The Arctic Prairies

A Canoe-Journey

OF 2,000 MILES IN SEARCH OF THE CARIBOU

BEING THE ACCOUNT OF A VOYAGE TO THE REGION NORTH OF AYLMER LAKE


By Ernest Thompson Seton

Author of "Wild Animals I Have Known", "Life Histories", Etc.



DEDICATED

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
SIR WILFRID LAURIER, G. C. M. G.
PREMIER OF CANADA


PREFACE


What young man of our race would not gladly give a year of his life
to roll backward the scroll of time for five decades and live that
year in the romantic bygone-days of the Wild West; to see the great
Missouri while the Buffalo pastured on its banks, while big game
teemed in sight and the red man roamed and hunted, unchecked by
fence or hint of white man's rule; or, when that rule was represented
only by scattered trading-posts, hundreds of miles apart, and
at best the traders could exchange the news by horse or canoe and
months of lonely travel?

I for one, would have rejoiced in tenfold payment for the privilege
of this backward look in our age, and had reached the middle life
before I realised that, at a much less heavy cost, the miracle was
possible today.

For the uncivilised Indian still roams the far reaches of absolutely
unchanged, unbroken forest and prairie leagues, and has knowledge
of white men only in bartering furs at the scattered trading-posts,
where locomotive and telegraph are unknown; still the wild Buffalo
elude the hunters, fight the Wolves, wallow, wander, and breed;
and still there is hoofed game by the million to be found where the
Saxon is as seldom seen as on the Missouri in the times of Lewis
and Clarke. Only we must seek it all, not in the West, but in the
far North-west; and for "Missouri and Mississippi" read "Peace and
Mackenzie Rivers," those noble streams that northward roll their
mile-wide turbid floods a thousand leagues to the silent Arctic
Sea.

This was the thought which spurred me to a six months' journey
by canoe. And I found what I went in search of, but found, also,
abundant and better rewards that were not in mind, even as Saul,
the son of Kish, went seeking asses and found for himself a crown
and a great kingdom.

Four years have gone by since I lived through these experiences.
Such a lapse of time may have made my news grow stale, but it has
also given the opportunity for the working up of specimens and
scientific records. The results, for the most part, will be found
in the Appendices, and three of these, as indicated--namely, the
sections on Plants, Mammals, and Birds--are the joint work of my
assistant, Mr. Edward A. Preble, and myself.

My thanks are due here to the Right Honourable Lord Strathcona, G.
C. M. G., Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, for giving me access
to the records of the Company whenever I needed them for historical
purposes; to the Honourable Frank Oliver, Minister of the Interior,
Canada, for the necessary papers and permits to facilitate scientific
collection, and also to Clarence C. Chipman, Esq., of Winnipeg,
the Hudson's Bay Company's Commissioner, for practical help in
preparing my outfit, and for letters of introduction to the many
officers of the Company, whose kind help was so often a Godsend.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.




CHAPTER I

DEPARTURE FOR THE NORTH



In 1907 I set out to journey by canoe down the Athabaska and adjoining
waters to the sole remaining forest wilds--the far north-west of
Canada--and the yet more desert Arctic Plains, where still, it was
said, were to be seen the Caribou in their primitive condition.

My only companion was Edward A. Preble, of Washington, D. C., a
trained naturalist,--an expert canoeist and traveller, and a man
of three seasons' experience in the Hudson's Bay Territory and the
Mackenzie Valley. While my chief object was to see the Caribou,
and prove their continued abundance, I was prepared incidentally
to gather natural-history material of all kinds, and to complete
the shore line of the ambiguous lake called "Aylmer," as well as
explore its sister, the better-known Clinton-Colden.

I went for my own pleasure at my own expense, and yet I could not
persuade my Hudson's Bay Company friends that I was not sent by
some government, museum or society for some secret purpose.

On the night of May 5 we left Winnipeg, and our observations began
with the day at Brandon.

From that point westward to Regina we saw abundant evidence that
last year had been a "rabbit year," that is, a year in which the
ever-fluctuating population of Northern Hares (Snowshoe-rabbits
or White-rabbits) had reached its maximum, for nine-tenths of the
bushes in sight from the train had been barked at the snow level.
But the fact that we saw not one Rabbit shows that "the plague" had
appeared, had run its usual drastic course, and nearly exterminated
the species in this particular region.

Early next morning at Kininvie (40 miles west of Medicine Hat,
Alberta) we saw a band of 4 Antelope south of the track; later
we saw others all along as far as Gleichen. All were south of the
track. The bands contained as follows: 4, 14, 18, 8, 12, 8, 4, 1,
4, 5, 4, 6, 4, 18, 2, 6, 34, 6, 3, 1, 10, 25, 16, 3, 7, 9 (almost
never 2, probably because this species does not pair), or 232
Antelope in 26 bands along 70 miles of track; but all were on the
south side; not one was noted on the north.

The case is simple. During the past winter, while the Antelope were
gone southward, the Canadian Pacific Railway Company had fenced its
track. In spring the migrants, returning, found themselves cut off
from their summer feeding-grounds by those impassable barb-wires, and
so were gathered against the barrier. One band of 8, at a stopping
place, ran off when they saw passengers alighting, but at half a
mile they turned, and again came up against the fence, showing how
strong is the northward impulse.

Unless they learn some way of mastering the difficulty, it means
extermination for the Antelope of the north Saskatchewan.

From Calgary we went by train to Edmonton. This is the point
of leaving the railway, the beginning of hard travel, and here we
waited a few days to gather together our various shipments of food
and equipment, and to await notice that the river was open.

