On August 7 we left Camp Last Woods. Our various specimens, with a stock of food, were secured, as usual, in a cache high in two trees, in this case those already used by Tyrrell seven years before, and guarded by the magic necklace of cod hooks.
By noon (in 3 hours) we made fifteen miles, camping far beyond Twin Buttes. All day long the boat shot through water crowded with drowned gnats. These were about 10 to the square inch near shore and for about twenty yards out, after that 10 to the square foot for two hundred or three hundred yards still farther from shore, and for a quarter mile wide they were 10 to the square yard.
This morning the wind turned and blew from the south. At 2 P. M. we saw a band of some 60 Caribou travelling southward; these were the first seen for two or three days. After this we saw many odd ones, and about 3 o'clock a band of 400 or 500. At night we camped on Casba River, having covered 36 miles in 7 hours and 45 minutes.
The place, we had selected for camp proved to be a Caribou crossing. As we drew near a dozen of them came from the east and swam across. A second band of 8 now appeared. We gave chase. They spurted; so did we. Our canoe was going over 6 miles an hour, and yet was but slowly overtaking them. They made the water foam around them. Their heads, necks, shoulders, backs, rumps, and tails were out. I never before saw land animals move so fast in the water. A fawn in danger of being left behind reared up on its mother's back and hung on with forefeet. The leader was a doe or a young buck, I could not be sure which; the last was a big buck. They soon struck bottom and bounded along on the shore. It was too dark for a picture.
As we were turning in for the night 30 Caribou came trotting and snorting through the camp. Half of them crossed the water, but the rest turned back when Billy shouted.
Later a band of two hundred passed through and around our tents. In the morning Billy complained that he could not sleep all night for Caribou travelling by his tent and stumbling over the guy ropes. From this time on we were nearly always in sight of Caribou, small bands or scattering groups; one had the feeling that the whole land was like this, on and on and on, unlimited space with unlimited wild herds.
A year afterward as I travelled in the fair State of Illinois, famous for its cattle, I was struck by the idea that one sees far more Caribou in the north than cattle, in Illinois. This State has about 56,000 square miles, of land and 3,000,000 cattle; the Arctic Plains have over 1,000,000 square miles of prairie, which, allowing for the fact that I saw the best of the range, would set, the Caribou number at over 30,000,000. There is a, good deal of evidence that this is not far from the truth.
The reader may recollect the original postulate of my plan. Other travellers have gone, relying on the abundant Caribou, yet saw none, so starved. I relied on no Caribou, I took plenty of groceries, and because I was independent, the Caribou walked into camp nearly every day, and we lived largely on their meat, saving our groceries for an emergency, which came in an unexpected form. One morning when we were grown accustomed to this condition I said to Billy:
"How is the meat?"
"Nearly gone. We'll need another Caribou about Thursday."
"You better get one now to be ready Thursday. I do not like it so steaming fresh. See, there's a nice little buck on that hillside."
"No, not him; why he is nearly half a mile off. I'd have to pack him in. Let's wait till one comes in camp."
Which we did, and usually got our meat delivered near the door.'
Caribou meat fresh, and well prepared, has no superior, and the ideal way of cooking it is of course by roasting.
Fried meat is dried meat,
Boiled meat is spoiled meat,
Roast meat is best meat.
How was it to be roasted at an open fire without continued vigilance? By a very simple contrivance that I invented at the time and now offer for the use of all campers.
A wire held the leg; on the top of the wire was a paddle or shingle of wood; above that, beyond the heat, was a cord.
The wind gives the paddle a push; it winds up the cord, which then unwinds itself. This goes on without fail and without effort, never still, and the roast is perfect.
Thus we were living on the fat of many lands and on the choicest fat of this.
And what a region it is for pasture. At this place it reminds one of Texas. Open, grassy plains, sparser reaches of sand, long slopes of mesquite, mesas dotted with cedars and stretches of chapparal and soapweed. Only, those vegetations here are willow, dwarf birch, tiny spruce, and ledum, and the country as a whole is far too green and rich. The emerald verdure of the shore, in not a few places, carried me back, to the west coast of Ireland.
