CHAPTER IX

From Fort McPherson to Rampart House : Crossing the Peel River : An Attempt at Intimidation : The Summit of the Rocky Mountains : In Pacific Waters : The Porcupine : John Quatlot Departs.

Thefollowing day I commenced to make preparations for the next stage in my trip.

I had hoped to be able to proceed first up Rat Creek to near the summit of the Rocky Mountains where I would make a portage of some ten miles over the summit into the waters of the Bell River, a tributary of the Porcupine, the latter a tributary of the Yukon, all flowing to the Pacific, and I had brought along a good Peterborough canoe for the purpose.

There were a few Indians at McPherson who had recently come over from near Rampart House on the Alaskan boundary and who were willing to engage in assisting me on my way, but they said that owing to the low state of the water it would takeus three weeks to get to Bell River via Rat Creek with my canoe. They had come over the long portage of eighty miles leaving their birch bark canoes at Bell River, and they advised me to allow them to carry my outfit and supplies over this trail to their landing place, and that as one of their canoes was a large one I could have room in it while making the journey down to Rampart House. This seemed a wise course and I arranged with them for the trip.

On Tuesday, July 24, at 3.30P.M., we crossed the Peel River to where the trail starts. Here we made up our packs. Altogether our party consisted of four Indians and one squaw. The latter carried only a small pack but took charge of our three dogs, the latter also each carrying a pack of about thirty pounds.

It was 5.30P.M.when all was arranged and we climbed up the steep bank of the Peel and commenced our overland journey. The weather was sultry and threatened rain which finally overtook us. Our path was for a few miles through a rather stunted forest which to a certain extent protected us, but as we got away from the river thetrees became smaller and more scattered till finally at about ten o’clock we found ahead of us a dreary Arctic swamp covered only with a short growth of grass mixed with low shrubbery. This was the tundra so often mentioned by Arctic travellers. The grass grows in hummocks known astête de femme(woman’s head). The trail is generally covered with some water, and one is often tempted to try to step from one to another of these tufts of grass, but as the somewhat larger head rests on a slender neck you will soon prefer to wade along the narrow path, after perhaps having a few tumbles, which, to any one loaded with a pack, is not a pleasant experience.

Before entering the open at about 10P.M.and seven miles from our starting-point, as the rain was increasing, we determined to camp for the night. This was accomplished with some difficulty as the wind had great strength as it blew uninterruptedly in from the dreary waste stretching away to the north and west of us. However, with the assistance of Mr. Stefansson, who accompanied me this far we finally succeeded in getting my tent up and made fast in the swampy soil.

I have already referred to Mr. Stefansson, as one who no doubt will be heard more of in the future. It is now over five years since we bade each other good-bye on that dreary night, and ever since he has lived almost constantly along the Arctic coast, collecting information which it is hoped he may return to publish. He is at present somewhere in that barren region busily studying the ethnological characteristics of that strange race which probably at some time in its past history was driven by its enemies beyond the habitable land to seek shelter on these islands and capes which they have now grown to love so dearly that they would not exchange them for any other.

There seems no reason for this except the sentiment that is enshrined in the word “Home.” A sentiment that is world wide and which every race on earth holds dear.

“The shuddering tenant of the frigid zoneProclaims the happiest land his own,The naked negro panting on the lineBoasts of his golden sands and palmy wine.”

“The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone

Proclaims the happiest land his own,

The naked negro panting on the line

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine.”

It rained all night and during the earlymorning, but cleared up about ten o’clock when we prepared to resume our journey.

I had engaged the Indians to carry my outfit across the portage, thence in their canoes to Rampart House, for a certain sum, and had paid them in advance at Fort McPherson. In addition to the four Indians and squaw whom I have mentioned, a young man had joined the party on starting, and assisted thus far on the journey.