In the north the grand event of the year is the opening of the
rivers. The day when the ice goes out is the official first day
of spring, the beginning of the season; and is eagerly looked for,
as every day's delay means serious loss to the traders, whose men
are idle, but drawing pay as though at work.

On May 11, having learned that the Athabaska was open, we left
Edmonton in a livery rig, and drove 94 miles northward though a most
promising, half-settled country, and late the next day arrived at
Athabaska Landing, on the great east tributary of the Mackenzie,
whose waters were to bear us onward for so many weeks.

Athabaska Landing is a typical frontier town. These are hard words,
but justified. We put up at the principal hotel; the other lodgers
told me it was considered the worst hotel in the world. I thought
I knew of two worse, but next morning accepted the prevailing view.

Our canoe and provisions arrived, but the great convoy of scows
that were to take the annual supplies of trade stuff for the far
north was not ready, and we needed the help and guidance of its
men, so must needs wait for four days.

This gave us the opportunity to study the local natural history
and do a little collecting, the results of which appear later.

The great size of the timber here impressed me. I measured a typical
black poplar (P. balsamifera), 100 feet to the top, 8 feet 2 inches
in circumference, at 18 inches from the ground, and I saw many
thicker, but none taller.

At the hotel, also awaiting the scows, was a body of four
(dis-)Mounted Police, bound like ourselves for the far north. The
officer in charge turned out to be an old friend from Toronto, Major
A. M. Jarvis. I also met John Schott, the gigantic half-breed, who
went to the Barren Grounds with Caspar Whitney in 1895. He seemed
to have great respect for Whitney as a tramper, and talked much of
the trip, evidently having forgotten his own shortcomings of the
time. While I sketched his portrait, he regaled me with memories
of his early days on Red River, where he was born in 1841. 1 did
not fail to make what notes I could of those now historic times.
His accounts of the Antelope on White Horse Plain, in 1855, and
Buffalo about the site of Carberry, Manitoba, in 1852, were new
and valuable light on the ancient ranges of these passing creatures.

All travellers who had preceded me into the Barren Grounds had
relied on the abundant game, and in consequence suffered dreadful
hardships; in some cases even starved to death. I proposed to rely
on no game, but to take plenty of groceries, the best I could buy
in Winnipeg, which means the best in the world; and, as will be
seen later, the game, because I was not relying on it, walked into
camp every day.

But one canoe could not carry all these provisions, so most of it
I shipped on the Hudson's Bay Company scows, taking with us, in
the canoe, food for not more than a week, which with camp outfit
was just enough for ballast.

Of course I was in close touch with the Hudson's Bay people. Although
nominally that great trading company parted with its autocratic
power and exclusive franchise in 1870, it is still the sovereign
of the north. And here let me correct an error that is sometimes
found even in respectable print--the Company has at all times been
ready to assist scientists to the utmost of its very ample power.
Although jealous of its trading rights, every one is free to enter
the territory without taking count of the Company, but there has
not yet been a successful scientific expedition into the region
without its active co-operation.

The Hudson's Bay Company has always been the guardian angel of the
north.

I suppose that there never yet was another purely commercial concern
that so fully realized the moral obligations of its great power,
or that has so uniformly done its best for the people it ruled.

At all times it has stood for peace, and one hears over and over
again that such and such tribes were deadly enemies, but the Company
insisted on their smoking the peace pipe. The Sioux and Ojibway,
Black-Foot and Assiniboine., Dog-Rib and Copper-Knife, Beaver and
Chipewyan, all offer historic illustrations in point, and many
others could be found for the list.

The name Peace River itself is the monument of a successful effort
on the part of the Company to bring about a better understanding
between the Crees and the Beavers.

Besides human foes, the Company has saved the Indian from famine and
plague. Many a hunger-stricken tribe owes its continued existence
to the fatherly care of the Company, not simply general and
indiscriminate, but minute and personal, carried into the details
of their lives. For instance, when bots so pestered the Caribou of
one region as to render their hides useless to the natives, the
Company brought in hides from a district where they still were
good.

The Chipewyans were each spring the victims of snow-blindness until
the Company brought and succeeded in popularizing their present
ugly but effectual and universal peaked hats. When their train-dogs
were running down in physique, the Company brought in a strain of
pure Huskies or Eskimo. When the Albany River Indians were starving
and unable to hunt, the Company gave the order for 5,000 lodge poles.
Then, not knowing how else to turn them to account, commissioned
the Indians to work them into a picket garden-fence. At all times
the native found a father in the Company, and it was the worst thing
that ever happened the region when the irresponsible free-traders
with their demoralizing methods were allowed to enter and traffic
where or how they pleased.




CHAPTER II

DOWN THE NOISY RIVER WITH THE VOYAGEURS



At Athabaska Landing, on May 18, 1907, 10.15 A. M., we boarded the
superb Peterborough canoe that I had christened the Ann Seton. The
Athabaska River was a-flood and clear of ice; 13 scows of freight,
with 60 half-breeds and Indians to man them, left at the same time,
and in spite of a strong headwind we drifted northward fully 31
miles an hour.

The leading scow, where I spent some time, was in charge of John
MacDonald himself, and his passengers comprised the Hudson's Bay
Company officials, going to their posts or on tours of inspection.
They were a jolly crowd, like a lot of rollicking schoolboys,
full of fun and good-humour, chaffing and joking all day; but when
a question of business came up, the serious businessman appeared
in each, and the Company's interest was cared for with their best
powers. The bottle was not entirely absent in these scow fraternities,
but I saw no one the worse for liquor on the trip.

