maximum years;
the accounts show them to have been so much more numerous last
year.
There is only one continuous statistical record of the abundance
of animals, that is the returns of the fur trade. These have been
kept for over 200 years, and if we begin after the whole continent
was covered by fur-traders, they are an accurate gauge of the
abundance of each species. Obviously, this must be so, for the whole
country is trapped over every year, all the furs are marketed, most
of them through the Hudson's Bay Company, and whatever falls into
other hands is about the same percentage each year, therefore the
H. B. Co. returns are an accurate gauge of the relative rise and
fall of the population.
Through the courtesy of its officials I have secured the Company's
returns for the 85 years--1821-1905 inclusive. I take 1821 as the
starting-point, as that was the first year when the whole region
was covered by the Hudson's Bay Company to the exclusion of all
important rivals.
First, I have given these accounts graphic tabulation, and at once
many interesting facts are presented to the eye. The Rabbit line
prior to 1845 is not reliable. Its subsequent close coincidence
with that of Lynx, Marten, Skunk, and Fox is evidently cause and
effect.
The Mink coincides fairly well with Skunk and Marten.
The Muskrat's variation probably has relation chiefly to the amount
of water, which, as is well known, is cyclic in the north-West.
The general resemblance of Beaver and Otter lines may not mean
anything. If, as said, the Otter occasionally preys on the Beaver,
these lines should in some degree correspond.
The Wolf line does not manifest any special relationship and seems
to be in a class by itself. The great destruction from 1840 to 1870
was probably due to strychnine, newly introduced about then.
The Bear, Badger, and Wolverine go along with little variation.
Probably the Coon does the same; the enormous rise in 1867 from
an average of 3,500 per annum. to 24,000 was most likely a result
of accidental accumulation and not representative of any special
abundance. Finally, each and every line manifests extraordinary
variability in the '30's. It is not to be supposed that the
population fluctuated so enormously from one year to another, but
rather that the facilities for export were irregular.
The case is further complicated by the fact that some of the totals
represent part of this year and part of last; nevertheless, upon
the whole, the following general principles are deducible:
(a) The high points for each species are with fair regularity 10
years apart.
(b) In the different species these are not exactly coincident.
(c) To explain the variations we must seek not the reason for the
increase--that is normal--but for the destructive agency that ended
the increase.
This is different in three different groups.
First. The group whose food and enemies fluctuate but little. The
only examples of this on our list are the Muskrat and Beaver, more
especially the Muskrat. Its destruction seems to be due to a sudden
great rise of the water after the ice has formed, so that the Rats
are drowned; or to a dry season followed by severe frost, freezing
most ponds to the bottom, so that the Rats are imprisoned and starve
to death, or are forced out to cross the country in winter, and so
are brought within the power of innumerable enemies.
How tremendously this operates may be judged by these facts. In
1900 along the Mackenzie I was assured one could shoot 20 Muskrats
in an hour after sundown. Next winter the flood followed the
frost and the Rats seemed to have been wiped out. In 1907 1 spent
6 months outdoors in the region and saw only 17 Muskrats the whole
time; in 1901 the H. B. Co. exported over 11 millions; in 1907,
407,472. The fact that they totalled as high was due, no doubt, to
their abundance in eastern regions not affected by the disaster.
Second. The group that increases till epidemic disease attacks
their excessively multiplied hordes. The Snowshoe-Rabbit is the
only well-known case today, but there is reason for the belief that
once the Beaver were subjected to a similar process. Concerning the
Mice and Lemmings, I have not complete data, but they are believed
to multiply and suffer in the same, way.
Third. The purely carnivorous, whose existence is dependent on the
Rabbits. This includes chiefly the Lynx and Fox, but in less degree
all the small carnivores.
In some cases such as the Marten, over-feeding seems as inimical
to multiplication as under-feeding, and it will be seen that each
year of great increase for this species coincided with a medium
year for Rabbits.
But the fundamental and phenomenal case is that of the Rabbits
themselves. And in solving this we are confronted by the generally
attested facts that when on the increase they have two or three
broods each season and 8 to 10 in a brood; when they are decreasing
they have but one brood and only 2 or 3 in that. This points to some
obscure agency at work; whether it refers simply to the physical
vigour of the fact, or to some uncomprehended magnetic or heliological
cycle, is utterly unknown.