While we were packing up in the morning this individual in a rather defiant manner approached me and in fair English informed me that it would be impossible, without his assistance, for the others to carry all that I was bringing; at the same time asking me what I proposed to pay him for helping them across. I realised that I had to act firmly. I would gladly have engaged him, but I felt that it was, to use a common phrase, “a hold up,” and that if I allowed him to intimidate me at this early stage in the journey there was no telling what he might attempt next. My authority with the others would be weakened and they would look on him rather than myself as leader of the party. I told him that all the loads had beenweighed before starting from the post, that his people had been given all they asked for the work, and that if they wanted his assistance it rested with them to pay him. In a somewhat angry tone he said “that was not the way for a white man to talk, and that if I did not pay him he would go ahead light and make the journey in half the time we would.” I then told him that he must provide for himself, as I did not want him in our party. With this he hurriedly gathered up his blankets and a little dried meat he had, and with his gun started ahead, and we saw no more of him. I felt greatly relieved when he left, and after this I heard not the slightest complaint from any one of the party, though they were heavily loaded; so much so that I could not refrain from assisting them myself, and the fact was that from this point across I believe I bore my fair share with the rest, according to my strength, though in real weight I only took a small fraction of what one of the men carried. This particular Indian and his wife, who was with us, were really fine specimens of their race. Both were young, of splendid stature, and really good looking, and though he must havecarried over 100 pounds across that eighty miles, it was all done without any show of irritability but with the utmost good nature, while the wife also bore her share without complaint.

We did not get started on this, our second day on the trail, till 11 o’clock, but travelled till 8.30P.M.and camped on the bank of a small stream flowing southerly and emptying into a larger one flowing easterly into the Peel. The latter is known as La Pierre or “Stony Creek,” and our trail lay in the valley of this stream all the way to the “great divide.” The small stream where we camped was at this time only two rods wide and fifteen inches deep, but evidently is one of considerable size at other seasons of the year.

The weather was hot till late in the afternoon, when it turned cooler. My Indians informed me that on their trip across this portage a few weeks before they had suffered with the intense heat and lost some of their dogs in consequence of it.

This was about the same time that we had experienced the excessive heat on the Athabaska. Perhaps the reader will recall theextreme hot weather that I am informed was general throughout what I may call Southern Canada as well as the United States in the early part of July 1906. It would seem that this hot wave had extended from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic Ocean.

During this second day’s journey the trail was generally through what might be called an Arctic swamp, but occasionally we would ascend an eminence, and on each occasion I cast a glance back where I could see Fort McPherson, but each successive time it grew more indistinct, till finally it was lost to view and the last link with civilisation in that direction was broken. It had seemed to me up to this time that something might happen which would prevent my getting across the portage and cause me to return to McPherson by the same route which I had previously taken. But the return would not have been by steamers, but in my canoe, which was still at McPherson. From now on, however, there was fortunately no looking backward.

On July 26 we started at 9A.M.and travelled till 7P.M., making about eighteen miles, and crossing another small stream inthe afternoon. Our course still lay westerly up the same valley, with Stony Creek far below us to the left. The day was quite cool and the night decidedly so. We were now well up the mountains and some snow was seen in the ravines. This was the most fatiguing day of the trip. Though there was really no mountain climbing in the usual sense of the term, the continual gradual ascent was most wearisome, and right glad was I when the Indians threw off their packs on the bank of another small creek.

We left camp at 8.30A.M.on Friday the 27th, and at 1P.M.reached “the summit” of the Rocky Mountains at a height of 2600 feet above sea level in the pass, though the mountains on each side are from two to three thousand feet higher. Shortly after this we crossed a stream which flowed into one further south, similar in size to Stony Creek, but, of course, flowing westerly with its waters coursing on their way into the Pacific Ocean.

Immediately after crossing the height of land we found the travelling much easier, for we were now on the descent and though to the eye this was scarcely discernible, and theswamp was just as wet as before, yet, when we rested for the night I was by no means so tired as on the previous night, though we had travelled several miles farther. The weather was cool and (blessed boon) there were no mosquitoes. We passed over some snow on the hill sides, but without the least difficulty, as it was almost as hard as ice.

On Saturday the 28th we started at 8A.M.and immediately forded the stream by which we had camped and in the valley of which we had been travelling since crossing the summit; it was of considerable size, but at this season was easily forded. Four miles further on we crossed the same stream again. The mountain scenery here was very beautiful, though the peaks are not so high as further south, though they probably attain an elevation of 5000 feet above sea level. No large glaciers are to be seen in this region, but considerable snow remains the year round on some of the peaks. At noon a high mountain lay directly in front of us to the west with great valleys both north and south of it. Following our trail as it bore off to the north to avoid this mountain, we finally came to the same stream again whichwe now crossed for the last time, now flowing to the north. It had evidently received a tributary since our last crossing, for its contents were much greater, and though its depth was not over eighteen inches the current was very rapid, and without the assistance of one of the Indians I fear I would have had trouble in making the ford. We camped immediately after crossing.

