First, of the Indian destruction. In 1812 the Chipewyan population,
according to Kennicott, was 7,500. Thomas Anderson, of Fort Smith,
showed me a census of the Mackenzie River Indians, which put them
at 3,961 in 1884. Official returns of the Canadian government give
them in 1905 at 3,411, as follows:
Peel . . . . . . . . . . 400
Arctic Red River . . . . . . 100
Good Hope . . . . . . . . 500
Norman . . . . . . . . . 300
Wrigley . . . . . . . . . 100
Simpson . . . . . . . . . 300
Rae . . . . . . . . . . 800
Liard and Nelson . . . . . . 400
Yellowknives . . . . . . . 151
Dogribs . . . . . . . . . 123
Chipewyans . . . . . . . . 123
Hay River . . . . . . . . 114
-----
3,411
Of these the Hay River and Liard Indians, numbering about 500, can
scarcely be considered Caribou-eaters, so that the Indian population
feeding on Caribou to-day is about 3,000, less than half what it
was 100 years ago.
Of these not more than 600 are hunters. The traders generally agree
that the average annual kill of Caribou is about 10 or 20 per man,
not more. When George Sanderson, of Fort Resolution, got 75 one
year, it was the talk of the country; many got none. Thus 20,000
per annum killed by the Indians is a liberal estimate to-day.
There has been so much talk about destruction by whalers that I
was careful to gather all available information. Several travellers
who had visited Hershell Island told me that four is the usual
number of whalers that winter in the north-east of Point Barrow.
Sometimes, but rarely, the number is increased to eight or ten,
never more. They buy what Caribou they can from Eskimo, sometimes
aggregating 300 or 400 carcasses in a winter, and would use more
if they could get them, but they cannot, as the Caribou herds are
then far south. This, E. Sprake Jones, William Hay, and others,
are sure represents fairly the annual destruction by whalers on
the north coast. Only one or two vessels of this traffic go into
Hudson's Bay, and these with those of Hershell are all that touch
Caribou country, so that the total destruction by whalers must be
under 1,000 head per annum.
The Eskimo kill for their own use. Franz Boas ("Handbook of American
Indians") gives the number of Eskimo in the central region at
1,100. Of these not more than 300 are hunters. If we allow their
destruction to equal that of the 600 Indians, it is liberal, giving
a total of 40,000 Caribou killed by native hunters. As the whites
rarely enter the region, this is practically all the destruction
by man. The annual increase of 30,000,000 Caribou must be several
millions and would so far overbalance the hunter toll that the
latter cannot make any permanent difference.
There is, moreover, good evidence that the native destruction has
diminished. As already seen, the tribes which hunt the Barren-Ground
Caribou, number less than one-half of what they did 100 years ago.
Since then, they have learned to use the rifle, and this, I am
assured by all the traders, has lessened the destruction. By the
old method, with the spear in the water, or in the pound trap, one
native might kill 100 Caribou in one day, during the migrations;
but these methods called for woodcraft and were very laborious. The
rifle being much easier, has displaced the spear; but there is a
limit to its destruction, especially with cartridges at five cents
to seven cents each, and, as already seen, the hunters do not
average 20 Caribou each in a year.
Thus, all the known facts point to a greatly diminished slaughter
to-day when compared with that of 100 years ago. This, then, is my
summary of the Barren-Ground Caribou between the Mackenzie River
and Hudson's Bay. They number over 30,000,000, and may be double
of that. They are in primitive conditions and probably never more
numerous than now.
The native destruction is less now than formerly and never did make
any perceptible difference.
Finally, the matter has by no means escaped the attention of the
wide-awake Canadian government represented by the Minister of the
Interior and the Royal North-west Mounted Police. It could not be
in better hands; and there is no reason to fear in any degree a
repetition of the Buffalo slaughter that disgraced the plains of
the United States.
CHAPTER XL
OLD FORT RELIANCE TO FORT RESOLUTION
All night the storm of rain and snow raged around our camp on
the south shore of Artillery Lake, but we were up and away in the
morning in spite of it. That day, we covered five portages (they
took two days in coming out). Next day we crossed Lake Harry and
camped three-quarters of a mile farther on the long portage. Next
day, September 11, we camped (still in storm) at the Lobstick Landing
of Great Slave Lake. How tropically rich all this vegetation looked
after the "Land of little sticks." Rain we could face, but high
winds on the big water were dangerous, so we were storm-bound until
September 14, when we put off, and in two hours were at old Fort
Reliance, the winter quarters of Sir George Back in 1833-4. In the
Far North the word "old" means "abandoned" and the fort, abandoned
long ago, had disappeared, except the great stone chimneys. Around
one of these that intrepid explorer and hunter-Buffalo Jones-had
built a shanty in 1897. There it stood in fairly good condition,
a welcome shelter from the storm which now set in with redoubled
fury. We soon had the big fireplace aglow and, sitting there in
comfort that we owed to him, and surrounded by the skeletons of
the Wolves that he had killed about the door in that fierce winter
time, we drank in hot and copious tea the toast: Long life and
prosperity to our host so far away, the brave old hunter, "Buffalo
Jones."
The woods were beautiful and abounded with life, and the three
days we spent there were profitably devoted to collecting, but on
September 17 we crossed the bay, made the short portage, and at
night camped 32 miles away, on the home track.
Next morning we found a camp of Indians down to the last of their
food. We supplied them with flour and tobacco. They said that
no Caribou had come to the Lake, showing how erratic is the great
migration.
In the afternoon we came across another band in still harder luck.