The men of mixed blood jabbered in French, Cree, and Chipewyan
chiefly, but when they wanted to swear, they felt the inadequacy
of these mellifluous or lisping tongues, and fell back on virile
Saxon, whose tang, projectivity, and wealth of vile epithet
evidently supplied a long-felt want in the Great Lone Land of the
Dog and Canoe.

In the afternoon Preble and I pushed on in our boat, far in advance
of the brigade. As we made early supper I received for the twentieth
time a lesson in photography. A cock Partridge or Ruffed Grouse
came and drummed on a log in open view, full sunlight, fifty feet
away. I went quietly to the place. He walked off, but little alarmed.
I set the camera eight feet from the log, with twenty-five feet of
tubing, and retired to a good hiding-place. But alas! I put the
tube on the left-hand pump, not knowing that that was a dummy.
The Grouse came back in three minutes, drumming in a superb pose
squarely in front of the camera. I used the pump, but saw that it
failed to operate; on going forward the Grouse skimmed away and
returned no more. Preble said, "Never mind; there will be another
every hundred yards all the way down the river, later on." I could
only reply, "The chance never comes but once," and so it proved.
We heard Grouse drumming many times afterward, but the sun was low,
or the places densely shaded, or the mosquitoes made conditions
impossible for silent watching; the perfect chance came but once,
as it always does, and I lost it.

About twenty miles below the Landing we found the abandoned winter
hut of a trapper; on the roof were the dried up bodies of 1 Skunk,
2 Foxes, and 30 Lynxes, besides the bones of 2 Moose, showing the
nature of the wild life about.

That night, as the river was brimming and safe, we tied up to the
scows and drifted, making 30 more miles, or 60 since embarking.

In the early morning, I was much struck by the lifelessness of the
scene. The great river stretched away northward, the hills rose
abruptly from the water's edge, everywhere extended the superb
spruce forest, here fortunately unburnt; but there seemed no sign of
living creature outside of our own numerous, noisy, and picturesque
party. River, hills, and woods were calm and silent. It was
impressive, if disappointing; and, when at last the fir stillness
was broken by a succession of trumpet notes from the Great Pileated
Woodpecker, the sound went rolling on and on, in reverberating
echoes that might well have alarmed the bird himself.

The white spruce forest along the banks is most inspiring, magnificent
here. Down the terraced slopes and right to the water's edge on the
alluvial soil it stands in ranks. Each year, of course, the floods
undercut the banks, and more trees fall, to become at last the
flotsam of the shore a thousand miles away.

There is something sad about these stately trees, densely packed,
all a-row, unflinching, hopelessly awaiting the onset of the
inexorable, invincible river. One group, somewhat isolated and
formal, was a forest life parallel to Lady Butler's famous "Roll
Call of the Grenadiers."

At night we reached the Indian village of Pelican Portage, and
landed by climbing over huge blocks of ice that were piled along
the shore. The adult male inhabitants came down to our camp, so
that the village was deserted, except for the children and a few
women.

As I walked down the crooked trail along which straggle the cabins,
I saw something white in a tree at the far end. Supposing it to be
a White-rabbit in a snare, I went near and found, to my surprise,
first that it was a dead house-cat, a rare species here; second,
under it, eyeing it and me alternately, was a hungry-looking Lynx.
I had a camera, for it was near sundown, and in the woods, so I
went back to the boat and returned with a gun. There was the Lynx
still prowling, but now farther from the village. I do not believe
he would have harmed the children, but a Lynx is game. I fired,
and he fell without a quiver or a sound. This was the first time
I had used a gun in many years, and was the only time on the trip.
I felt rather guilty, but the carcass was a godsend to two old
Indians who were sickening on a long diet of salt pork, and that
Lynx furnished them tender meat for three days afterward; while
its skin and skull went to the American Museum.

On the night of May 20, we camped just above Grand Rapids--Preble
and I alone, for the first time, under canvas, and glad indeed
to get away from the noisy rabble of the boatmen, though now they
were but a quarter mile off. At first I had found them amusing
and picturesque, but their many unpleasant habits, their distinct
aversion to strangers, their greediness to get all they could out
of one, and do nothing in return, combined finally with their habit
of gambling all night to the loud beating of a tin pan, made me
thankful to quit their company for a time.

At Grand Rapids the scows were unloaded, the goods shipped over
a quarter-mile hand tramway, on an island, the scows taken down a
side channel, one by one, and reloaded. This meant a delay of three
or four days, during which we camped on the island and gathered
specimens.

Being the organizer, equipper, geographer, artist, head, and tail of
the expedition, I was, perforce, also its doctor. Equipped with a
"pill-kit," an abundance of blisters and bandages and some "potent
purgatives," I had prepared myself to render first and last aid to
the hurt in my own party. In taking instructions from our family
physician, I had learned the value of a profound air of great
gravity, a noble reticence, and a total absence of doubt, when I
did speak. I compressed his creed into a single phrase: "In case of
doubt, look wise and work on his 'bowels.'" This simple equipment
soon gave me a surprisingly high standing among the men. I was
a medicine man of repute, and soon had a larger practice than I
desired, as it was entirely gratuitous.

The various boatmen, Indians and half-breeds, came with their
troubles, and, thanks chiefly to their faith, were cured. But one
day John MacDonald, the chief pilot and a mighty man on the river,
came to my tent on Grand Island. John complained that he couldn't
hold anything on his stomach; he was a total peristaltic wreck indeed
(my words; his were more simple and more vivid, but less sonorous
and professional). He said he had been going down hill for two
weeks, and was so bad now that he was "no better than a couple of
ordinary men."