The daily observations of route and landmark I can best leave for record on my maps. I had one great complaint against previous explorers (except Tyrrell); that is, they left no monuments. Aiming to give no ground of complaint against us, we made monuments at all important points. On the, night of August 8 we camped at Cairn Bay on the west side of Casba Lake, so named because of the five remarkable glacial cairns or conical stone-piles about it. On the top of one of these I left a monument, a six-foot pillar of large stones.
On the afternoon of August 9 we passed the important headland that I have called "Tyrrell Point." Here we jumped off his map into the unknown. I had, of course, the small chart drawn by Sir George Back in 1834, but it was hastily made under great difficulties, and, with a few exceptions, it seemed impossible to recognize his landscape features. Next day I explored the east arm of Clinton-Colden and discovered the tributary that I have called "Laurier River," and near its mouth made a cairn enclosing a Caribou antler with inscription "E. T. Seton, 10 Aug., 1907."
Future travellers on this lake will find, as I did, that the Conical Butte in the eastern part is an important landmark. It is a glacial dump about 50 feet above the general level, which again is 100 feet above the water, visible and recognizable from nearly all parts of the lake.
Thus we went on day by day, sometimes detained by head or heavy winds, but making great progress in the calm, which nearly always came in the evening; 30 and 35 miles a day we went, led on and stimulated by the thirst to see and know. "I must see what is over that ridge," "I must make sure that this is an island," or "Maybe from that lookout I shall see Lake Aylmer, or a band of Caribou, yes, or even a band of Musk-ox." Always there was some reward, and nearly always it was a surprise.
From time to time we came on Snowbirds with their young broods, evidently at home. Ptarmigan abounded. Parry's Groundsquirrel was found at nearly all points, including the large islands. The Laplongspur swarmed everywhere; their loud "chee chups" were the first sounds to greet us each time we neared the land. And out over all the lake were Loons, Loons, Loons. Four species abound here; they caterwaul and yodel all day and all night, each in its own particular speech, From time to time a wild hyena chorus from the tranquil water in the purple sunset haze suggested, that a pack of goblin hounds were chivying a goblin buck, but it turned out always to be a family of Red-throated Loons, yodelling their inspiring marching song.
One day when at Gravel Mountain, old Weeso came to camp in evident fear—"far off he had seen a man." In this country a man must mean an Eskimo; with them the Indian has a long feud; of them he is in terror. We never learned the truth; I think he was mistaken.
Once or twice the long howl of the White Wolf sounded from the shore, and every day we saw a few Caribou.
A great many of the single Caribou were on the small islands. In six cases that came under close observation the animal in question had a broken leg. A broken leg generally evidences recent inroads by hunters, but the nearest Indians were 200 miles to the south, and the nearest Eskimo 300 miles to the north. There was every reason to believe that we were the only human beings in that vast region, and certainly we had broken no legs. Every Caribou fired at (8) had been secured and used. There is only one dangerous large enemy common in this country; that is the White Wolf. And the more I pondered it, the more it seemed sure that the Wolves had broken the Caribous' legs.
How! This is the history of each case: The Caribou is so much swifter than the Wolves that the latter have no chance in open chase; they therefore adopt the stratagem of a sneaking surround and a drive over the rocks or a precipice, where the Caribou, if not actually killed, is more or less disabled. In some cases only a leg is broken, and then the Caribou knows his only chance is to reach the water. Here his wonderful powers of swimming make him easily safe, so much so that the Wolves make no attempt to follow. The crippled deer makes for some island sanctuary, where he rests in peace till his leg is healed, or it may be, in some cases, till the freezing of the lake brings him again into the power of his floe.
These six, then, were the cripples in hospital, and I hope our respectful behaviour did not inspire them with a dangerously false notion of humanity.
On the island that I have called Owl-and-Hare, we saw the firstWhite Owl and the first Arctic Hare.