They had nothing whatever but the precarious catch of the nets,
and this was the off-season. Again we supplied them, and these were
among the unexpected emergencies for which our carefully guarded
supplies came in.
In spite of choppy seas we made from 30 to 35 miles a day, and
camped on Tal-thel-lay the evening of September 20. That night as
I sat by the fire the moon rose in a clear sky and as I gazed on
her calm bright disc something seemed to tell me that at that moment
the dear ones far away were also looking on that radiant face.
On the 21st we were storm-bound at Et-then Island, but utilised
the time collecting. I gathered a lot of roots of Pulsatilla and
Calypso. Here Billy amused us by catching Wiskajons in an old-fashioned
springle that dated from the days when guns were unknown; but the
captured birds came back fearlessly each time after being released.
All that day we had to lie about camp, keeping under cover on account
of the rain. It was dreary work listening to the surf ceaselessly
pounding the shore and realising that all these precious hours
were needed to bring us to Fort Resolution, where the steamer was
to meet us on the 25th.
On the 23d it was calmer and we got away in the gray dawn at 5.45.
We were now in Weeso's country, and yet he ran us into a singular
pocket that I have called Weeso's Trap--a straight glacial groove
a mile long that came to a sudden end and we had to go back that
mile.
The old man was much mortified over his blunder, but he did not
feel half so badly about it as I did, for every hour was precious
now.
What a delight it was to feel our canoe skimming along under the
four paddles. Three times as fast we travelled now as when we came
out with the bigger boat; 5 1/2 miles an hour was frequently our
rate and when we camped that night we had covered 47 miles since
dawn.
On Kahdinouay we camped and again a storm arose to pound and bluster
all night. In spite of a choppy sea next day we reached the small
island before the final crossing; and here, perforce, we stayed
to await a calmer sea. Later we heard that during this very storm
a canoe-load of Indians attempted the crossing and upset; none were
swimmers, all were drowned.
We were not the only migrants hurrying southward. Here for the
first time in my life I saw Wild Swans, six in a flock. They were
heading southward and flew not in very orderly array, but ever
changing, occasionally forming the triangle after the manner of
Geese. They differ from Geese in flapping more slowly, from White
Cranes in flapping faster, and seemed to vibrate only the tips of
the wings. This was on the 23d. Next day we saw another flock of
seven; I suppose that in each case it was the old one and young of
the year.
As they flew they uttered three different notes: a deep horn-like
"too" or "coo," a higher pitched "coo," and a warble-like
"tootle-tootle," or sometimes simply "tee-tee." Maybe the last did
not come from the Swans, but no other birds were near; I suppose
that these three styles of notes came from male, female, and young.
Next morning 7 flocks of Swans flew overhead toward the south-west.
They totalled 46; 12 were the most in one flock. In this large flock
I saw a quarrel No. 2 turned back and struck No. 3, his long neck
bent and curled like a snake, both dropped downward several feet
then 3, 4 and 5 left that flock. I suspect they were of another
family.
But, later, as we entered the river mouth we had a thrilling glimpse
of Swan life. Flock after flock came in view as we rounded the rush
beds; 12 flocks in all we saw, none had less than 5 in it, nearly
100 Swans in sight, at once, and all rose together with a mighty
flapping of strong, white wings, and the chorus of the insignificant
"too-too-tees" sailed farther southward, probably to make the great
Swan tryst on Hay River.
No doubt these were the same 12 flocks as those observed on the
previous days, but still it rejoiced my heart to see even that
many. I had feared that the species was far gone on the trail of
the Passenger Pigeon.
But this is anticipating. We were camped still on the island north
of the traverse, waiting for possible water. All day we watched In
vain, all night the surf kept booming, but at three in the morning
the wind dropped, at four it was obviously calmer. I called the
boys and we got away before six; dashing straight south in spite
of rolling seas we crossed the 15-mile stretch in 3 3/4 hours, and
turning westward reached Stony Island by noon. Thence southward
through ever calmer water our gallant boat went spinning, reeling
off the level miles up the river channel, and down again on its
south-west branch, in a glorious red sunset, covering in one day
the journeys of four during our outgoing, in the supposedly far
speedier York boat. Faster and faster we seemed to fly, for we had
the grand incentive that we must catch the steamer at any price
that night. Weeso now, for the first time, showed up strong; knowing
every yard of the way he took advantage of every swirl of the river;
in and out among the larger islands we darted, and when we should
have stopped for the night no man said "Stop", but harder we
paddled. We could smell the steamer smoke, we thought, and pictured
her captain eagerly scanning the offing for our flying canoe; it
was most inspiring and the Ann Seton jumped up to 6 miles an hour
for a time. So we went; the night came down, but far away were the
glittering lights of Fort Resolution, and the steamer that should
end our toil. How cheering. The skilly pilot and the lusty paddler
slacked not--40 miles we had come that day--and when at last some
49, nearly 50, paddled miles brought us stiff and weary to the
landing it was only to learn that the steamer, notwithstanding
bargain set and agreed on, had gone south two days before.
CHAPTER XLI
GOING UP THE LOWER SLAVE
What we thought about the steamboat official who was responsible
for our dilemma we did not need to put into words; for every one
knew of the bargain and its breach: nearly every one present had
protested at the time, and the hardest things I felt like saying
were mild compared with the things already said by that official's
own colleagues. But these things were forgotten in the hearty greetings
of friends and bundles of letters from home. It was eight o'clock,
and of course black night when we landed; yet it was midnight when
we thought of sleep.