So far we had experienced no rain after the first night out, but this afternoon showed symptoms of an approaching storm, which I greatly feared, the swamps being bad enough even in dry weather. As we were wading through one of these the squaw asked me if I would travel the next day (Sunday). I did not wish to show them a bad example, while at the same time I disliked halting a whole day when the weather was threatening and our supplies of food were growing short, so I told her they could do as they chose in the matter. She immediately replied that Archdeacon Macdonald always told them it was not wrong to walk on Sunday when they were short of “grub.” I told her Archdeacon Macdonald was a good man. She said “yes,” and I knew then what they would do.

On the following morning old John Quatlot, as faithful a man as I ever met, was up at an unusually early hour and had breakfast ready by about six o’clock. After this was over and before starting, I walked down along the stream a short distance, and, on my way back heard an old familiar hymn, and on approaching found all had joined in the religious service for this particular day. Each of them had his prayer and hymn book, while one who was a lay reader had with him Archdeacon Macdonald’s translation of a portion of the scriptures. After the service was concluded they shouldered their packs and started again on the trail, and soon entered one of the worst swamps we had encountered. After this we made a slight ascent and then commenced the descent of a steep hill partially wooded, at the foot of which flowed the Bell River. We had at last, in less than five days, reached the end of the portage, the length of which was, as has been previously said, about eighty miles. I have only one further word to say about this trail, and it is to warn any one not to attempt the journey without a guide, even in summer, for there is very little travel overit, and the marks made in the swamps one year will be almost obliterated the next. In many places the path is covered with water, but there is no fear of miring anywhere, as perpetual frost is found less than a foot below the surface.

On the bank of the Bell we left the Indian, Charlie Fox, and his wife with their dogs, he having given us his canoe. After resting a day or two he intended to build a raft on which they would float down stream over a hundred and fifty miles to his home, at the junction of the Old Crow River with the Porcupine.

It was a pleasant sight to behold the calm waters of the Bell in front of us and to realise that by our journey of less than five days we had reached the waters flowing into the Pacific Ocean, but this pleasure was soon marred when I saw the canoes in which we were about to embark.

I had been assured that one of the three was a large craft capable of carrying two men with a lot of “dunnage,” I had also expected that this one would be constructed on lines similar to those used in the east, where my man would sit in the stern andsteer while I would have the pleasure of a comfortable seat in the bow and be able to assist with my paddle. But I soon realised that this would be impossible, as this canoe was built on the same lines as those I had seen at McPherson and at other points along the Mackenzie. They are very long and narrow with the bow and stern decked over similar to the Esquimaux kayak. In other respects they resemble a single scull without the sliding seat. The Captain, and the propeller of the craft, took his seat near the centre, and I was assigned one immediately behind him, so near him as to make it impossible for me to use a paddle. All I had to do was to sit perfectly still while my man did all the paddling and steering. The latter was done by his making about four strokes on one side and then changing his paddle to the other side. However, before starting, at my instance, they lashed the three canoes together by cross pieces, making a sort of catamaran, and we were soon gliding down stream at the rate of about four miles an hour, without any danger of capsizing, but with some feelings for poor Charlie Fox and his wife, who waved us good-bye until a turnin the river hid them from view. But this feeling of security did not last long. After a couple of hours we went ashore for lunch, and, to my dismay, on starting they insisted on disengaging the canoes and by no manner nor means could I induce them to desist from this determination. Finally we compromised on their agreeing to try how they would go separately, and if not satisfactory to again lash them together. With great reluctance I took my place in the largest canoe, weighed down in the centre to about three inches of the water. In a steady craft this would have been ample, but ours was about the most cranky of its species. On starting I thought it would be utterly impossible for us to continue this, but, once under way, the impetus made it a little steadier, and, as the water this afternoon was perfectly calm, we succeeded in making a landing in the evening without any accident, but with the firm determination on my part that we would revert to our former plan the next morning. In the evening we discussed the matter as best we could, considering their limited knowledge of English and my ignorance of their language. They tried to persuade me that there was lessdanger separately than when hitched together if the water became rough, as in that case it would splash up between the canoes and swamp them, but I soon learned that the real reason for their refusal was that they could go much faster separately, and they were in a great hurry to get to their homes before the run of the salmon was over.