In this country when you see a tree, you know perfectly well it is not a tree; it's the horns of a Caribou. An unusually large affair of branches appeared on an island in the channel to Aylmer. I landed, camera in hand; the Caribou was lying down in the open, but there was a tuft of herbage 30 yards from him, another at 20 yards. I crawled to the first and made a snapshot, then, flat as a rug, sneaked my way to the one estimated at 20 yards. The click of the camera, alarmed the buck; he rose, tried the wind, then lay down again, giving me another chance. Having used all the films, I now stood up. The Caribou dashed away and by a slight limp showed that he was in sanctuary. The 20-yard estimate proved too long; it was only 16 yards, which put my picture a little out of focus.
There never was a day, and rarely an hour of each day, that we did not see several Caribou. And yet I never failed to get a thrill at each fresh one. "There's a Caribou," one says with perennial intensity that is evidence of perennial pleasure in the sight. There never was one sighted that did not give us a happy sense of satisfaction—the thought "This is what we came for."
One of my objects was to complete the ambiguous shore line of Aylmer Lake. The first task was to find the lake. So we left the narrows and pushed on and on, studying the Back map, vainly trying to identify points, etc. Once or twice we saw gaps ahead that seemed to open into the great inland sea of Aylmer. But each in turn proved a mere bay.—On August 12 we left the narrows; on the 13th and 14th we journeyed westward seeking the open sea. On the morning of the 15th we ran into the final end of the farthest bay we could discover and camped at the mouth of a large river entering in.
As usual, we landed—Preble, Billy, and I—to study topography, Weeso to get firewood, and curiously enough, there was more firewood here than we had seen since leaving Artillery Lake. The reason of this appeared later.
I was utterly puzzled. We had not yet found Aylmer Lake, and had discovered an important river that did not seem to be down on any map.
We went a mile or two independently and studied the land from all the high hills; evidently we had crossed the only great sheet of water in the region. About noon, when all had assembled at camp, I said: "Preble, why, isn't this Lockhart's River, at the western extremity of Aylmer Lake?" The truth was dawning on me.
He also had been getting light and slowly replied: "I have forty-nine reasons why it is, and none at all why it isn't."
There could be no doubt of it now. The great open sea of Aylmer was a myth. Back never saw it; he passed in a fog, and put down with a query the vague information given him by the Indians. This little irregular lake, much like Clinton-Colden, was Aylmer. We had covered its length and were now at its farthest western end, at the mouth of Lockhart's River.
How I did wish that explorers would post up the names of the streets; it is almost as bad as in New York City. What a lot of time we might have saved had we known that Sandy Bay was in Back's three-fingered peninsula! Resolving to set a good example I left a monument at the mouth of the river. The kind of stone made it easy to form a cross on top. This will protect it from wandering Indians; I do not know of anything that will protect it from wandering white men.
In the afternoon, Preble, Billy, and I went northward on foot to look for Musk-ox. A couple of miles from camp I left the others and went more westerly.
After wandering on for an hour, disturbing Longspurs, Snowbirds, Pipits, Groundsquirrel, and Caribou, I came on a creature that gave me new thrills of pleasure. It was only a Polar Hare, the second we had seen; but its very scarceness here, at least this year, gave it unusual interest, and the Hare itself helped the feeling by letting me get near it to study, sketch, and photograph.
It was exactly like a Prairie Hare in all its manners, even to the method of holding its tail in running, and this is one of the most marked and distinctive peculiarities of the different kinds.
On the 16th of August we left Lockhart's River, knowing now that the north arm of the lake was our way. We passed a narrow bay out of which there seemed to be a current, then, on the next high land, noted a large brown spot that moved rather quickly along. It was undoubtedly some animal with short legs, whether a Wolverine a mile away, or a Musk-ox two miles away, was doubtful. Now did that canoe put on its six-mile gait, and we soon knew for certain that the brown thing was a Musk-ox. We were not yet in their country, but here was one of them to meet us. Quickly we landed. Guns and cameras were loaded.
"Don't fire till I get some pictures—unless he charges," were the orders. And then we raced after the great creature grazing from us.