The practical consideration for the collecting naturalist is this:
Beaver, Muskrat, Otter, Fisher, Raccoon, Badger, Wolverine, Wolf,
Marten, Fox reached the low ebb in 1904-5. All are on the upgrade;
presumably the same applies to the small rodents. Their decacycle
will be complete in 1914-15, so that 1910-11 should be the years
selected by the next collecting naturalist who would visit the
north.
For those who will enter before that there is a reasonable prospect
of all these species in fair numbers, except perhaps the Lynx and
the Caribou. Evidently the former must be near minimum now (1909)
and the latter would be scarce, if it is subject to the rule of the
decacycle, though it is not at all proven that such is the case.
CHAPTER XVI
THE PELICAN TRIP
We were still held back by the dilatory ways of our Indian friends,
so to lose no time Preble and I determined to investigate a Pelican
rookery.
Most persons associate the name Pelican with tropic lands and
fish, but ornithologists have long known that in the interior of
the continent the great white Pelican ranges nearly or quite to
the Arctic circle. The northmost colony on record was found on an
island of Great Slave Lake (see Preble, "N.A. Fauna," 27), but this
is a very small one. The northmost large colony, and the one made
famous by travellers from Alexander Mackenzie downward, is on the
great island that splits the Smith Rapids above Fort Smith. Here,
with a raging flood about their rocky citadel, they are safe from
all spoilers that travel on the earth; only a few birds of the air
need they fear, and these they have strength to repel.
On June 22 we set out to explore this. Preble, Billy, and myself,
with our canoe on a wagon, drove 6 miles back on the landing trail
and launched the canoe on the still water above Mountain Portage.
Pelican Island must be approached exactly right, in the comparatively
slow water above the rocky island, for 20 feet away on each side
is an irresistible current leading into a sure-death cataract. But
Billy was a river pilot and we made the point in safety.
Drifted like snow through the distant woods were the brooding birds,
but they arose before we were near and sailed splendidly overhead
in a sweeping, wide-fronted rank. As nearly as I could number them,
there were 120, but evidently some were elsewhere, as this would
not allow a pair to each nest.
We landed safely and found the nests scattered among the trees and
fallen timbers. One or two mother birds ran off on foot, but took
wing as soon as clear of the woods--none remained.
The nests numbered 77, and there was evidence of others long
abandoned. There were 163 eggs, not counting 5 rotten ones, lying
outside; nearly all had 2 eggs in the nest; 3 had 4; 5 had 3; 4 had
1. One or two shells were found in the woods, evidently sucked by
Gulls or Ravens.
All in the nests were near hatching. One little one had his beak
out and was uttering a hoarse chirping; a dozen blue-bottle flies
around the hole in the shell were laying their eggs in it and
on his beak., This led us to examine all the nests that the flies
were buzzing around, and in each case (six) we found the same state
of affairs, a young one with his beak out and the flies "blowing"
around it. All of these were together in one corner, where were a
dozen nests, probably another colony of earlier arrival.
We took about a dozen photos of the place (large and small). Then
I set my camera with the long tube to get the old ones, and we went
to lunch at the other end of the island. It was densely wooded and
about an acre in extent, so we thought we should be forgotten. The
old ones circled high overhead but at last dropped, I thought, back
to the nests. After an hour and a half I returned to the ambush;
not a Pelican was there. Two Ravens flew high over, but the Pelicans
were far away, and all as when we went away, leaving the young to
struggle or get a death-chill as they might. So much for the pious
Pelican, the emblem of reckless devotion--a common, dirty little
cock Sparrow would put them all to shame.
We brought away only the 5 rotten eggs. About half of the old
Pelicans had horns on the bill.
On the island we saw a flock of White-winged Crossbills and heard
a Song-sparrow. Gulls were seen about. The white spruce cones littered
the ground and were full of seed, showing that no Redsquirrel was
on the island.
We left successfully by dashing out exactly as we came, between
the two dangerous currents, and got well away.
CHAPTER XVII
THE THIRD BUFFALO HUNT
The Indians are simply large children, and further, no matter how
reasonable your proposition, they take a long time to consider it
and are subject to all kinds of mental revulsion. So we were lucky
to get away from Fort Smith on July 4 with young Francois Bezkya
as guide. He was a full-blooded Chipewyan Indian, so full that he
had knowledge of no other tongue, and Billy had to be go-between.
Bezkya, the son of my old patient, came well recommended as a good
man and a moose-hunter. A "good man" means a strong, steady worker,
as canoeman or portager. He may be morally the vilest outcast unhung;
that in no wise modifies the phrase "he is a good man." But more:
the present was a moosehunter; this is a wonderfully pregnant phrase.
