CHAPTER VII

Leaving Fort Norman : A Sad Case : In Arctic Regions : Arrival at Fort McPherson.

Weleft Fort Norman about midnight; had a good run, and on rising the next morning the 19th, were more than half way to Fort Good Hope. At 2P.M.and at a distance of about six miles above Fort Good Hope we noticed that all our fellow-passengers who knew the river were on deck. This meant something, and as we looked forward and on each side it seemed as if we were in a cul-de-sac. We knew the river must find a passage somewhere but so far as one could see it seemed impossible that there could be an opening anywhere of sufficient size to permit the escape of the waters of this mighty stream. As we were watching and wondering where the outlet could be the steamer suddenly turned sharply to starboard and before us lay a narrow strip of shining water apparently only a few hundredfeet in width. Down this we glided at great speed between cliffs of limestone on either side of great heights. We had reached the upper ramparts of the Mackenzie. These walls of perpendicular sandstone resemble huge fortifications, like another Gibraltar but one which no enemy is likely to approach.

For about four miles we were hurried down this great gorge at almost railway speed, so it was not long till the waters again expanded to a width of a mile or more and revealed on the right bank another picturesque whitewashed village, Fort Good Hope. Its situation on a level plateau is charming. The banks are about thirty feet high and the soil is similar to that all along the river, being a rich deposit very much resembling that of our great prairies. I saw potatoes in blossom, cabbage, onions and other vegetables in the gardens here, but this was the last we saw going North. As we proceeded farther the frost in the soil reached too near the surface to permit their maturing. Spruce timber of sufficient size for sawing into lumber is obtained on an island in the river.

THE RAMPARTS, MACKENZIE RIVER

Some time in April before leaving home I received a letter from an old friend named Slean. It had been written on Christmas Day from Arctic Red River Post, some 300 miles beyond Fort Good Hope. The writer, who had gone north the previous summer from Edmonton was engaged with an independent fur trading company, and being a young man of good education was desirous of having some diversion from the everlasting talk of “Furs and Supplies,” to beguile his lonely life and requested me to endeavour to get the Government to establish a Meteorological Office there, and to say that if they would send him a few instruments and the necessary forms he would be glad to report as frequently as possible, adding a most unusual proposition for an applicant for a government position that he would not expect any salary. This request I forwarded on to my friend Mr. Stupart, Director of the Meteorological Observatory, and on my way down I had the satisfaction of seeing these requisites en route.

I did not reply to the letter inasmuch asI was going by the first transport and would reach his post in person at the same time as a letter would, and I looked forward with a good deal of pleasure to surprising him in his distant home.

Just as we were entering Great Slave Lake, a week before reaching Good Hope, we passed the scows owned by Slean’s Company, also going North as far as Fort Good Hope, which point we would reach some time before they would. I was informed by the man in charge that Slean would probably come up to Good Hope to get the scow containing his supplies which they pointed out to me as “No. 11,” and that he would likely be there on our arrival.

Our steamer had been expected at Fort Good Hope for several days and her arrival was anxiously looked for, so that when she did appear at a convenient hour all the village was on the bank to greet us. I looked anxiously among the dusky faces to see the fair complexion of my friend but he was not present, so I inquired for the buildings of his Company. A few whitewashed houses were pointed out a little down the river to which I at once repaired, and on inquiryfrom a white man whom I met was informed that my friend was in one of the houses, but that he was very ill. On entering I was told that he had reached Good Hope two weeks previously from his own post after a ten days’ journey up stream, but in such a weak condition that he had to be helped up the bank from his canoe. Since that time he had continued to get worse and that there was no hope of his recovery. I was informed that he was sleeping in an adjoining room. A few moments later he awoke and I entered the room. It had little the appearance of a sick room except that of the occupant. We are so accustomed to associate with the sick chamber clean linen, comfortable bedding, with all the little delicacies of nourishment and soothing cordials, that the contrast in this case was disheartening. Not that his two white friends were not less attentive than a trained nurse would have been. On the contrary they were doing all that mortals could under the circumstances. One of these men was a Mr. Darrell, who had accompanied Hanbury, on his trip around the shore of the Arctic Sea a year or two before, andwhose excellent qualities are mentioned in Hanbury’s narrative of that expedition, and I know he refused a good offer for the season rather than leave the sick man. The other young man, Slater, who was also with him I have no reason to think was less attentive, but it was impossible to obtain, especially before the arrival of the supplies which our boat brought, food that would tempt the palate of a white man even in good health. He recognised me at once and commenced his conversation by informing me in broken accents that he had taken a little cold on his way up the river but that he was all right and would get up the next morning, take a good cold bath and be around again; but I saw at once that he was in a delirious condition and that in all human probability his wanderings would soon be over. I spent an hour with him which I repeated before our steamer left at midnight. His death came even sooner than I expected, for I afterwards learned that he passed away the next day, and when our steamer called on her return trip shortly after, the passengers visited a lonely grave in the Catholic Cemetery in which lay the remains ofWilliam John Slean. This was another reminder that the bright Arctic summer days sometimes have their dark shadows.