Heretofore the principal talk all down the Mackenzie Valley has been of the bear, the moose and the caribou but once the Pacific waters are reached the salmon occupies the same place with the natives that the wheat crop does with the prairie settler. It forms the great staple of the country and stands between the inhabitants and starvation. Sir Alexander Mackenzie tells us of how he intimidated an Indian chief near the Pacific by informing him that Great Britain owned the ocean and that unless he treated him properly he would inform his king, who would stop the salmon from coming up the rivers. His threat had the desired effect.

The day was cloudy with some rain, butthe men paddled hard and on till ten o’clock at night, and when we went ashore we were probably between twenty-five and thirty miles from where we started with the canoes.

The next morning, finding it useless to try to persuade them to connect their canoes, and seeing that they were making such fast time with them separated, I docilely took my place again, but I can never forget the few days during which I occupied this position. I was aware that there was perhaps little danger if I sat perfectly still, providing we did not strike a rock or snag in the river, but to sit perfectly still for about sixteen hours out of the twenty-four was most trying. If I made the slightest move my man would look round and though he said nothing there was an expression on his face which conveyed at once a reproof and a warning. If I could have had anything to do it would have been a great relief, but to sit upright without moving was exceedingly wearisome and moreover, after the fatiguing trip across the portage, once I was relieved of exercise, the monotony of the river journey made it almost impossible for me to resist falling asleep. This I dared not do, for the chanceswould be that once consciousness was gone I would make a move that would upset our frail craft. I have since read an account of a canoe trip made across Great Slave Lake over a hundred years ago, by one of the early traders, in a craft of the same kind, which graphically describes a similar experience, and in which the difficulty of keeping awake is emphasised.

Shortly after starting on the first day the Indians killed three wild geese, which made us an excellent meal, and, strange to say, during the excitement of the shooting, notwithstanding the greater risk, I forgot all sense of danger that was otherwise constantly with me.

We reached the mouth of the Bell and entered the Porcupine about 10 o’clock of the second day. The Bell at our start was perhaps a hundred yards or less in width, which increased as we approached its mouth, while the Porcupine where we entered it must have been three or four times as large. The colour of the water in the Bell, too, is darker than in the larger stream. Both streams, following the character of many of these northern rivers, have strong currents,but very few rapids. So much is this the case that even with our small canoes we had not a single portage to make all the way from our starting point down to Rampart House on the Alaska boundary, a distance of not less than 225 miles. Not only this, but from Rampart House down to the Yukon, a distance equally great, was made in a small row boat without a single interruption.

A fringe of small timber, principally spruce, lines the banks of both streams but does not extend far back.

The day was cool and cloudy with occasional light showers. The Indians, however, cared not for these, but paddled very hard all day, and till 9.30 at night, when we went ashore and camped at the mouth of Driftwood River, having made probably sixty miles. The land along the route so far was clay and gravel, but no matter what its quality the climate forbids successful agriculture. At less than a foot below the surface the ground is constantly frozen, even during the hottest summer months. The Indians killed several wild geese with very little effort. Most of them, notwithstanding the fact that they were full size, were unable to fly, owing totheir wings not having yet attained sufficient strength. They merely chased the fowls to the shore and killed them when they attempted to climb the steep banks of the river.

On Tuesday, July 31, we left camp at 7A.M.and made another long journey about the same distance as the day before, arriving at Old Crow River at 7P.M., and killing eight or ten geese on the way; another twelve wearisome and uneasy hours. A raw wind with showers made travelling very uncomfortable during the whole day, but the Indians had set their hearts on reaching their home that night and nothing would stop them.

Both the Bell and Porcupine are very crooked, so much so that the distance is probably three times as great by following the windings of the stream as it would be in a straight line, and while the wind assisted us on certain stretches, this was more than counter-balanced by the delay it caused us on others, and I was in almost constant fear that our canoes would be swamped.