"Exactly so," I said. "Now you take these pills and you'll be all
right in the morning." Next morning John was back, and complained
that my pills had no effect; he wanted to feel something take hold
of him. Hadn't 1 any pepper-juice or brandy?

I do not take liquor on an expedition, but at the last moment
a Winnipeg friend had given me a pint flask of pure brandy--"for
emergencies." An emergency had come.

"John! you shall have some extra fine brandy, nicely thinned with
pepper-juice." I poured half an inch of brandy into a tin cup, then
added half an inch of "pain-killer."

"Here, take this, and if you don't feel it, it means your insides
are dead, and you may as well order your coffin."

John took it at a gulp. His insides were not dead; but I might have
been, had I been one of his boatmen.

He doubled up, rolled around, and danced for five minutes. He did
not squeal--John never squeals--but he suffered some, and an hour
later announced that he was about cured.

Next day he came to say he was all right, and would soon again be
as good as half a dozen men.

At this same camp in Grand Rapids another cure on a much larger
scale was added to my list. An Indian had "the bones of his foot
broken," crushed by a heavy weight, and was badly crippled. He
came leaning on a friend's shoulder. His foot was blackened and much
swollen, but I soon satisfied myself that no bones were broken,
because he could wriggle all the toes and move the foot in any
direction.

"You'll be better in three days and all right in a week," I said,
with calm assurance. Then I began with massage. It seemed necessary
in the Indian environment to hum some tune, and I found that the
"Koochy-Koochy" lent itself best to the motion, so it became my
medicine song.

With many "Koochy-Koochy"-ings and much ice-cold water he was
nearly cured in three days, and sound again in a week. But in the
north folk have a habit (not known elsewhere) of improving the
incident. Very soon it was known all along the river that the Indian's
leg was broken, and I had set and healed it in three days. In a
year or two, I doubt not, it will be his neck that was broken, not
once, but in several places.

Grand Island yielded a great many Deermice of the arctic form, a
few Red-backed Voles, and any number of small birds migrant.

As we floated down the river the eye was continually held by tall
and prominent spruce trees that had been cut into peculiar forms
as below. These were known as "lob-sticks," or "lop-sticks," and
are usually the monuments of some distinguished visitor in the
country or records of some heroic achievement. Thus, one would be
pointed out as Commissioner Wrigley's lob-stick, another as John
MacDonald's the time he saved the scow.

The inauguration of a lob-stick is quite a ceremony. Some person
in camp has impressed all with his importance or other claim to
notice. The men, having talked it over, announce that they have
decided on giving him a lob-stick. "Will he make choice of some
prominent tree in view?" The visitor usually selects one back from
the water's edge, often on some far hilltop, the more prominent the
better; then an active young fellow is sent up with an axe to trim
the tree. The more embellishment the higher the honor. On the trunk
they then inscribe the name of the stranger, and he is supposed
to give each of the men a plug of tobacco and a drink of whiskey.
Thus they celebrate the man and his monument, and ever afterwards
it is pointed out as "So-and-so's lob-stick."

It was two months before my men judged that I was entitled to a
lob-stick. We were then on Great Slave Lake where the timber was
small, but the best they could get on a small island was chosen
and trimmed into a monument. They were disappointed however, to
find that I would by no means give whiskey to natives, and my treat
had to take a wholly different form.

Grand Rapids, with its multiplicity of perfectly round pot-hole
boulders, was passed in four days, and then, again in company with
the boats, we entered the real canyon of the river.

Down Athabaska's boiling flood
Of seething, leaping, coiling mud.




CHAPTER III

HUMAN NATURE ON THE RIVER



Sunday morning, 26th of May, there was something like a strike
among the sixty half-breeds and Indians that composed the crews.
They were strict Sabbatarians (when it suited them); they believed
that they should do no work, but give up the day to gambling and
drinking. Old John, the chief pilot, wished to take advantage of the
fine flood on the changing river, and drift down at least to the
head of the Boiler Rapids, twenty miles away, The breeds maintained,
with many white swear words, for lack of strong talk in Indian, that
they never yet knew Sunday work to end in anything but disaster,
and they sullenly scattered among the trees, produced their cards,
and proceeded to gamble away their property, next year's pay,
clothes, families, anything, and otherwise show their respect for
the Lord's Day and defiance of old John MacDonald. John made no
reply to their arguments; he merely boarded the cook's boat, and
pushed off into the swift stream with the cooks and all the grub.
In five minutes the strikers were on the twelve big boats doing
their best to live up to orders. John said nothing, and grinned at
me only with his eyes.

The breeds took their defeat in good part after the first minute,
and their commander rose higher in their respect.

At noon we camped above the Boiler Rapids. In the evening I climbed
the 400- or 500-foot hill behind camp and sketched the canyon
looking northward. The spring birds were now beginning to arrive,
but were said to be a month late this year. The ground was everywhere
marked with moose sign; prospects, were brightening.

The mania for killing that is seen in many white men is evidently
a relic of savagery, for all of these Indians and half-breeds
are full of it. Each carries a rifle, and every living thing that
appears on the banks or on the water is fusilladed with Winchesters
until it is dead or out of sight. This explains why we see so
little from the scows. One should be at least a day ahead of them
to meet with wild life on the river.

This morning two Bears appeared on the high bank--and there was the
usual uproar and fusillading; so far as could be learned without
any effect, except the expenditure of thirty or forty cartridges
at five cents each.