We had no idea whether he would run away or charge, but knew that our plan was to remain unseen as long as possible. So, hiding behind rocks when he looked around, and dashing forward when he grazed, we came unseen within two hundred yards, and had a good look at the huge woolly ox. He looked very much like an ordinary Buffalo, the same in colour, size, and action. I never was more astray in my preconcept of any animal, for I had expected to see something like a large brown sheep.
My, first film was fired. Then, for some unknown reason, that Musk-ox took it into his head to travel fast away from us, not even stopping to graze; he would soon have been over a rocky ridge. I nodded to Preble. His rifle rang; the bull wheeled sharp about with an angry snort and came toward us. His head was up, his eye blazing, and he looked like a South African Buffalo and a Prairie Bison combined, and seemed to get bigger at every moment. We were safely hidden behind rocks, some fifty yards from him now, when I got my second snap.
Realising the occasion, and knowing my men, I said: "Now, Preble, I am going to walk up to that bull and get a close picture. He will certainly charge me, as I shall be nearest and in full view. There is only one combination that can save my life: that is you and that rifle."
Then with characteristic loquacity did Preble reply: "Go ahead."
I fixed my camera for twenty yards and quit the sheltering rock. The bull snorted, shook his head, took aim, and just before the precious moment was to arrive a heavy shot behind me, rang out, the bull staggered and fell, shot through the heart, and Weeso cackled aloud in triumph.
How I cursed the meddling old fool. He had not understood. He saw, as he supposed, "the Okimow in peril of his life," and acted according to the dictates of his accursedly poor discretion. Never again shall he carry a rifle with me.
So the last scene came not, but we had the trophy of a Musk-ox that weighed nine hundred pounds in life and stood five feet high at the shoulders—a world's record in point of size.
Now we must camp perforce to save the specimen. Measurements, photos, sketches, and weights were needed, then the skinning and preparing would be a heavy task for all. In the many portages afterwards the skull was part of my burden; its weight was actually forty pounds, its heaviness was far over a hundred.
What extraordinary luck we were having. It was impossible in our time limit to reach the summer haunt of the Caribou on the Arctic Coast, therefore the Caribou came to us in their winter haunt on the Artillery Lake. We did not expect to reach the real Musk-ox country on the Lower Back River, so the Musk-ox sought us out on Aylmer Lake. And yet one more piece of luck is to be recorded. That night something came in our tent and stole meat. The next night Billy set a trap and secured the thief—an Arctic Fox in summer coat. We could not expect to go to him in his summer home, so he came to us.
While the boys were finishing the dressing of the bull's hide, I, remembering the current from the last bay, set out on foot over the land to learn the reason. A couple of miles brought me to a ridge from which I made the most important geographical discovery of the journey. Stretching away before me to the far dim north-west was a great, splendid river—broad, two hundred yards wide in places, but averaging seventy or eighty yards across—broken by white rapids and waterfalls, but blue deep in the smoother stretches and emptying into the bay we had noticed. So far as the record showed, I surely was the first white man to behold it. I went to the margin; it was stocked with large trout. I followed it up a couple of miles and was filled with the delight of discovery. "Earl Grey River"', I have been privileged to name it after the distinguished statesman, now Governor-general of Canada.
Then and there I built a cairn, with a record of my visit, and sitting on a hill with the new river below me, I felt that there was no longer any question of the expedition's success. The entire programme was carried out. I had proved the existence of abundance of Caribou, had explored Aylmer Lake, had discovered two great rivers, and, finally, had reached the land of the Musk-ox and secured a record-breaker to bring away. This I felt was the supreme moment of the journey.
Realizing the farness of my camp, from human abode—it could scarcely have been farther on the continent—my thoughts flew back to the dear ones at home, and my comrades, the men of the Camp-fire Club. I wondered if their thoughts were with me at the time. How they must envy me the chance of launching into the truly unknown wilderness, a land still marked on the maps as "unexplored!" How I enjoyed the thoughts of their sympathy over our probable perils and hardships, and imagined them crowding around me with hearty greetings on my safe return! Alas! for the rush of a great city's life and crowds, I found out later that these, my companions, did not even know that I had been away from New York.