The high cut banks of the Porcupine when seen at a distance through a haze or light fog take on the most fantastic shapes,frequently resembling great buildings of all styles of architecture, and it is impossible for me to adequately describe an illusion of this kind that met our view as we approached the Indian encampment at the mouth of the Old Crow River.

It was a cloudy hazy evening with a stiff wind from the north and, as we rounded a point leading up to the encampment, a great city apparently lay a few miles away, with piers and vessels in front and buildings of various kinds extending far back from the shore. There was a church with its spire so real in its appearance as almost to persuade me that my Indians had been over modest in not informing me of their skill in architecture. It was a most bewildering sensation and gave me some anxious thoughts. Could it be that the strain that I had undergone, especially during those last few days, produced by fear and anxiety, was causing such visions to appear, or was it the prelude of a catastrophe that seemed any moment likely to happen as our little canoe was at this very time attempting to ride waves on this stretch of the river which it seemed foolhardy to attempt?

Altogether the situation was to me most perplexing.

This illusion was kept up for fully half an hour, though varying somewhat in appearance. I watched the panorama till finally through the haze one portion of the high bank after another gave up its fancied appearance and resumed its true character, when, instead of the castellated city, which in this vision I had pictured as the home of the Indians, I saw only about forty half-starved creatures out on the bank to welcome us, while behind among the trees were a dozen dilapidated tents; the entire surroundings indicating want and starvation, sickness and a struggle for existence known only to those who are condemned to live in this Arctic land.

Before reaching the village one of my men fired off his gun as a signal of our approach. This was quickly answered, and shortly after our three canoes landed and John Tizzard, his son Jacob, and old John Quatlot, my three companions, were welcomed by their friends.

One old squaw, the wife of John Quatlot, instead of exhibiting joy at their return seemed overcome with grief and commenced a fearful tale of woe, which led me to think that some, if not all their family had died during her husband’s absence. I soon perceived that old John paid little attention to what she said. I had not yet become acquainted with the practice of these people on meeting each other, which is first to tell all the troubles they have had since parting.

The first thing done was to make tea. Then all partook of a meal, which under the circumstances was a very scanty one indeed. Then a hymn was sung and a thanksgiving service offered up, which certainly seemed very appropriate. After this there was so much to relate that the short twilight had given place to the dawning of another day before they retired to rest.

So anxious were they all to hear the news on our arrival that I had difficulty in getting any assistance in putting up my tent. Finally a young man came over and helped me for a few moments and then hurried back, evidently anxious not to miss any of thenews. Of course I understood but little of what was said, but I heard over and over again the names of Bishop Bompas and Mary Christie, for they all knew the late beloved Bishop and some of them were related to the young wife whose death at Edmonton I have already mentioned. My supplies were nearly exhausted and dry bread and tea had to suffice for my supper.

The Indian always expects a feast when a white man visits him, and great was their disappointment when I failed to gratify their anticipations.

The weather cleared up during the night, and when I awoke in the morning and walked out from my tent with the sun shining in all its Arctic splendour the view was more than charming. Our camp was on a point some forty feet above the river, and, below, the calm waters glistened in the sunlight like a sea of glass. What a change from the night before; when the same waters, angered by the north wind, threatened our little canoes and caused me an hour of downright fear such as I had never before experienced. For miles and miles the river could be traced, winding through the valley land, while farbeyond were the mountains with their snow capped peaks, one beyond the other as far as the eye could reach.

What a smiling morning! All nature was so tranquil, that any forebodings for the future were too pessimistic, and one could scarcely even feel lonely or isolated. To add to the picture the Indians were seen out on the river in their little canoes, at home in their favoured vocation—fishing for the salmon. Altogether it was such a scene that the contemplation of it even yet brings the keenest enjoyment.

When the canoes came ashore they were fairly well laden with the choicest of fish. Owing to the state of my larder I was particularly glad of their success. I bought a few, giving them money and a little tea in exchange and promised them that when I got to Rampart House, where I expected to get fresh supplies, I would send them a present, especially of tea and tobacco. An Indian camp is always in a starving condition if it is out of these two articles. The order of supplies are, first tea, next tobacco, then meat and lastly flour.