Fort Resolution is always dog-town; and now it seemed at its
worst. When the time came to roll up in our blankets, we were fully
possessed of the camper's horror of sleeping indoors; but it was
too dark to put up a tent and there was not a square foot of ground
anywhere near that was not polluted and stinking of "dog-sign,"
so very unwillingly I broke my long spell of sleeping out, on this
131st day, and passed the night on the floor of the Hudson's Bay
Company house. I had gone indoors to avoid the "dog-sign" and next
morning found, alas, that I had been lying all night on "cat-sign."
I say lying; I did not sleep. The closeness of the room, in spite
of an open window, the novelty, the smells, combined with the
excitement of letters from home, banished sleep until morning came,
and, of course, I got a bad cold, the first I had had all summer.
Here I said "good-bye" to old Weeso. He grinned affably, and when I
asked what he would like for a present said, "Send me an axe like
yours," There were three things in my outfit that aroused the cupidity
of nearly every Indian, the Winchester rifle, the Peterboro canoe
and the Marble axe, "the axe that swallows its face." Weeso had
a rifle, we could not spare or send him a canoe, so I promised to
send him the axe. Post is slow, but it reached him six months later
and I doubt not is even now doing active service.
Having missed the last steamer, we must go on by canoe. Canoeing
up the river meant "tracking" all the way; that is, the canoe must
be hauled up with a line, by a man walking on the banks; hard work
needing not only a strong, active man, but one who knows the river.
Through the kindness of J. McLeneghan, of the Swiggert Trading
Company, I was spared the horrors of my previous efforts to secure
help at Fort Resolution, and George Sanderson, a strong young
half-breed, agreed to take me to Fort Smith for $2.00 a day and
means of returning. George was a famous hunter and fisher, and
a "good man" to travel. I marked his broad shoulders and sinewy,
active form with joy, especially in view of his reputation. In one
respect he was different from all other half-breeds that I ever
knew--he always gave a straight answer. Ask an ordinary half-breed,
or western white man, indeed, how far it is to such a point, his
reply commonly is, "Oh, not so awful far," or "It is quite a piece,"
or "It aint such a hell of a ways," conveying to the stranger no
shadow of idea whether it is a hundred yards, a mile, or a week's
travel. Again and again when Sanderson was asked how far it was to
a given place, he would pause and say, "Three miles and a half,"
or "Little more than eight miles," as the case might be. The usual
half-breed when asked if we could make such a point by noon would
say "Maybe. I don't know. It is quite a piece." Sanderson would
say, "Yes," or "No, not by two miles," according to circumstances;
and his information was always correct; he knew the river "like a
book."
On the afternoon of September 27 we left "Dogtown" with Sanderson
in Weeso's place and began our upward journey. George proved as
good as his reputation. The way that active fellow would stride
along the shore, over logs and brush, around fallen trees, hauling
the canoe against stream some three or four miles an hour was
perfectly fine; and each night my heart was glad and sang the old
refrain, "A day's march nearer home."
The toil of this tracking is second only to that of portageing.
The men usually relieve each other every 30 minutes. So Billy and
George were the team. If I were going again into that country and
had my choice these two again would be my crew.
Once or twice I took the track-line myself for a quarter of an hour,
but it did not appeal to me as a permanent amusement. It taught me
one thing that I did not suspect, namely, that it is much harder to
haul a canoe with three inches of water under her keel than with
three feet. In the former case, the attraction of the bottom is
most powerful and evident. The experience also explained the old
sailor phrase about the vessel feeling the bottom: this I had often
heard, but never before comprehended.
All day we tracked, covering 20 to 25 miles between camps and hourly
making observations on the wild life of the river. Small birds and
mammals were evidently much more abundant than in spring, and the
broad, muddy, and sandy reaches of the margin were tracked over by
Chipmunks, Weasels, Foxes, Lynxes, Bear, and Moose.
A Lynx, which we surprised on a sand-bar, took to the water without
hesitation and swam to the mainland. It went as fast as a dog, but
not nearly so fast as a Caribou. A large Fox that we saw crossing
the river proved very inferior to the Lynx in swimming speed.
The two portages, Ennuyeux and Detour, were duly passed, and on the
morning of October 3, as we travelled, a sailboat hove into sight.
It held Messrs. Thomas Christy, C. Harding, and Stagg. We were now
within 11 days of Fort Smith, so I took advantage of the opportunity
to send Sanderson back. On the evening of the 3d we came to Salt
River, and there we saw Pierre Squirrel with his hundred dogs and
at 1 P. M., October 4, arrived at Fort Smith.
CHAPTER XLII
FORT SMITH AND THE TUG
Here again we had the unpleasant experience of sleeping indoors,
a miserable, sleepless, stifling night, followed by the inevitable
cold.
Next day we rode with our things over the portage to Smith Landing.
I had secured the tug Ariel to give us a lift, and at 7 P. M.,
October 5, pulled out for the next stretch of the river, ourselves
aboard the tug, the canoe with a cargo towed behind.
That night we slept at the saw-mill, perforce, and having had
enough of indoors, I spread my, blankets outside, with the result,
as I was warned, that every one of the numerous dogs came again and
again, and passed, his opinion on my slumbering form. Next night
we selected an island to camp on, the men did not want to stay on
the mainland, for "the woods are full of mice and their feet are so
cold when they run over your face as you sleep." We did not set up
our tents that time but lay on the ground; next morning at dawn,
when I looked around, the camp was like a country graveyard, for
we were all covered with leaves, and each man was simply a long
mound. The dawn came up an ominous rose-red. I love not the rosy
dawn; a golden dawn or a chill-blue dawn is happy, but I fear the
dawn of rose as the red headlight of a storm. It came; by 8.30 the
rain had set in and steadily fell all day.