On the 27th we came to the Cascade Rapids. The first or Little
Cascade has about two feet fall, the second or Grand Cascade, a
mile farther, is about a six foot sheer drop. These are considered
very difficult to run, and the manner of doing it changes with
every change in season or water level.

We therefore went through an important ceremony, always carried
out in the same way. All 13 boats were beached, the 13 pilots went
ahead on the bank to study the problem, they decided on the one
safe place and manner, then returned, and each of the 13 boats was
run over in 13 different places and manners. They always do this.
You are supposed to have run the Cascades successfully if you cross
them alive, but to have failed if you drown.. In this case all were
successful.

Below the Cascades I had a sample of Indian gratitude that set me
thinking. My success with John MacDonald and others had added the
whole community to my medical practice, for those who were not
sick thought they were. I cheerfully did my best for all, and was
supposed to be persona grata. Just below the Cascade Rapids was
a famous sucker pool, and after we had camped three Indians came,
saying that the pool was full of suckers--would I lend them my
canoe to get some?

Away they went, and from afar I was horrified to see them clubbing
the fish with my beautiful thin-bladed maple paddles. They returned
with a boat load of 3- and 4-pound Suckers (Catostomus) and 2
paddles broken. Each of their friends came and received one or two
fine fish, for there were plenty. I, presumably part owner of the
catch, since I owned the boat, selected one small one for myself,
whereupon the Indian insolently demanded 25 cents for it; and
these were the men I had been freely doctoring for two weeks! Not
to speak of the loaned canoe and broken paddles! Then did I say a
few things to all and sundry--stinging, biting things, ungainsayable
and forcible things--and took possession of all the fish that were
left, so the Indians slunk off in sullen silence.

Gratitude seems an unknown feeling among these folk; you may give
presents and help and feed them all you like, the moment you want
a slight favour of them they demand the uttermost cent. In attempting
to analyse this I was confronted by the fact that among themselves
they are kind and hospitable, and at length discovered that their
attitude toward us is founded on the ideas that all white men are
very rich, that the Indian has made them so by allowing them to
come into this country, that the Indian is very poor because he
never was properly compensated, and that therefore all he can get
out of said white man is much less than the white man owes him.

As we rounded a point one day a Lynx appeared statuesque on a stranded
cake of ice, a hundred yards off, and gazed at the approaching
boats. True to their religion, the half-breeds seized their rifles,
the bullets whistled harmlessly about the "Peeshoo"--whereupon he
turned and walked calmly up the slope, stopping to look at each
fresh volley, but finally waved his stumpy tail and walked unharmed
over the ridge. Distance fifty yards.

On May 28 we reached Fort MacMurray.

Here I saw several interesting persons: Miss Christine Gordon, the
postmaster; Joe Bird, a half-breed with all the advanced ideas of
a progressive white man; and an American ex-patriot, G------, a
tall, raw-boned Yank from Illinois. He was a typical American of
the kind, that knows little of America and nothing of Europe; but
shrewd and successful in spite of these limitations. In appearance
he was not unlike Abraham Lincoln. He was a rabid American, and
why he stayed here was a question.

He had had no detailed tidings from home for years, and I never saw
a man more keen for the news. On the banks of the river we sat for
an hour while he plied me with questions, which I answered so far
as I could. He hung on my lips; he interrupted only when there seemed
a halt in the stream; he revelled in, all the details of wrecks
by rail and sea. Roosevelt and the trusts--insurance scandals--the
South the burnings in the West--massacres--murders--horrors--risings--these
were his special gloats, and yet he kept me going with "Yes--yes--and
then?" or "Yes, by golly--that's the way we're a-doing it. Go on."

Then, after I had robbed New York of $100,000,000 a year, burnt 10
large towns and 45 small ones, wrecked 200 express trains, lynched
96 negroes in the South and murdered many men every night for 7
years in Chicago--he broke out:

"By golly, we are a-doing it. We are the people. We are a-moving
things now; and I tell you I give the worst of them there European
countries, the very worst of 'em, just 100 years to become
Americanised."

Think of that, ye polished Frenchmen; ye refined, courteous Swedes;
ye civilised Danes; you have 100 years to become truly Americanised!

All down the river route we came on relics of another class of
wanderers--the Klondikers of 1898. Sometimes these were empty winter
cabins; sometimes curious tools left at Hudson's Bay Posts, and in
some cases expensive provisions; in all cases we heard weird tales
of their madness.

There is, I am told, a shanty on the Mackenzie above Simpson, where
four of them made a strange record. Cooped up for months in tight
winter quarters, they soon quarrelled, and at length their partnership
was dissolved. Each took the articles he had contributed, and those
of common purchase they divided in four equal parts. The stove, the
canoe, the lamp, the spade, were broken relentlessly and savagely
into four parts--four piles of useless rubbish. The shanty was
divided in four. One man had some candles of his own bringing.
These he kept and carefully screened off his corner of the room so
no chance rays might reach the others to comfort them; they spent
the winter in darkness. None spoke to the other, and they parted,
singly and silently, hatefully as ever, as soon as the springtime
opened the way.




CHAPTER IV

DOWN THE SILENT RIVER WITH THE MOUNTED POLICE



At Fort MacMurray we learned that there was no telling when the
steamer might arrive; Major Jarvis was under orders to proceed
without delay to Smith Landing; so to solve all our difficulties
I bought a 30-foot boat (sturgeon-head) of Joe Bird, and arranged
to join forces with the police for the next part of the journey.