In every Indian village along the wholeroute it was disheartening to see so many of the people sick and without any means of getting medical treatment, but this encampment was perhaps the worst of any in this respect, and the appeals for medicine were most urgent. They know nothing as to what remedies should be taken for any specific ailment, but think that any kind of medicine should cure any disease in the calendar. I remember an incident at Fort Frances many years ago. A young Indian who had a sprained wrist, insisted that by taking painkiller inwardly he was greatly relieved, saying that it went down his throat and then right down to his wrist. Probably the spirits in this remedy was what he liked most, but I have known them to take other remedies that certainly were not palatable, where the effect was as remote from the ailment as in the former case.

During our trip I heard much from John Quatlot regarding his son Elias. The poor old Indian seemed very proud of his boy, as well as of his given name, which he took pains to tell me was in the Bible. John Tizzard seemed to regard this as a boast, and on one occasion made the remark that thename Jacob, by which his own son was known, was also in the Bible.

Quatlot informed me, too, that his son had other accomplishments. He was a good hunter, a good Christian, and he could talk to me in English. I was further informed that he was an expert canoe man, and of this I would have proof as he intended having him take me in his big canoe from Old Crow to Rampart House, the old man explaining that he was tired and needed a rest after his long journey.

My expectations, however, were doomed to disappointment on several points. Elias spoke sufficient English to ask me how much I intended to give him for his proposed services. I had already paid considerably more than I had promised, and the agreement was that they should take me to Rampart House, so I told him that in this case he was taking the place of his father, who needed a rest; that I was not anxious that he should come except to relieve his father; and that it rested with himself to say whether he wished to come or not. At this he seemed very much displeased, and the old man himself made ready to start. It was really painfulto see how chagrined he felt at his son’s conduct; not so much for the work he was compelled to do, as for the unfavourable impression which he knew I had formed regarding his boy. He said very little for some time, but his affection for Elias was stronger than his resentment, and in his very broken English he at length tried to make excuses for him, saying he was a good boy but that he was not well enough to come.

About ten o’clock in the morning we started. Our party now consisting of Jacob in a single canoe and old John and I in another, John Tizzard remaining with his people at the Old Crow encampment. There was no big canoe, however, and I took my place behind the old man in the same one that had carried me before, but as it was not quite so heavily loaded I felt more comfortable. The day continued fine throughout, the water was without a ripple, the current strong, and we glided down the tortuous course of the stream at almost steamboat speed. At night we reached apoint near the entrance of Blue Fish River, a long distance from our start in the morning, and camped on the beach. The Porcupine is here about sixty rods wide, and the water becomes clearer as the stream descends. The night was clear and calm. This was the first of August, over a month beyond the summer solstice. Consequently the period of perpetual daylight was passed and the stars were faintly visible for an hour or more before and after midnight.

I had a restful and refreshing sleep with less forebodings of accident than I had enjoyed since starting with the canoes. To-morrow we should reach Rampart House if all should go well. There is one point, however, on this stretch of the river which we were told at McPherson might prove dangerous because of a partially submerged rock in a short rapid. I talked this over as best I could with my two men, but they told me there would be no danger at the existing depth of the water. This we afterwards found to be the case.

On Thursday, August 2, another lovely summer day, we left camp at 8.45A.M.In a few hours the river narrowed to less thanhalf its usual width, and the current correspondingly increased, carrying us along at great speed. We were now in the upper ramparts of the Porcupine. Though not to be compared in grandeur with those of the Mackenzie, they nevertheless possess characteristics that are entirely unique. The stream winds around between sandstone banks, and at every turn in the descent, new scenes open up to view that are very tempting to the photographer. At noon we saw a tent on the beach, and as we approached found it occupied by a white man, the first we had seen since leaving McPherson. He was engaged in fishing, laying up his winter supply for himself and his dogs.

I soon learned that he was a member of a distinguished family of Eastern Canada, the son of a man to the foresight and energy of whom the city and Port of Montreal are greatly indebted. He had wandered far from his old home and associates through this northern wilderness, strangely infatuated with the wild life and the charm which it possesses. He informed me that he was expecting an appointment as Customs officer from the Dominion Government for Rampart Houseon the Alaska boundary, and I told him that I had seen what was undoubtedly his commission with the forms appertaining to his office many times on our way down to Fort McPherson, as the mail bag was opened at the different posts, and that it was then awaiting him at the Fort on Peel River. Whether he received these precious documents or not I am unable to say. About an hour after we beheld a few log buildings on the right bank of the river, and were greeted by the barking of dogs and a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of this isolated village, Rampart House. We had looked anxiously forward to our arrival here for two reasons: first because our supplies of food were all but entirely exhausted, and secondly it was here where I hoped to be able to discard those cockle shells of canoes for more comfortable craft.