The following morning we had our first accident. The steamer with
the loaded canoe behind was rushing up a rapid. A swirl of water
upset the canoe, and all our large packs were afloat. All were
quickly recovered except a bag of salted skins. These sank and were
seen no more.
On October 9 we arrived at Fort Chipewyan. As we drew near that
famous place of water-fowl, the long strings and massed flocks of
various geese and ducks grew more and more plentiful; and at the
Fort itself we found their metropolis. The Hudson's Bay Company
had killed and salted about 600 Waveys or Snow Geese; each of the
Loutit families, about 500; not less than 12,000 Waveys will be
salted down this fall, besides Honkers, White-fronts and Ducks.
Each year they reckon on about 10,000 Waveys, in poor years they
take 5,000 to 6,000, in fat years 15,000. The Snow and White-fronted
Geese all had the white parts of the head more or less stained with
orange. Only one Blue Goose had been taken. This I got; it is a
westernmost record. No Swans had been secured this year; in fact,
I am told that they are never taken in the fall because they never
come this way, though they visit the east end of the lake; in the
spring they come by here and about 20 are taken each year. Chipewyan
was Billy Loutit's home, and the family gave a dance in honour of
the wanderer's return. Here I secured a tall half-breed, Gregoire
Daniell, usually known as "Bellalise," to go with me as far as
Athabaska Landing.
There was no good reason why we should not leave Chipewyan in three
hours. But the engineer of my tug had run across an old friend;
they wanted to have a jollification, as of course the engine
was "hopelessly out of order." But we got away at 7 next day--my
four men and the tug's three. At the wheel was a halfbreed--David
MacPherson--who is said to be a natural-born pilot, and the best
in the country. Although he never was on the Upper Slave before,
and it is an exceedingly difficult stream with its interminable,
intricate, shifting shallows, crooked, narrow channels, and
impenetrable muddy currents, his "nose for water" is so good that
he brought us through at full speed without striking once. Next
time he Will be qualified to do it by night.
In the grove where we camped after sundown were the teepee and
shack of an Indian (Chipewyan) Brayno (probably Brenaud). This is
his hunting and trapping ground, and has been for years. No one
poaches on it; that is unwritten law; a man may follow a wounded
animal into his neighbour's territory, but not trap there. The
nearest neighbour is 10 miles off. He gets 3 or 4 Silver Foxes
every year, a few Lynx, Otter, Marten, etc.
Bellalise was somewhat of a character. About 6 feet 4 in height,
with narrow, hollow chest, very large hands and feet and a nervous,
restless way of flinging himself about. He struck me as a man who
was killing himself with toil beyond his physical strength. He was
strongly recommended by the Hudson's Bay Company people as a "good
man," I liked his face and manners, he was an intelligent companion,
and I was glad to have secured him. At the first and second camps
he worked hard. At the next he ceased work suddenly and went aside;
his stomach was upset. A few hours afterwards he told me he was
feeling ill. The engineer, who wanted him to cut wood, said to me,
"That man is shamming." My reply was short: "You have known him
for months, and think he is shamming; I have known him for hours
and I know he is not that kind of a man."
He told me next morning, "It's no use, I got my breast crushed by
the tug a couple of weeks ago, I have no strength. At Fort McKay
is a good man named Jiarobia, he will go with you."
So when the tug left us Bellalise refunded his advance and returned
to Chipewyan. He was one of those that made me think well of his
people; and his observations on the wild life of the country showed
that he had a tongue to tell, as well as eyes to see.
That morning, besides the calls of Honkers and Waveys we heard the
glorious trumpeting of the White Crane. It has less rattling croak
and more whoop than that of the Brown Crane. Bellalise says that
every year a few come to Chipewyan, then go north with the Waveys
to breed. In the fall they come back for a month; they are usually
in flocks of three and four; two old ones and their offspring,
the latter known by their brownish colour. If you get the two old
ones, the young ones are easily killed, as they keep flying low
over the place.
Is this then the secret of its disappearance? and is it on these
far breeding grounds that man has proved too hard?
At Lobstick Point, 2 P. M., October 13, the tug turned back and
we three continued our journey as before, Preble and Billy taking
turns at tracking the canoe.
Next day we reached Fort McKay and thus marked another important
stage of the journey.
CHAPTER XLIII
FORT McKAY AND JIAROBIA
Fort McKay was the last point at which we saw the Chipewyan style
of teepee, and the first where the Cree appeared. But its chief
interest to us lay in the fact that it was the home of Jiarobia, a
capable river-man who wished to go to Athabaska Landing. The first
thing that struck us about Jiarobia--whose dictionary name by the
way is Elzear Robillard--was that his house had a good roof and
a large pile of wood ready cut. These were extremely important
indications in a land of improvidence. Robillard was a thin, active,
half-breed of very dark skin. He was willing to go for $2.00 a day
the round-trip (18 days) plus food and a boat to return with. But
a difficulty now appeared; Madame Robillard, a tall, dark half-breed
woman, objected: "Elzear had been away all summer, he should stay
home now." "If you go I will run off into the backwoods with the
first wild Indian that wants a squaw," she threatened. "Now," said
Rob, in choice English, "I am up against it." She did not understand
English, but she could read looks and had some French, so I took
a hand.
"If Madame will consent I will advance $15.00 of her husband's pay
and will let her select the finest silk handkerchief in the Hudson's
Bay store for a present."