I had made several unsuccessful attempts to get an experienced native
boatman to go northward with me. All seemed to fear the intending
plunge into the unknown; so was agreeably surprised when a sturdy
young fellow of Scottish and Cree parentage came and volunteered
for the trip. A few inquiries proved him to bear a good reputation
as a river-man and worker, so William C. Loutit was added to my
expedition and served me faithfully throughout.

In time I learned that Billy was a famous traveller. Some years
ago, when the flood had severed all communication between Athabaska
Landing and Edmonton, Billy volunteered to carry some important
despatches, and covered the 96 miles on foot in one and a half days,
although much of the road was under water. On another occasion he
went alone and afoot from House River up the Athabaska to Calling
River, and across the Point to the Athabaska again, then up to the
Landing-150 rough miles in four days. These exploits I had to find
out for myself later on, but much more important to me at the time
was the fact that he was a first-class cook, a steady, cheerful
worker, and a capable guide as far as Great Slave Lake.

The Athabaska below Fort MacMurray is a noble stream, one-third
of a mile wide, deep, steady, unmarred; the banks are covered with
unbroken virginal forests of tall white poplar, balsam poplar,
spruce, and birch. The fire has done no damage here as yet, the
axe has left no trace, there are no houses, no sign of man except
occasional teepee poles. I could fancy myself floating down the
Ohio two hundred years ago.

These were bright days to be remembered, as we drifted down
its placid tide in our ample and comfortable boat, with abundance
of good things. Calm, lovely, spring weather; ducks all along the
river; plenty of food, which is the northerner's idea of bliss;
plenty of water, which is the river-man's notion of joy; plenty
of leisure, which is an element in most men's heaven, for we had
merely to float with the stream, three miles an hour, except when
we landed to eat or sleep.

The woods were donning their vernal green and resounded with the
calls of birds now. The mosquito plague of the region had not yet
appeared, and there was little lacking to crown with a halo the
memory of those days on the Missouri of the North.

Native quadrupeds seemed scarce, and we were all agog when one of
the men saw a black fox trotting along the opposite bank. However,
it turned out to be one of the many stray dogs of the country. He
followed us a mile or more, stopping at times to leap at fish that
showed near the shore. When we landed for lunch he swam the broad
stream and hung about at a distance. As this was twenty miles from
any settlement, he was doubtless hungry, so I left a bountiful
lunch for him, and when we moved away, he claimed his own.

At Fort McKay I saw a little half-breed boy shooting with a bow
and displaying extraordinary marksmanship. At sixty feet he could
hit the bottom of a tomato tin nearly every time; and even more
surprising was the fact that he held the arrow with what is known
as the Mediterranean hold. When, months later, I again stopped at
this place, I saw another boy doing the very same. Some residents
assured me that this was the style of all the Chipewyans as well
as the Crees.

That night we camped far down the river and on the side opposite
the Fort, for experience soon teaches one to give the dogs no
chance of entering camp on marauding expeditions while you rest.
About ten, as I was going to sleep, Preble put his head in and
said: "Come out here if you want a new sensation."

In a moment I was standing with him under the tall spruce trees,
looking over the river to the dark forest, a quarter mile away,
and listening intently to a new and wonderful sound. Like the
slow tolling of a soft but high-pitched bell, it came. Ting, ting,
ting, ting, and on, rising and falling with the breeze, but still
keeping on about two "tings" to the second; and on, dulling as
with distance, but rising again and again.

It was unlike anything I had ever heard, but Preble knew it of old.
"That", says he, "is the love-song of the Richardson Owl. She is
sitting demurely in some spruce top while he sails around, singing
on the wing, and when the sound seems distant, he is on the far
side of the tree."

Ting, ting, ting, ting, it went on and on, this soft belling
of his love, this amorous music of our northern bell-bird. .

Ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, ting, TING,
ting--oh, how could any lady owl resist such strains?--and on, with
its ting, ting, ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, TING, the whole night
air was vibrant. Then, as though by plan, a different note--the
deep booming "Oho-oh-who-oh who hoo" of the Great Homed Owl--was
heard singing a most appropriate bass.

But the little Owl went on and on; 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 20 minutes
at last had elapsed before I turned in again and left him. More
than once that night I awoke to hear his "tinging" serenade upon
the consecrated air of the piney woods.

Yet Preble said this one was an indifferent performer. On the
Mackenzie he had heard far better singers of the kind; some that
introduce many variations of the pitch and modulation. I thought
it one of the most charming bird voices I had ever listened to--and
felt that this was one of the things that make the journey worth
while.

On June 1 the weather was so blustering and wet that we did not
break camp. I put in the day examining the superb timber of this
bottom-land. White spruce is the prevailing conifer and is here
seen in perfection. A representative specimen was 118 feet high, 11
feet 2 inches in circumference, or 3 feet 6 1/2 inches in diameter
1 foot from the ground, i.e., above any root spread. There was
plenty of timber of similar height. Black spruce, a smaller kind,
and tamarack are found farther up and back in the bog country.
jackpine of fair size abounds on the sandy and gravelly parts.
Balsam poplar is the largest deciduous tree; its superb legions
in upright ranks are crowded along all the river banks and on the
islands not occupied by the spruce. The large trees of this kind
often have deep holes; these are the nesting sites of the Whistler
Duck, which is found in numbers here and as far north as this tree,
but not farther. White poplar is plentiful also; the hillsides are
beautifully clad with its purplish masses of twigs, through which
its white stem gleam like marble columns. White birch is common
and large enough for canoes. Two or three species of willow in
impenetrable thickets make up the rest of the forest stretches.