Moose-hunting by fair stalking is the pinnacle of woodcraft. The
Crees alone, as a tribe, are supposed to be masters of the art;
but many of the Chipewyans are highly successful. One must be a
consummate trailer, a good shot, have tireless limbs and wind and
a complete knowledge of the animal's habits and ways of moving and
thinking. One must watch the wind, without ceasing, for no hunter
has the slightest chance of success if once the Moose should scent
him. This last is fundamental, a three-times sacred principle. Not
long ago one of these Chipewyans went to confessional. Although a
year had passed since last he got cleaned up, he could think of
nothing to confess. Oh! spotless soul! However, under pressure of
the priest, he at length remembered a black transgression. The fall
before, while hunting, he went to the windward of a thicket that seemed
likely to hold his Moose, because on the lee, the proper side, the
footing happened to be very bad, and so he lost his Moose. Yes!
there was indeed a dark shadow on his recent past.
A man may be a good hunter, i.e., an all-round trapper and woodman,
but not a moose-hunter. At Fort Smith are two or three scores of
hunters, and yet I am told there are only three moose-hunters. The
phrase is not usually qualified; he is, or is not, a moose-hunter.
Just as a man is, or is not, an Oxford M.A. The force, then, of
the phrase appears, and we were content to learn that young Bezkya,
besides knowing the Buffalo country, was also a good man and a
moose-hunter.
We set out in two canoes, Bezkya and Jarvis in the small one, Billy,
Selig, Preble, and I in the large one, leaving the other police
boys to make Fort Resolution in the H. B. steamer.
Being the 4th of July, the usual torrential rains set in. During
the worst of it we put in at Salt River village. It was amusing
to see the rubbish about the doors of these temporarily deserted
cabins. The midden-heaps of the Cave-men are our principal sources
of information about those by-gone races; the future ethnologist who
discovers Salt River midden-heaps will find all the usual skulls,
bones, jaws, teeth, flints, etc., mixed with moccasin beads from
Venice, brass cartridges from New England, broken mirrors from
France, Eley cap-boxes from London, copper rings, silver pins,
lead bullets, and pewter spoons, and interpersed with them bits of
telephone wires and the fragments of gramophone discs. I wonder
what they will make of the last!
Eight miles farther we camped in the rain, reaching the Buffalo
Portage next morning at 10, and had everything over its 5 miles by
7 o'clock at night.
It is easily set down on paper, but the uninitiated can scarcely
realise the fearful toil of portaging. If you are an office man,
suppose you take an angular box weighing 20 or 30 pounds; if a
farmer, double the weight, poise it on your shoulders or otherwise,
as you please, and carry it half a mile on a level pavement in
cool, bright weather, and I am mistaken if you do not find yourself
suffering horribly before the end of a quarter-mile; the last part
of the trip will have been made in something like mortal agony.
Remember, then, that each of these portagers was carrying 150 to
250 pounds of broken stuff, not half a mile, but several miles,
not on level pavement, but over broken rocks, up banks, through
quagmires and brush--in short, across ground that would be difficult
walking without any burden, and not in cool, clear weather, but through
stifling swamps with no free hand to ease the myriad punctures of
his body, face, and limbs whenever unsufficiently protected from
the stingers that roam in clouds. It is the hardest work I ever
saw performed by human beings; the burdens are heavier than some
men will allow their horses to carry.
Yet all this frightful labour was cheerfully gone through by white
men, half-breeds, and Indians alike. They accept it as a part of
their daily routine. This fact alone is enough to guarantee the
industrial future of the red-man when the hunter life is no longer
possible.
Next day we embarked on the Little Buffalo River, beginning what
should have been and would have been a trip of memorable joys but
for the awful, awful, awful--see Chapter IX.
The Little Buffalo is the most beautiful river in the whole world
except, perhaps, its affluent, the Nyarling.
This statement sounds like the exaggeration of mere impulsive
utterance. Perhaps it is; but I am writing now after thinking the
matter over for two and a half years, during, which time I have
seen a thousand others, including the upper Thames, the Afton, the
Seine, the Arno, the Tiber, the Iser, the Spree, and the Rhine.