In about three minutes her Cree eloquence died a natural death;
she put a shawl on her head and stepped toward the door without
looking at me. Rob, nodded to me, and signed to go to the Hudson's
Bay store; by which I inferred that the case was won; we were going
now to select the present. To my amazement she turned from all the
bright-coloured goods and selected a large black silk handkerchief.
The men tell me it is always so now; fifty years ago every woman
wanted red things. Now all want black; and the traders who made
the mistake of importing red have had to import dyes and dip them
all.
Jiarobia, or, as we mostly call him, "Rob," proved most amusing
character as well as a "good man" and the reader will please note
that nearly all of my single help were "good men." Only when I had
a crowd was there trouble. His store of anecdote was unbounded and
his sense of humour ever present, if broad and simple. He talked
in English, French, and Cree, and knew a good deal of Chipewyan.
Many of his personal adventures would have fitted admirably into
the Decameron, but are scarcely suited for this narrative. One
evening he began to sing, I listened intently, thinking maybe I
should pick up some ancient chanson of the voyageurs or at least
a woodman's "Come-all-ye." Alas! it proved to be nothing but the
"Whistling Coon."
Which reminds me of another curious experience at the village of
Fort Smith. I saw a crowd of the Indians about a lodge and strange
noises proceeding therefrom. When I went over the folk made way for
me. I entered, sat down, and found that they were crowded around
a cheap gramophone which was hawking, spitting and screeching some
awful rag-time music and nigger jigs. I could forgive the traders
for bringing in the gramophone, but why, oh, why, did they not
bring some of the simple world-wide human songs which could at least
have had an educational effect? The Indian group listened to this
weird instrument with the profoundest gravity. If there is anything
inherently comic in our low comics it was entirely lost on them.
One of Rob's amusing fireside tricks was thus: He put his hands
together, so: (illustration). "Now de' tumbs is you and your fader,
de first finger is you and your mudder, ze next is you and your
sister, ze little finger is you and your brudder, ze ring finger
is you and your sweetheart. You and your fader separate easy, like
dat; you and your brudder like dat, you and your sister like dat,
dat's easy; you and your mudder like dat, dat's not so easy; but
you and your sweetheart cannot part widout all everything go to
hell first."
Later, as we passed the American who lives at Fort McMurray, Jiarobia
said to me: "Dat man is the biggest awful liar on de river. You
should hear him talk. 'One day,' he said, 'dere was a big stone
floating up de muddy river and on it was tree men, and one was
blind and one was plumb naked and one had no arms nor legs, and de
blind man he looks down on bottom of river an see a gold watch, an
de cripple he reach out and get it, and de naked man he put it in
his pocket.' Now any man talk dat way he one most awful liar, it
is not possible, any part, no how."
CHAPTER XLIV
THE RIVER
Now we resumed our daily life of tracking, eating, tracking,
camping, tracking, sleeping. The weather had continued fine, with
little change ever since we left Resolution, and we were so hardened
to the life that it was pleasantly monotonous.
How different now were my thoughts compared with those of last
Spring, as I first looked on this great river.
When we had embarked on the leaping, boiling, muddy Athabaska, in
this frail canoe, it had seemed a foolhardy enterprise. How could
such a craft ride such a stream for 2,000 miles? It was like a mouse
mounting a monstrous, untamed, plunging and rearing horse. Now we
set out each morning, familiar with stream and our boat, having no
thought of danger, and viewing the water, the same turbid flood,
as, our servant. Even as a skilful tamer will turn the wildest
horse into his willing slave, so have we conquered this river and
made it the bearer of our burdens. So I thought and wrote at the
time; but the wise tamer is ever alert, never lulled into false
security. He knows that a heedless move may turn his steed into
a deadly, dangerous monster. We had our lesson to learn.
That night (October 15) there was a dull yellow sunset. The morning
came with a strong north wind and rain that turned to snow, and
with it great flocks of birds migrating from the Athabaska Lake.
Many rough-legged Hawks, hundreds of small land birds, thousands
of Snow-birds in flocks of 20 to 200, myriads of Ducks and Geese,
passed over our heads going southward before the frost. About 8.30
the Geese began to pass in ever-increasing flocks; between 9.45
and 10 I counted 114 flocks averaging about 30 each (5 to 300) and
they kept on at this rate till 2 P. M. This would give a total of
nearly 100,000 Geese. It was a joyful thing to see and hear them;
their legions in flight array went stringing high aloft, so high
they looked not like Geese, but threads across the sky, the cobwebs,
indeed, that Mother Carey was sweeping away with her north-wind
broom. I sketched and counted flock after flock with a sense of
thankfulness that so many, were left alive. Most were White Geese,
but a twentieth, perhaps, were Honkers.
The Ducks began to pass over about noon, and became more numerous
than the Geese as they went on.
In the midst of this myriad procession, as though they were the
centre and cause of all, were two splendid White Cranes, bugling
as they flew. Later that day we saw another band, of three, but
these were all; their race is nearly run.
The full moon was on and all night the wild-fowl flew. The frost
was close behind them, sharp and sudden. Next morning the ponds
about us had ice an inch thick and we heard of it three inches at
other places.
But the sun came out gloriously and when at ten we landed at Fort
McMurray the day was warm and perfect in its autumnal peace.
Miss Gordon, the postmaster, did not recognise us at first. She
said we all looked "so much older, it is always so with folks who
go north."
Next morning we somehow left our tent behind. It was old and of
little value, so we did not go back, and the fact that we never
really needed it speaks much for the sort of weather we had to the
end of the trip.