At this camp I had the unique experience of showing all these seasoned
Westerners that it was possible to make a fire by the friction of
two sticks. This has long been a specialty of mine; I use a thong
and a bow as the simplest way. Ordinarily I prefer balsam-fir or
tamarack; in this case I used a balsam block and a spruce drill,
and, although each kind failed when used with drill and block the
same, I got the fire in half a minute.

On June 3 we left this camp of tall timber. As we floated down we
sighted a Lynx on the bank looking contemplatively into the flood. One
of the police boys seized a gun and with a charge of No. 6 killed
the Lynx. Poor thing, it was in a starving condition, as indeed
are most meat-eaters this year in the north. Though it was fully
grown, it weighed but 15 pounds.

In its stomach was part of a sparrow (white-throat?) and a piece
of rawhide an inch wide and 4 feet long, evidently a portion of a
dog-harness picked up somewhere along the river. I wonder what he
did with the bells.

That night we decided to drift, leaving one man on guard. Next day,
as we neared Lake Athabaska, the shores got lower, and the spruce
disappeared, giving way to dense thickets of low willow. Here
the long expected steamer, Graham, passed, going upstream. We now
began to get occasional glimpses of Lake Athabaska across uncertain
marshes and sand bars. It was very necessary to make Fort Chipewyan
while there was a calm, so we pushed on. After four hours' groping
among blind channels and mud banks, we reached the lake at
midnight--though of course there was no night, but a sort of gloaming
even at the darkest--and it took us four hours' hard rowing to
cover the ten miles that separated us from Chipewyan.

It sounds very easy and commonplace when one says "hard rowing,"
but it takes on more significance when one is reminded that those
oars were 18 feet long, 5 inches through, and weighed about 20 pounds
each; the boat was 30 feet long, a demasted schooner indeed, and
rowing her through shallow muddy water, where the ground suction
was excessive, made labour so heavy that 15 minute spells were all
any one could do. We formed four relays, and all worked in turn
all night through, arriving at Chipewyan. 4 A.M., blistered, sore,
and completely tired out.

Fort Chipewyan (pronounced Chip-we-yan') was Billy Loutit's home,
and here we met his father, mother, and numerous as well as interesting
sisters. Meanwhile I called at the Roman Catholic Mission, under
Bishop Gruard, and the rival establishment, under Reverend Roberts,
good men all, and devoted to the cause, but loving not each other.
The Hudson's Bay Company, however, was here, as everywhere in the
north, the really important thing.

There was a long stretch of dead water before we could resume our
downward drift, and, worse than that, there was such a flood on the
Peace River that it was backing the Athabaska, that is, the tide
of the latter was reversed on the Rocher River, which extends
twenty-five miles between here and Peace mouth. To meet this, I
hired Colin Fraser's steamer. We left Chipewyan at 6.15; at 11.15
camped below the Peace on Great Slave River, and bade farewell to
the steamer.

The reader may well be puzzled by these numerous names; the fact
is the Mackenzie, the Slave, the Peace, the Rocher, and the Unchaga
are all one and the same river, but, unfortunately, the early
explorers thought proper to give it a new name each time it did
something, such as expand into a lake. By rights it should be the
Unchaga or Unjiza, from the Rockies to the Arctic, with the Athabaska
as its principal southern tributary.

The next day another Lynx was collected. In its stomach were
remains of a Redsquirrel, a Chipmunk, and a Bog-lemming. The last
was important as it made a new record.

The Athabaska is a great river, the Peace is a greater, and the
Slave, formed by their union, is worthy of its parents. Its placid
flood is here nearly a mile wide, and its banks are covered with
a great continuous forest of spruce trees of the largest size. How
far back this extends I do not know, but the natives say the best
timber is along the river.

More than once a Lynx was seen trotting by or staring at us from
the bank, but no other large animal.

On the night of June 7 we reached Smith Landing.




CHAPTER V

A CONFERENCE WITH THE CHIEFS



A few bands of Buffalo are said to exist in the country east of
Great Slave River. Among other matters, Major Jarvis had to report
on these, find out how many were left, and exactly where they were.
When he invited me to join his expedition, with these questions in
view, I needed no pressing.

Our first business was to get guides, and now our troubles began.

Through the traders we found four natives who knew the Buffalo
range--they were Kiya, Sousi, Kirma, and Peter Squirrel. However,
they seemed in no way desirous of guiding any one into that
country. They dodged and delayed and secured many postponements,
but the Royal Mounted Police and the Hudson's Bay Company are the
two mighty powers of the land, so, urged by an officer of each,
these worthies sullenly assembled to meet us in Sousi's cabin.

Sousi, by the way, is Chipewyan for Joseph, and this man's name
was Joseph Beaulieu. Other northern travellers have warned all that
came after them to beware of the tribe of Beaulieu, so we were on
guard.

Sullen silence greeted us as we entered; we could feel their
covert antagonism. Jarvis is one of those affable, good-tempered
individuals that most persons take for "easy." In some ways he may
be so, but I soon realised that he was a keen judge of men and their
ways, and he whispered to me: "They mean to block us if possible."
Sousi understood French and had some English, but the others professed
ignorance of everything but Chipewyan. So it was necessary to call
in an interpreter. How admirably he served us may be judged from
the following sample secured later.

Q. Are the Buffalo near?

A. Wah-hay-was-ki busquow Kai-ah taw nip-ee-wat-chow-es-kee
nee-moy-ah. Kee-as-o-win sugee-meesh i-mush-wa mus-tat-e-muck
ne-mow-ah pe-muk-te-ok nemoy-ah dane-tay-tay-ah.