Camp Musk-Ox provided many other items of interest besides the Great River, the big Musk-ox, and the Arctic Fox. Here Preble secured a Groundsquirrel with its cheek-pouches full of mushrooms and shot a cock Ptarmigan whose crop was crammed with leaves of willow and birch, though the ground was bright with berries of many kinds. The last evening we were there a White Wolf followed Billy into camp, keeping just beyond reach of his shotgun; and, of course, we saw Caribou every hour or two.
"All aboard," was the cry on the morning of August 19, and once more we set out. We reached the north arm of the lake, then turned north-eastward. In the evening I got photos of a Polar Hare, the third we had seen. The following day (August 20), at noon, we camped in Sandhill Bay, the north point of Aylmer Lake and the northernmost point of our travels by canoe. It seems that we were the fourth party of white men to camp on this spot.
Captain George Back, 1833-34.Stewart and Anderson, 1855.Warburton Pike, 1890.E. T. Seton, 1907.
All day long we had seen small bands of Caribou. A score now appeared on a sandhill half a mile away; another and another lone specimen trotted past our camp. One of these stopped and gave us an extraordinary exhibition of agility in a sort of St. Vitus's jig, jumping, kicking, and shaking its head; I suspect the nose-worms were annoying it. While we lunched, a fawn came and gazed curiously from a distance of 100 yards. In the after-noon Preble returned from a walk to say that the Caribou were visible in all directions, but not in great bands.
Next morning I was awakened by a Caribou clattering through camp within 30 feet of my tent.
After breakfast we set off on foot northward to seek for Musk-ox, keeping to the eastward of the Great Fish River. The country is rolling, with occasional rocky ridges and long, level meadows in the lowlands, practically all of it would be considered horse country; and nearly every meadow had two or three grazing Caribou.
About noon, when six or seven miles north of Aylmer, we halted for rest and lunch on the top of the long ridge of glacial dump that lies to the east of Great Fish River. And now we had a most complete and spectacular view of the immense open country that we had come so far to see. It was spread before us like a huge, minute, and wonderful chart, and plainly marked with the processes of its shaping-time.
Imagine a region of low archaean hills, extending one thousand miles each way, subjected for thousands of years to a continual succession of glaciers, crushing, grinding, planing, smoothing, ripping up and smoothing again, carrying off whole ranges of broken hills, in fragments, to dump them at some other point, grind them again while there, and then push and hustle them out of that region into some other a few hundred miles farther; there again to tumble and grind them together, pack them into the hollows, and dump them in pyramidal piles on plains and uplands. Imagine this going on for thousands of years, and we shall have the hills lowered and polished, the valleys more or less filled with broken rocks.
Now the glacial action is succeeded by a time of flood. For another age all is below water, dammed by the northern ice, and icebergs breaking from the parent sheet carry bedded in them countless boulders, with which they go travelling south on the open waters. As they melt the boulders are dropped; hill and hollow share equally in this age-long shower of erratics. Nor does it cease till the progress of the warmer day removes the northern ice-dam, sets free the flood, and the region of archaean rocks stands bare and dry.
It must have been a dreary spectacle at that time, low, bare hills of gneiss, granite, etc.; low valleys half-filled with broken rock and over everything a sprinkling of erratic boulders; no living thing in sight, nothing green, nothing growing, nothing but evidence of mighty power used only to destroy. A waste of shattered granite spotted with hundreds of lakes, thousands of lakelets, millions of ponds that are marvellously blue, clear, and lifeless.
But a new force is born on the scene; it attacks not this hill or rock, or that loose stone, but on every point of every stone and rock in the vast domain, it appears—the lowest form of lichen, a mere stain of gray. This spreads and by its own corrosive power eats foothold on the granite; it fructifies in little black velvet spots. Then one of lilac flecks the pink tones of the granite, to help the effect. Soon another kind follows—a pale olive-green lichen that fruits in bumps of rich brown velvet; then another branching like a tiny tree—there is a ghostly kind like white chalk rubbed lightly on, and yet another of small green blots, and one like a sprinkling of scarlet snow; each, in turn, of a higher and larger type, which in due time prepares the way for mosses higher still.