A couple of Moose (cow and calf) crossed the river ahead of us,
and Billy went off in hot pursuit; but saw no more of them.
Tracks of animals were extremely abundant on, the shore here.
Large Wolves became quite numerous evidently we were now in their
country. Apparently they had killed a Moose, as their dung was full
of Moose hair.
We were now in the Canyon of the Athabaska and from this on our
journey was a fight with the rapids. One by one my skilful boatmen
negotiated them; either we tracked up or half unloaded, or landed
and portaged, but it was hard and weary work. My journal entry for
the night of the 18th runs thus:
"I am tired of troubled waters. All day to-day and for five days
back we have been fighting the rapids of this fierce river. My
place is to sit in the canoe-bow with a long pole, glancing here
and there, right, left, and ahead, watching ever the face of this
snarling river; and when its curling green lips apart betray a
yellow brown gleam of deadly teeth too near, it is my part to ply
with might and main that pole, and push the frail canoe aside to
where the stream is in milder, kindlier mood.' Oh, I love not a
brawling river any more than a brawling woman, and thoughts of the
broad, calm Slave, with its majestic stretches of level flood, are
now as happy halcyon memories of a bright and long-gone past."
My men were skilful and indefatigable. One by one we met the hard
rapids in various ways, mostly by portaging, but on the morning
of the 19th we came to one so small and short that all agreed the
canoe could be forced by with poles and track-line. It looked an
insignificant ripple, no more than a fish might make with its tail,
and what happened in going up, is recorded as follows:
CHAPTER XLV
THE RIVER SHOWS ITS TEETH
"Oct. 20, 1907.--Athabaska River. In the Canyon. This has been
a day of horrors and mercies. We left the camp early, 6.55--long
before sunrise, and portaged the first rapid. About 9 we came to
the middle rapid; this Billy thought we could track up, so with
two ropes he and Rob were hauling us, I in bow, Preble in stem;
but the strong waters of the middle part whirled the canoe around
suddenly, and dashed her on a rock. There was a crash of breaking
timber, a roar of the flood, and in a moment Preble and I and, all
the stuff were in the water.
"'My journals,' I shouted as I went down, and all the time the
flood was boiling in my ears my thought was, 'My journals,'--'my
journals.'
"The moment my mouth was up again above the water, I bubbled out,
'My journals,--save my journals,' then struck out for the shore.
Now I saw Preble hanging on to the canoe and trying to right it.
His face was calm and unchanged as when setting a mousetrap. 'Never
mind that, save yourself,' I called out; he made no response, and,
after all, it was safest to hang on to the canoe. I was swept into
a shallow place at once, and got on my feet, then gained the shore.
"'My journals--save them first!' I shouted to the two boys, and
now remembered with horror, how, this very morning, on account of
portaging, I had for the first time put all three journals in the
handbag, that had disappeared, whereas the telescope that used to
hold two of them, was floating high. It is the emergency that proves
your man, and I learned that day I had three of the best men that
ever boarded a boat. A glance showed Preble in shallow water coolly
hauling in the canoe.
"Rob and Billy bounded along the rugged shores, from one ice-covered
rock to another, over piles of drift logs and along steep ledges
they went; like two mountain goats; the flood was spotted with
floating things, but no sign of the precious journal-bag. Away out
was the grub-box; square and high afloat, it struck a reef. 'You
save the grub,' yelled Billy above the roaring, pitiless flood,
and dashed on. I knew Billy's head was cool and clear, so I plunged
into the water, ice-cold and waist deep--and before the merciless
one could snatch it along, I had the grub-box safe. Meanwhile Rob
and Billy had danced away out of sight along that wild canyon bank.
I set out after them. In some eddies various articles were afloat,
a cocoa tin, a milk pot, a bag of rare orchids intended for a friend,
a half sack of flour, and many little things I saved at cost of a
fresh wetting each time, and on the bank, thrown hastily up by the
boys, were such bundles as they had been able to rescue.
"I struggled on, but the pace was killing. They were young men
and dog-runners; I was left behind and was getting so tired now I
could not keep warm; there was a keen frost and I was wet to the
skin. The chance to rescue other things came again and again. Twelve
times did I plunge, into that deadly cold river, and so gathered
a lot of small truck. Then knowing I could do little more, and
realising that everything man could do would be done without me,
turned back reluctantly. Preble passed me at a run, he had left
the canoe in a good place and had saved some bedding.
"'Have you seen my journal-bag?' He made a quick gesture down the
river, then dashed away. Alas! I knew now, the one irreplaceable
part of our cargo was deep in the treacherous flood, never to be
seen again.
"At the canoe I set about making a fire; there was no axe to cut
kindling-wood, but a birch tree was near, and a pile of shredded
birch-bark with a lot of dry willow on it made a perfect fire-lay;
then I opened my waterproof matchbox. Oh, horrors! the fifteen
matches in it were damp and soggy. I tried to dry them by blowing
on them; my frozen fingers could scarcely hold them. After a time
I struck one. It was soft and useless; another and another at
intervals, till thirteen; then, despairing, I laid the last two on
a stone in the weak sunlight, and tried to warm myself by gathering
firewood and moving quickly, but it seemed useless a very death
chill was on me. I have often lighted a fire with rubbing-sticks,
but I needed an axe, as well as a buckskin thong for this, and I had
neither. I looked through the baggage that was saved, no matches
and all things dripping wet. I might go three miles down that
frightful canyon to our last camp and maybe get some living coals.