The white man whom we met an hour before, however, while holding out some hopes of my getting a row boat from a half breed, conveyed to me the unwelcome information that the season’s provisions had not yet reached the post, and that I would probably have to be satisfied with obtainingonly a little dried meat; that they might have a little tea and tobacco left also, but that they were absolutely out of flour, the very article I was needing most.

Just as we reached the landing I saw a large row boat tied up at the shore, on which were a few white men. They were bound for the Upper Porcupine, where they intended to spend the autumn and winter in trapping, and also in exploring for mineral in that region. I saw one of the men sitting in his boat with an Indian at his side, busily obtaining such information as he could get of the geography of the upper river country, with which he was a stranger. From the instruction given him he was endeavouring to construct a map, which I soon saw would be of little service to him. It so happened I had with me a lithographed map conveying just the information he needed. Here was my opportunity, and it was not long till we had made a bargain. For a few pounds of flour I handed over the map, which was of no further use to me, but which I had little doubt would be of great service to him; a good illustration of the fact that barter between individuals is frequently profitable to both parties.

Rampart House is in Canadian territory, but the 141st meridian which divides our territory from that of Alaska is only a few hundred yards west of the post. In fact the surveyed line between the two is within sight of the village. It was formerly a post of the Hudson Bay Company, but is now occupied by Mr. Dan Cadzow, an independent trader. He was at this time absent from his post, having gone to Dawson City some time before for his winter’s stock of supplies. He was expected back any day, and his return was eagerly looked for by the few people of the post as well as by the Indian hunters of the district, all of whom were dependent on him for many of the necessaries of life.

A French Canadian, bearing the Hibernian name of Healy, was the only white man at the post during Cadzow’s absence and was in charge of the store—if such it could be called. Shortly after my arrival, on learning that I was from Ottawa, he confidentially informed me that he was expecting the appointment of Customs officer and beseeched me to urge his claims for the position. The fact of there being two aspirants for an office that certainly could not be a remunerativeone was a reminder that I was approaching civilisation. Beyond the prestige that the office might give to the holder among the Indians and half breeds of the district, I could not see why any one should wish to hold it. Healy could not speak the Loucheaux tongue, the language of the country himself, but his better half, an Indian woman, known by the “classic name” of Big Mary, possessed as he said “Les Deux Langues,” and was the interpreter for the post.

It was difficult for me to realise that within the comparatively short period of nine days I had travelled fully 300 miles through a most inhospitable wilderness, and it was a relief to know that from here on I would probably have no longer to endure the anxiety that had attended me from day to day ever since leaving the Peel river at McPherson.

RAMPART HOUSE ON THE PORCUPINE RIVER

Great news greeted us on our arrival here. Some hunters had come in from the mountains to the North bearing a report that the caribou had arrived. They had already shot eleven and could have had many more but that they were short of ammunition. It was pleasant to see how this information cheeredup the poor natives. Instead of the sad and hopeless expression which had characterised nearly every one we had heretofore met, all now looked happy in anticipation of what was to come. The words which we had so often heard and which meant “short of meat,” were now changed to “plenty caribou,” the latter spoken in English.

Old John Quatlot spoke more English than I ever thought him capable of, as he made me understand that he was going to leave his canoe here and that he and Jacob would go back to their home over the mountains, where they would be sure to meet the caribou and lay in a winter’s supply of meat.

Right glad was I to leave him in such a cheerful mood. Surely, if there is anything in the law of compensation, such a noble disposition as his deserved some recompense. I have long contended that there is just as great a diversity of character in individuals in savage as in civilised life, and this ignorant Loucheaux Indian possessed qualities that would adorn the life of the best in any society. As I bade him good-bye he took my hand in his and said that I would goaway off to my home in the south while he would return to his at “Old Crow”; that by-and-by he would die and I would die, and that then we would make a long journey through the air; that finally we would meet, and the Great Spirit would join our hands again. Such simple childlike faith, coupled with such a warmth of feeling, was almost sublime.

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