Interpreter. He say "no."

Q. How long would it take to get them?

A. Ne-moy-ah mis-chay-to-ok Way-hay-o ay-ow-ok-iman-kah-mus-to-ok.
Mis-ta-hay cha-gowos-ki wah-hay-o musk-ee-see-seepi. Mas-kootch
e-goot-ah-i-ow mas-kootch ne-moy-ah muk-eboy sak-te-muk mas-kootch
gahk-sin-now ne-moy-ah gehk-kee-win-tay dam-foole-Inglis.

Interpreter. He say "don't know."

Q. Can you go with us as guide?

A. Kee-ya-wah-lee nas-bah a-lash-tay wah-lee-lee lan-day. (Answer
literally) "Yes, I could go if I could leave the transport."

Interpreter's answer, "Mebby."

After a couple of hours of this bootless sort of thing we had
made no headway toward getting a guide, nor could we get definite
information about the Buffaloes or the Wolves. Finally the meeting
suffered a sort of natural disintegration.

Next day we tried again, but again there were technical difficulties,
grown up like mushrooms over night.

Kiya could not go or lend his horses, because it was mostly
Squirrel's country, and he was afraid Squirrel would not like it.
Squirrel could not go because it would be indelicate of him to
butt in after negotiations had been opened with Kiya. Kirma was not
well. Sousi could not go because his wife was sick, and it preyed
on his mind so that he dare not trust himself away from the
settlement; at least, not without much medicine to fortify him
against rheumatism, home-sickness, and sadness.

Next day Kiya sent word that he had business of great moment, and
could not meet us, but would see that early in the morning Squirrel
was notified to come and do whatever we wished. In the morning Squirrel
also had disappeared, leaving word that he had quite overlooked a
most important engagement to "portage some flour across the rapids,"
not that he loved the tump line, but he had "promised," and to keep
his word was very precious to him.

Jarvis and I talked it over and reviewed the information we had.
At Ottawa it was reported that the Wolves were killing the calves,
so the Buffalo did not increase. At Winnipeg the Wolves were so
bad that they killed yearlings; at Edmonton the cows were not safe.

At Chipewyan the Wolves, reinforced by large bands from the Barren
Grounds, were killing the young Buffalo, and later the cows and
young bulls. At Smith's Landing the Wolves had even tackled an old
bull whose head was found with the large bones. Horses and dogs
were now being devoured. Terrible battles were taking place between
the dark Wolves of Peace River and the White Wolves of the Barrens
for possession of the Buffalo grounds. Of course the Buffalo were
disappearing; about a hundred were all that were left.

But no one ever sees any of these terrible Wolves, the few men who
know that country have plenty of pemmican, that is neither Moose
nor Caribou, and the Major briefly summed up the situation: "The
Wolves are indeed playing havoc with the Buffalo, and the ravenous
leaders of the pack are called Sousi, Kiya, Kirma, and Squirrel."

Now of all the four, Sousi, being a Beaulieu and a half-breed, had
the worst reputation, but of all the four he was the only one that
had admitted a possibility of guiding us, and was to be found on the
fifth morning. So his views were met, a substitute found to watch
his fishing nets, groceries to keep his wife from pining during his
absence, a present for himself, the regular rate of wages doubled,
his horses hired, his rheumatism, home-sickness, and sadness provided
against, a present of tobacco, some more presents, a promise of
reward for every Buffalo shown, then another present, and we set
out.




CHAPTER VI

OUT WITH SOUSI BEAULIEU



It's a, fine thing to get started, however late in the day, and
though it was 3.20 P. M. before everything was ready, we gladly
set out--Sousi, Major Jarvis, and myself--all mounted, the native
leading a packhorse with provisions.

And now we had a chance to study our guide. A man's real history
begins, of course, about twenty years before he is born. In
the middle of the last century was a notorious old ruffian named
Beaulieu. Montreal was too slow for him, so he invaded the north-west
with a chosen crew of congenial spirits. His history can be got from
any old resident of the north-west. I should not like to write it
as it was told to me.

His alleged offspring are everywhere in the country, and most
travellers on their return from this region, sound a note of warning:
"Look out for every one of the name of Beaulieu. They are a queer
lot." And now we had committed ourselves and our fortunes into the
hands of Beaulieu's second or twenty-second son--I could not make
sure which. He is a typical half-breed, of medium height, thin,
swarthy, and very active, although he must be far past 60. Just how
far is not known, whether 59 69 or 79, he himself seemed uncertain,
but he knows there is a 9 in it. The women of Smith's Landing say
59, the men say 79 or 89.

He is clad in what might be the cast-off garments of a white tramp,
except for his beaded moccasins. However sordid these people may be
in other parts of their attire, I note that they always have some
redeeming touch of color and beauty about the moccasins which
cover their truly shapely feet. Sousi's rifle, a Winchester, also
was clad in a native mode. An embroidered cover of moose leather
protected it night and day, except when actually in use; of
his weapons he took most scrupulous care. Unlike the founder of
the family, Sousi has no children of his own. But he has reared a
dozen waifs under prompting of his own kind heart. He is quite a
character--does not drink or smoke, and I never heard him swear.
This is not because he does not know how, for he is conversant with
the vigor of all the five languages of the country, and the garment
of his thought is like Joseph's coat--Ethnologically speaking, its
breadth and substance are French, but it bears patches of English,
with flowers and frills, strophes, and classical allusions of Cree
and Chipewyan--the last being the language of his present "home
circle."