But no! mindful of the forestry laws, we had as usual most carefully
extinguished the fire with buckets of water, and the clothes were
freezing on my back. 1 was tired out, teeth chattering. Then came
the thought, Why despair while two matches remain? I struck the
first now, the fourteenth, and, in spite of dead fingers and the
sizzly, doubtful match, it cracked, blazed, and then, oh blessed,
blessed birch bark!--with any other tinder my numbed hands had
surely failed--it blazed like a torch, and warmth at last was mine,
and outward comfort for a house of gloom.
"The boys, I knew, would work like heroes and do their part as
well as man could do it, my work was right here. I gathered all the
things along the beach, made great racks for drying and a mighty
blaze. I had no pots or pans, but an aluminum bottle which would
serve as kettle; and thus I prepared a meal of such things as
were saved--a scrap of pork, some tea and a soggy mass that once
was pilot bread. Then sat down by the fire to spend five hours of
growing horror, 175 miles from a settlement, canoe smashed, guns
gone, pots and pans gone, specimens all gone, half our bedding
gone, our food gone; but all these things were nothing, compared
with the loss of my three precious journals; 600 pages of observation
and discovery, geographical, botanical, and zoological, 500 drawings,
valuable records made under all sorts of trying circumstances,
discovery and compass survey of the beautiful Nyarling River,
compass survey of the two great northern lakes, discovery of two
great northern rivers, many lakes, a thousand things of interest
to others and priceless to me--my summer's work--gone; yes, I could
bear that, but the three chapters of life and thought irrevocably
gone; the magnitude of this calamity was crushing. Oh, God, this
is the most awful blow that could have fallen at the end of the
six months' trip.
"The hours went by, and the gloom grew deeper, for there was no
sign of the boys. Never till now did the thought of danger enter
my mind. Had they been too foolhardy in their struggle with the
terrible stream? Had they, too, been made to feel its power? My guess
was near the truth; and yet there was that awful river unchanged,
glittering, surging, beautiful, exactly as on so many days before,
when life on it had seemed so bright.
"At three in the afternoon, I saw a fly crawl down the rocks a
mile away. I fed the fire and heated up the food and tea. In twenty
minutes I could see that it was Rob, but both his hands were empty.
'If they had found it,' I said to myself, 'they would send it back
first thing, and if he had it, he would swing it aloft,' Yet no,
nothing but a shiny tin was in his hands and the blow had fallen.
The suspense was over, anyway. I bowed my head, 'We have done what
we could.'
"Rob came slowly up, worn out. In his hand a tin of baking-powder.
Across his breast was a canvas band. He tottered toward me, too
tired to speak in answer to my unspoken question, but he turned
and there on his back was the canvas bag that held labour of all
these long toilsome months.
"'I got 'em, all right,' he managed to say, smiling in a weak way.
"'And the boys?'
"'All right now.'
"'Thank God!' I broke down, and wrung his hand; 'I won't forget,'
was all I could say. Hot tea revived him, loosened his tongue, and
I heard the story.
"I knew,' he said, 'what was first to save when I seen you got
ashore. Me and Billy we run like crazy, we see dat bag 'way out in
the deep strong water. De odder tings came in de eddies, but dat
bag it keep 'way out, but we run along de rocks; after a mile it
came pretty near a point, and Billy, he climb on a rock and reach
out, but he fall in deep water and was carried far, so he had to
swim for his life. I jump on rocks anoder mile to anoder point; I
got ahead of de bag, den I get two logs, and hold dem between my
legs for raft, and push out; but dat dam river he take dem logs
very slow, and dat bag very fast, so it pass by. But Billy he swim
ashore, and run some more, and he make a raft; but de raft he stick
on rock, and de bag he never stick, but go like hell.
"'Den I say, "Here, Billy, you give me yo' sash," and I run tree mile
more, so far I loss sight of dat bag and make good raft. By'mebye
Billy he come shouting and point, I push out in river, and paddle,
and watch, and sure dere come dat bag. My, how he travel! far out
now; but I paddle and push hard and bump he came at raft and I grab
him. Oh! maybe I warn't glad! ice on river, frost in air, 14 mile
run on snowy rocks, but I no care, I bet I make dat boss glad when
he see me."
"Glad! I never felt more thankful in my life! My heart swelled with
gratitude to the brave boys that had leaped, scrambled, slidden,
tumbled, fallen, swum or climbed over those 14 perilous, horrible
miles of icy rocks and storm-piled timbers, to save the books that,
to them, seemed of so little value, but which they yet knew were,
to me, the most precious of all my things. Guns, cameras, food,
tents, bedding, dishes, were trifling losses, and the horror of
that day was turned to joy by the crowning mercy of its close.
"'I won't forget you when we reach the Landing, Rob!' were, the
meagre words that rose to my lips, but the tone of voice supplied
what the words might lack. And I did not forget him or the others;
and Robillard said afterward, 'By Gar, dat de best day's work I
ever done, by Gar, de time I run down dat hell river after dem dam
books!'"
CHAPTER XLVI
BRIGHT AGAIN
In an hour the other men came, back. The rest of the day we put
in drying the things, especially our bedding. We used the aluminum
bottle, and an old meat tin for kettle; some bacon, happily saved,
was fried on sticks, and when we turned in that night it was with
light and thankful hearts, in spite of our manifold minor losses.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful and keen. How glorious that
surging river looked in its noble canyon; but we were learning
thoroughly that noble scenery means dangerous travel--and there
was much noble scenery ahead; and I, at least, felt much older than
before this upset.