In the less exposed places these come forth, seeking the shade, searching for moisture, they form like small sponges on a coral reef; but growing, spread and change to meet the changing contours of the land they win, and with every victory or upward move, adopt some new refined intensive tint that is the outward and visible sign of their diverse inner excellences and their triumph. Ever evolving they spread, until there are great living rugs of strange textures and oriental tones; broad carpets there are of gray and green; long luxurious lanes, with lilac mufflers under foot, great beds of a moss so yellow chrome, so spangled with intense red sprigs, that they might, in clumsy hands, look raw. There are knee-deep breadths of polytrichum, which blends in the denser shade into a moss of delicate crimson plush that baffles description.
Down between the broader masses are bronze-green growths that run over each slight dip and follow down the rock crannies like streams of molten brass. Thus the whole land is overlaid with a living, corrosive mantle of activities as varied as its hues.
For ages these toil on, improving themselves, and improving the country by filing down the granite and strewing the dust around each rock.
The frost, too, is at work, breaking up the granite lumps; on every ridge there is evidence of that—low, rounded piles of stone which plainly are the remnants of a boulder, shattered by the cold. Thus, lichen, moss, and frost are toiling to grind the granite surfaces to dust.
Much of this powdered rock is washed by rain into the lakes and ponds; in time these cut their exits down, and drain, leaving each a broad mud-flat. The climate mildens and the south winds cease not, so that wind-borne grasses soon make green meadows of the broad lake-bottom flats.
The process climbs the hill-slopes; every little earthy foothold for a plant is claimed by some new settler, until each low hill is covered to the top with vegetation graded to its soil, and where the flowering kinds cannot establish themselves, the lichen pioneers still maintain their hold. Rarely, in the landscape, now, is any of the primitive colour of the rocks; even the tall, straight cliffs of Aylmer are painted and frescoed with lichens that flame and glitter with purple and orange, silver and gold. How precious and fertile the ground is made to seem, when every square foot of it is an exquisite elfin garden made by the little people, at infinite cost, filled with dainty flowers and still later embellished with delicate fruit.
One of the wonderful things about these children of the Barrens is the great size of fruit and flower compared with the plant. The cranberry, the crowberry, the cloudberry, etc., produce fruit any one of which might outweigh the herb itself.
Nowhere does one get the impression that these are weeds, as often happens among the rank growths farther south. The flowers in the wildest profusion are generally low, always delicate and mostly in beds of a single species. The Lalique jewelry was the sensation of the Paris Exposition of 1899. Yet here is Lalique renewed and changed for every week in the season and lavished on every square foot of a region that is a million square miles in extent.
Not a cranny in a rock but is seized on at once by the eager little gardeners in charge and made a bed of bloom, as though every inch of room were priceless. And yet Nature here exemplifies the law that our human gardeners are only learning: "Mass your bloom, to gain effect."
As I stood on that hill, the foreground was a broad stretch of old gold—the shining sandy yellow of drying grass—but it was patched with large scarlet mats of arctous that would put red maple to its reddest blush. There was no Highland heather here, but there were whole hillsides of purple red vaccinium, whose leaves were but a shade less red than its luscious grape-hued fruit.
Here were white ledums in roods and acre beds; purple mairanias by the hundred acres, and, framed in lilac rocks, were rich, rank meadows of golden-green by the mile.
There were leagues and leagues of caribou moss, pale green or lilac, and a hundred others in clumps, that, seeing here the glory of the painted mosses, were simulating their ways, though they themselves were the not truly mosses at all.
I never before saw such a realm of exquisite flowers so exquisitely displayed, and the effect at every turn throughout the land was colour, colour, colour, to as far outdo the finest autumn tints of New England as the Colorado Canyon outdoes the Hoosac Gorge. What Nature can do only in October, elsewhere, she does here all season through, as though when she set out to paint the world she began on the Barrens with a full palette and when she reached the Tropics had nothing left but green.