A hundred miles long is this uncharted stream; fifty feet its breadth
of limpid tide; eight feet deep, crystal clear, calm, slow, and
deep to the margin. A steamer could ply on its placid, unobstructed
flood, a child could navigate it anywhere. The heavenly beauty of
the shores, with virgin forest of fresh, green spruces towering a
hundred feet on every side, or varied in open places with long rows
and thick-set hedges of the gorgeous, wild, red, Athabaska rose,
made a stream that most canoemen, woodmen, and naturalists would
think without a fault or flaw, and with every river beauty in its
highest possible degree. Not trees and flood alone had strenuous
power to win our souls; at every point and bank, in every bend,
were living creatures of the north, Beaver and Bear, not often seen
but abundant; Moose tracks showed from time to time and birds were
here in thousands. Rare winter birds, as we had long been taught
to think them in our southern homes; here we found them in their
native land and heard not a few sweet melodies, of which in faraway
Ontario, New Jersey, and Maryland we had been favoured only with
promising scraps when wintry clouds were broken by the sun. Nor were
the old familiar ones away--Flicker, Sapsucker, Hairy Woodpecker,
Kingfisher, Least Flycatcher, Alder Flycatcher, Robin, Crow, and
Horned Owl were here to mingle their noises with the stranger melodies
and calls of Lincoln Sparrow, Fox Sparrow, Olive-sided Flycatcher,
Snipe, Rusty Blackbird, and Bohemian Waxwing.
Never elsewhere have I seen Horned Owls so plentiful. I did not know
that there were so many Bear and Beaver left; I never was so much
impressed by the inspiring raucous clamour of the Cranes, the
continual spatter of Ducks, the cries of Gulls and Yellowlegs.
Hour after hour we paddled down that stately river adding our 3
1/2 miles to its 1 mile speed; each turn brought to view some new
and lovelier aspect of bird and forest life. I never knew a land
of balmier air; I never felt the piney breeze more sweet; nowhere
but in the higher mountains is there such a tonic sense abroad;
the bright woods and river reaches were eloquent of a clime whose
maladies are mostly foreign-born. But alas! I had to view it all
swaddled, body, hands, and head, like a bee-man handling his swarms.
Songs were muffled, scenes were dimmed by the thick, protecting,
suffocating veil without which men can scarcely live.
Ten billion dollars would be all too small reward, a trifle totally
inadequate to compensate, mere nominal recognition of the man who
shall invent and realise a scheme to save this earthly paradise
from this its damning pest and malediction.
CHAPTER XVIII
DOWN TO FUNDAMENTALS
At 8.30 A. M., 10 miles from the portage, we came to the Clew-ee,
or White Fish River; at 6.30 P. M. made the Sass Tessi, or Bear
River, and here camped, having covered fully 40 miles.
Now for the first time we were all together, with leisure to
question our guide and plan in detail. But all our mirth and hopes
were rudely checked by Corporal Selig, who had entire charge of
the commissary, announcing that there were only two days' rations
left.
In the dead calm that followed this bomb-shell we all did some
thinking; then a rapid fire of questions demonstrated the danger
of having a guide who does not speak our language.
It seems that when asked how many days' rations we should take on
this Buffalo hunt he got the idea how many days to the Buffalo. He
said five, meaning five days each way and as much time as we wished
there. We were still two days from our goal. Now what should we
do? Scurry back to the fort or go ahead and trust to luck? Every
man present voted "go ahead on half rations."
We had good, healthy appetites; half rations was veritable hardship;
but our hollow insides made hearty laughing. Preble disappeared
as soon as we camped, and now at the right time he returned and
silently threw at the cook's feet a big 6-pound Pike. It was just
right, exactly as it happens in the most satisfactory books and plays.
It seems that he always carried a spoon-hook, and went at once to
what he rightly judged the best place, a pool at the junction of
the two rivers. The first time he threw he captured the big fellow.
Later he captured three smaller ones in the same place, but evidently
there were no more.
That night we had a glorious feast; every one had as much as he
could eat, chiefly fish. Next morning we went on 4 1/2 miles farther,
then came to the mouth of the Nyarling Tessi, or Underground River,
that joins the Buffalo from the west. This was our stream; this
was the highway to the Buffalo country. It was a miniature of the
river we were leaving, but a little quicker in current. In about
2 miles we came to a rapid, but were able to paddle up. About 6
miles farther was an immense and ancient log-jamb that filled the
stream from bank to bank for 190 yards. What will be the ultimate
history of this jamb? It is added to each year, the floods have no
power to move it, logs in water practically never rot, there is no
prospect of it being removed by natural agencies. I suspect that
at its head the river comes out of a succession of such things,
whence its name Underground River.,
Around this jamb is an easy portage. We were far now from the haunts
of any but Indians on the winter hunt, so were surprised to see on
this portage trail the deep imprints of a white man's boot. These
were made apparently within a week, by whom I never learned. On the
bank not far away we saw a Lynx pursued overhead by two scolding
Redsquirrels.