The boys put in a couple of hours repairing the canoe, then they
studied the river in hopes of recovering the guns. How well the
river-men seemed to know it! Its every ripple and curl told them
a story of the bottom and the flood.
"There must be a ledge there," said Billy, "just where we upset.
If the guns went down at once they are there. If they were carried
at all, the bottom is smooth to the second ledge and they are
there." He pointed a hundred yards away.
So they armed themselves with grappling-poles that had nails for
claws. Then we lowered Rob in the canoe into the rapid and held on
while he fished above the ledge.
"I tink I feel 'em," said Rob, again and again, but could not bring
them up. Then Billy tried.
"Yes, they are there." But the current was too fierce and the hook
too poor; he could not hold them.
Then I said: "There is only one thing to do. A man must go in at
the end of the rope; maybe he can reach down. I'll never send any
man into such a place, but I'll go myself."
So I stripped, padded the track-line with a towel and put it around
my waist, then plunged in. Ouch! it was cold, and going seven miles
an hour. The boys lowered me to the spot where I was supposed to
dive or reach down. It was only five feet deep, but, struggle as
I might, I could not get even my arm down. I ducked and dived, but
I was held in the surface like a pennant on an air-blast. In a few
minutes the icy flood had robbed me of all sensation in my limbs,
and showed how impossible was the plan, so I gave the signal to
haul me in; which they did, nearly cutting my body in two with the
rope. And if ever there was a grovelling fire-worshipper, it was
my frozen self when I landed.
Now we tried a new scheme. A tall spruce on the shore was leaning
over the place; fifty feet out, barely showing, was the rock that
wrecked us. We cut the spruce so it fell with its butt on the shore,
and lodged against the rock. On this, now, Rob and Billy walked
out and took turns grappling. Luck was with Rob. In a few minutes
he triumphantly hauled up the rifle and a little later the shotgun,
none the worse.
Now, we had saved everything except the surplus provisions and my
little camera, trifling matters, indeed; so it was with feelings
of triumph that we went on south that day.
In the afternoon, as we were tracking up the last part of the Boiler
Rapid, Billy at the bow, Rob on the shore, the line broke, and we
were only saved from another dreadful disaster by Billy's nerve
and quickness; for he fearlessly leaped overboard, had the luck to
find bottom, and held the canoe's head with all his strength. The
rope was mended and a safe way was found. That time I realized
the force of an Indian reply to a trader who sought to sell him a
cheap rope. "In the midst of a rapid one does not count the cost
of the line."
At night we camped in a glorious red sunset, just above the Boiler
Rapid. On the shore was a pile of flour in sacks, inscribed in
Cree, "Gordon his flour."
Here it was, the most prized foreign product in the country, lying
unprotected by the highway, and no man seemed to think the owner
foolish. Whatever else, these Indians are, they are absolutely
honest.
The heavenly weather of the Indian Summer was now upon us. We
had left all storms and frost behind, and the next day, our final
trouble, the lack of food, was ended. A great steamer hove in
sight--at least it looked like a steamer--but, steadily coming on,
it proved a scow with an awning and a stove on it. The boys soon
recognised the man at the bow as William Gordon, trader at Fort
McMurray. We hailed him to stop when he was a quarter of a mile
ahead, and he responded with his six sturdy oarsmen; but such was
the force of the stream that he did not reach the shore till a
quarter-mile below us.
"Hello, boys, what's up?" He shouted in the brotherly way that
all white men seem to get when meeting another of their race in a
savage land.
"Had an upset and lost all our food."
"Ho! that's easy fixed." Then did that generous man break open
boxes, bales, and packages and freely gave without a stint, all the
things we needed: kettles, pans, sugar, oatmeal, beans, jam, etc.
"How are you fixed for whiskey?" he asked, opening his own private,
not-for-sale supply.
"We have none and we never use it," was the reply. Then I fear I
fell very low in the eyes of my crew.
"Never use it! Don't want it! You must be pretty damn lonesome in
a country like this," and he seemed quite unable to grasp the idea
of travellers who would not drink.
Thus the last of our troubles was ended. Thenceforth the journey
was one of warm, sunny weather and pleasant travel. Each night the
sun went down in red and purple fire; and each morning rose in gold
on a steel-blue sky. There was only one bad side to this, that was
the constant danger of forest fire. On leaving each camp--we made
four every day--I put the fire out with plenty of water, many
buckets. Rob thought it unnecessary to take so much trouble. But
great clouds of smoke were seen at several reaches of the river,
to tell how dire it was that other campers had not done the same.
CHAPTER XLVII
WHEN NATURE SMILED
It seems a law that every deep valley must be next a high mountain.
Our sorrows ended when we quit the canyon, and then, as though in
compensation, nature crammed the days with the small joys that seem
so little and mean so much to the naturalist.
Those last few days, unmarred of the smallest hardship, were one
long pearl-string of the things I came for--the chances to see and
be among wild life.
Each night the Coyote and the Fox came rustling about our camp, or
the Weasel and Woodmouse scrambled over our sleeping forms. Each
morning at gray dawn, gray Wiskajon and his mate--always a pair
came wailing through the woods, to flirt about the camp and steal
scraps of meat that needed not to be stolen, being theirs by right.
Their small cousins, the Chicadees, came, too, at breakfast time,
and in our daily travelling, Ruffed Grouse, Ravens, Pine Grosbeaks,
Bohemian Chatterers, Hairy Woodpeckers, Shrikes, Tree-sparrows,
Linnets, and Snowbirds enlivened the radiant sunlit scene.