Thus at every step one is wading through lush grass or crushing prairie blossoms and fruits. It is so on and on; in every part of the scene, there are but few square feet that do not bloom with flowers and throb with life; yet this is the region called the Barren Lands of the North.
And the colour is an index of its higher living forms, for this is the chosen home of the Swans and Wild Geese; many of the Ducks, the Ptarmigan, the Laplongspur and Snowbunting. The blue lakes echo with the wailing of the Gulls and the eerie magic calling of the Loons. Colonies of Lemmings, Voles, or Groundsquirrels are found on every sunny slope; the Wolverine and the White Wolf find this a land of plenty, for on every side, as I stood on that high hill, were to be seen small groups of Caribou.
This was the land and these the creatures I had come to see. This was my Farthest North and this was the culmination of years of dreaming. How very good it seemed at the time, but how different and how infinitely more delicate and satisfying was the realisation than any of the day-dreams founded on my vision through the eyes of other men.
On this hill we divided, Preble and Billy going northward; Weeso and I eastward, all intent on finding a herd of Musk-ox; for this was the beginning of their range. There was one continual surprise as we journeyed—the willows that were mere twigs on Aylmer Lake increased in size and were now plentiful and as high as our heads, with stems two or three inches thick. This was due partly to the decreased altitude and partly to removal from the broad, cold sheet of Aylmer, which, with its July ice, must tend to lower the summer temperature.
For a long time we tramped eastward, among hills and meadows, with Caribou. Then, at length, turned south again and, after a 20-mile tramp, arrived in camp at 6.35, having seen no sign whatever of Musk-ox, although this is the region where Pike found them common; on July 1, 1890, at the little lake where we lunched, his party killed seven out of a considerable band.
At 9.30 that night Preble and Billy returned. They had been over IcyRiver, easily recognised by the thick ice still on its expansions,and on to Musk-ox Lake, without seeing any fresh tracks of a Musk-ox.As they came into camp a White Wolf sneaked away.
Rain began at 6 and continued a heavy storm all night. In the morning it was still in full blast, so no one rose until 9.30, when Billy, starved out of his warm bed, got up to make breakfast. Soon I heard him calling: "Mr. Seton, here's a big Wolf in camp!" "Bring him in here," I said. Then a rifle-shot was heard, another, and Billy appeared, dragging a huge White Wolf. (He is now to be seen in the American Museum.)
All that day and the next night the storm raged. Even the presence of Caribou bands did not stimulate us enough to face the sleet. Next day it was dry, but too windy to travel.
Billy now did something that illustrates at once the preciousness of firewood, and the pluck, strength, and reliability of my cook. During his recent tramp he found a low, rocky hollow full of large, dead willows. It was eight miles back; nevertheless he set out, of his own free will; tramped the eight miles, that wet, blustery day, and returned in five and one-half hours, bearing on his back a heavy load, over 100 pounds of most acceptable firewood. Sixteen miles afoot for a load of wood! But it seemed well worth it as we revelled in the blessed blaze.
Next day two interesting observations were made; down by the shore I found the midden-heap of a Lemming family. It contained about four hundred pellets: their colour and dryness, with the absence of grass, showed that they dated from winter.
In the evening the four of us witnessed the tragic end of a Lap-longspur. Pursued by a fierce Skua Gull, it unfortunately dashed out over the lake. In vain then it darted up and down, here and there, high and low; the Skua followed even more quickly. A second Skua came flying to help, but was not needed. With a falcon-like swoop, the pirate seized the Longspur in his bill and bore it away to be devoured at the nearest perch.
At 7.30 A. M., August 24, 1907, surrounded by scattering Caribou, we pushed off from our camp at Sand Hill Bay and began the return journey.
At Wolf-den Point we discovered a large and ancient wolf-den in the rocks; also abundance of winter sign of Musk-ox. That day we made forty miles and camped for the night on the Sand Hill Mountain in Tha-na-koie, the channel that joins Aylmer and Clinton-Colden. Here we were detained by high winds until the 28th.