It was a little after midnight of July 20, when we left Good Hope and on rising next morning I found we had passed the Arctic Circle. The river is now widening, the banks are getting lower and the timber is growing smaller, all these indicate that we are fast drifting down towards the Arctic Sea. Some time in the evening we stopped at Arctic Red River at the entrance of a stream of the same name. It certainly was the least desirable place for any civilised man to choose for a home, that I had yet seen in all this Northland. A few houses, the church and the graveyard were all crowded on the side of a hill rising abruptly from the river. Perpetual frost was found only a foot beneath the surface of the soil, and we no longer beheld the emblems of civilised life, the vegetable and flower gardens, that go so far to make many of those lonely posts seem somewhat cheerful.

I wandered up to the log shack which poor Slean had occupied during the previous winter and which he had left only a few weeksbefore. A more dreary habitation it would be difficult to imagine. I looked around the room to see if there was any memento that I might carry home to his friends, but the only thing I could see was a little green flag pinned to the wall, a touching tribute of patriotic devotion to the far away island which had given him birth. It seemed like desecration to remove it, so I allowed it to remain where he had placed it.

We only stopped an hour or two at this dreary place and then started for our last and the most northerly post in the country, Fort McPherson. At 1.30 the next morning, July 21, I rose as we were rounding Point Separation, so named from the parting here of Sir John Franklin and Dr. Richardson in 1825, when they separated for their perilous trips around the shores of the frozen ocean, Franklin going west from the mouth of the Mackenzie, and Richardson, coasting easterly towards Coronation Gulf. The sun was just skirting the northern horizon and I endeavoured to get a photo of it which I am sorry proved rather a failure.

THE MIDNIGHT SUN

Point Separation lies at the junction of the Peel River with the Mackenzie, and is inlatitude about 67° 50´ N. Below this point lies the delta of the Mackenzie which is many miles in width, with numerous islands between here and the sea about 100 miles distant. At the point where Franklin and Richardson camped two spruce trees were pointed out marked as lobsticks which are said to have been so marked by them in commemoration of the event. Both are still standing, though one is now dead. The Indians have a tradition that a quantity of spirits were cached somewhere in this vicinity, which they say they have never been able to discover. Personally, I have very grave doubts of the accuracy of this report. The Indian is a good hunter, and I know of nothing that would excite him to greater activity than the prospect of such a reward.

After rounding Point Separation we enter the Peel River which at this point is over a mile wide. We soon noticed that our speed was much slower than heretofore and the reason was obvious. For the first time in our long journey of over 1800 miles we were going against the current. Heretofore we have been constantly sailing down the Arctic slope. Shortly after entering thePeel our steamer stopped to take on wood, this reminded me of the frequent habit of railway trains which, after running for hundreds of miles on time stop all at once just outside the station of their destination. We were all anxious to see this far northern village at the end of our long river journey and anxiously waited for a final start. After about two hours’ delay a start was made, and soon after we beheld in the distance on the high bank of the east side of the Peel, the houses of Fort McPherson with the white tents of the Esquimaux on the beach below. These Esquimaux had come over in their whale boats from Herschel Island in the Arctic Sea to meet theWrigley. Their complexion is almost white with a dash of ruddy colour that indicates health. They are very cheerful and good natured, are not at all diffident like so many of our Indian tribes. On the contrary, they are very inquisitive and disposed to make themselves almost too familiar. They are of fair stature and do not show any of the marks of the struggle for existence that is so observable in their neighbours, the Indians, in this part of the country.

AT MCPHERSON: INDIANS, HALF-BREEDS AND ESQUIMAUX IN FOREGROUND

At Fort McPherson, as at all points visited in the last 1300 miles of our journey, no news from the outside world had been received since the last winter mail in March. For over four months the news passed on from post to post was purely local, hunting parties returning from their winter quarters, whose accounts frequently were of hardships endured, among which the phrase, “short of meat,” were familiar words even in the mouths of natives who knew very little English. Another item would come from the ice bound whalers out on the Arctic Sea.

We were the first to inform them of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and of the San Francisco earthquake both of which had happened months before. Another message was one of sadness to all throughout the Mackenzie and Yukon Valleys, namely, the death of Bishop Bompas, truly named the Apostle of the North, who was familiarly known to every inhabitant and as universally esteemed.

Fort McPherson is as stated the most northerly of the Hudson Bay Company’s Posts. Its latitude is 67° 25´ and it is truly an Arctic Village. For six weeks in summerthe sun never sets and is constantly below the horizon for the same time in winter. The thermometer went as low as 68° below zero (Fahrenheit) the winter before. The inhabitants are in close touch with the Esquimaux of the Arctic Sea and with the whaling ships that annually visit these waters. These whalers are mostly from San Francisco, coming up through Behring Strait in the early summer and returning in the autumn. In the season of 1905 most of them were trapped in the ice that blocked the Straits and were compelled to remain there till the next season. They went into winter quarters at Herschel Island where there is a detachment of the Royal North-West Mounted Police. They were not sufficiently supplied with provisions for this emergency, and they, too, soon became familiar with the common phrase, “short of meat,” and had to rely largely on what could be obtained in the country. They engaged the Indians of the Mainland to supply them with meat from the chase with the result that the shipment of fur from McPherson for that season was very much smaller than usual.

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