Lunch consisted of what remained of the Pike, but that afternoon
Bezkya saw two Brown Cranes on a meadow, and manoeuvring till they
were in line killed both with one shot of his rifle at over 100
yards, the best shot I ever knew an Indian to make. Still, two
Cranes totalling 16 pounds gross is not enough meat to last five
men a week, so we turned to our Moosehunter.
"Yes, he could get a Moose." He went on in the small canoe with
Billy; we were to follow, and if we passed his canoe leave a note.
Seven miles above the log-jamb, the river forked south and west;
here a note from the guide sent us up the South Fork; later we
passed his canoe on the bank and knew that he had landed and was
surely on his way "to market." What a comfortable feeling it was to
remember that Bezkya was a moose-hunter! We left word and travelled
till 7, having come 11 miles up from the river's mouth. Our supper
that night was Crane, a little piece of bread each, some soup, and
some tea.
At 10 the hunters came back empty-handed. Yes, they found a fresh
Moose track, but the creature was so pestered by clouds of --------
that he travelled continually as fast as he could against the wind.
They followed all day but could not overtake him. They saw a Beaver
but failed to get it. No other game was found.
Things were getting serious now, since all our food consisted of
1 Crane, 1 tin of brawn, 1 pound of bread, 2 pounds of pork, with
some tea, coffee, and sugar, not more than one square meal for
the crowd, and we were 5 men far from supplies, unless our hunting
proved successful, and going farther every day.
Next morning (July 9) each man had coffee, one lady's finger
of bread, and a single small slice of bacon. Hitherto from choice
I had not eaten bacon in this country, although it was a regular
staple served at each meal. But now, with proper human perversity,
I developed an extraordinary appetite for bacon. It seemed quite
the most delicious gift of God to man. Given bacon, and I was ready
to forgo all other foods. Nevertheless, we had divided the last of
it. I cut my slice in two, revelled in half, then secretly wrapped
the other piece in paper and hid it in the watch-pocket of my
vest, thinking "the time is in sight when the whole crowd will be
thankful to have that scrap of bacon among them." (As a matter of
fact, they never got it, for five days later we found a starving
dog and he was so utterly miserable that he conjured that scrap
from the pocket next my heart.)
We were face to face with something like starvation now; the game
seemed to shun us and our store of victuals was done. Yet no one
talked of giving up or going back. We set out to reach the Buffalo
country, and reach it we would.
That morning we got 7 little Teal, so our lunch was sure, but
straight Teal without accompaniments is not very satisfying; we
all went very hungry. And with one mind we all thought and talked
about the good dinners or specially fine food we once had had.
Selig's dream of bliss was a porterhouse steak with a glass of foaming
beer; Jarvis thought champagne and roast turkey spelt heaven just
then; I thought of my home breakfasts and the Beaux-Arts at New
York; but Billy said he would he perfectly happy if he could have
one whole bannock all to himself. Preble said nothing.
CHAPTER XIX
WHITE MAN AND RED. MEAT, BUT NOTHING MORE
There was plenty of hollow hilarity but no word of turning back.
But hold! yes, there was. There was one visage that darkened more
each day, and finally the gloomy thoughts broke forth in words
from the lips of--our Indian guide. His recent sullen silence was
now changed to open and rebellious upbraiding.
He didn't come here to starve. He could do that at home. He was
induced to come by a promise of plenty of flour. "All of which was
perfectly true. But," he went on, "We were still 11 days from the
Buffalo and we were near the head of navigation; it was a case
of tramp through the swamp with our beds and guns, living on the
country as we went, and if we didn't have luck the Coyotes and
Ravens would."
Before we had time to discuss this prospect, a deciding step was
announced, by Jarvis, He was under positive orders to catch the
steamer Wrigley at Fort Resolution on the evening of July 10. It was
now mid-day of July 9, and only by leaving at once and travelling
all night could he cover the intervening 60 miles.
So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for
"Bezkya was a moose-hunter."
Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe.
We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat;
they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when
we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a
journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were
so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we
waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.
Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a
council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any
cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically,
I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the
outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days
had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on
foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food.
A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from
the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited
Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.