This island is a favourite Caribou crossing, and Billy and Weeso had pitched their tents right on the place selected by the Caribou for their highway. Next day, while scanning the country from the top of the mount, I saw three Caribou trotting along. They swam the river and came toward me. As Billy and Weeso were in their tents having an afternoon nap, I thought it would be a good joke to stampede the Caribou on top of them, so waited behind a rock, intending to jump out as soon as they were past me. They followed the main trail at a trot, and I leaped out with "horrid yells" when they passed my rock, but now the unexpected happened. "In case of doubt take to the water" is Caribou wisdom, so, instead of dashing madly into the tents, they made three desperate down leaps and plunged into the deep water, then calmly swam for the other shore, a quarter of a mile away.
This island proved a good place for small mammals. Here Preble got our first specimen of the White Lemming. Large islands usually prove better for small mammals than the mainland. They have the same conditions to support life, but being moated by the water are usually without the larger predatory quadrupeds.
The great central inland of Clinton-Colden proved the best place of all for Groundsquirrels. Here we actually found them in colonies.
On the 29th and 30th we paddled and surveyed without ceasing and camped beyond the rapid at the exit of Clinton-Colden. The next afternoon we made the exit rapids of Casba Lake. Preble was preparing to portage them, but asked Weeso, "Can we run them?"
Weeso landed, walked to a view-point, took a squinting look and said, "Ugh!" (Yes). Preble rejoined, "All right! If he says he can, he surely can. That's the Indian of it. A white man takes risks; an Indian will not; if it is risky he'll go around." So we ran the rapids in safety.
Lighter each day, as the food was consumed, our elegant canoe went faster. When not detained by heavy seas 30 or 40 miles a day was our journey. On August 30 we made our last 6 miles in one hour and 6 1/2 minutes. On September 2, in spite of head-winds, we made 36 miles in 8 1/4 hours and in the evening we skimmed over the glassy surface of Artillery Lake, among its many beautiful islands and once more landed at our old ground—the camp in the Last Woods.
How shall I set forth the feelings it stirred? None but the shipwrecked sailor, long drifting on the open sea, but come at last to land, can fully know the thrill it gave us. We were like starving Indians suddenly surrounded by Caribou. Wood—timber—fuel—galore! It was hard to realise—but there it was, all about us, and in the morning we were awakened by the sweet, sweet, home-like song of the Robins in the trees, singing their "Cheerup, cheerily," just as they do it in Ontario and Connecticut. Our cache was all right; so, our stock of luxuries was replenished. We now had unlimited food as well as unlimited firewood; what more could any one ask? Yet there was more. The weather was lovely; perfect summer days, and the mosquitoes were gone, yes, now actually nets and flybars were discarded for good. On every side was animal life in abundance; the shimmering lake with its Loons and islands would fit exactly the Indian's dream of the heavenly hunting-grounds. These were the happy halcyon days of the trip, and we stayed a week to rest and revel in the joys about us.
In the morning I took a long walk over the familiar hills; the various skeletons we had left were picked bare, evidently by Gulls and Ravens, as no bones were broken and even the sinews were left. There were many fresh tracks of single Caribou going here and there, but no trails of large bands. I sent Weeso off to the Indian village, two miles south. He returned to say that it was deserted and that, therefore, the folk had gone after the Caribou, which doubtless were now in the woods south of Artillery Lake. Again the old man was wholly astray in his Caribou forecast.
That night there was a sharp frost; the first we had had. It made nearly half an inch of ice in all kettles. Why is ice always thickest on the kettles? No doubt because they hold a small body of very still water surrounded by highly conductive metal.
Billy went "to market" yesterday, killing a nice, fat little Caribou. This morning on returning to bring in the rest of the meat we found that a Wolverine had been there and lugged the most of it away. The tracks show that it was an old one accompanied by one or maybe two young ones. We followed them some distance but lost all trace in a long range of rocks.
The Wolverine is one of the typical animals of the far North. It has an unenviable reputation for being the greatest plague that the hunter knows. Its habit of following to destroy all traps for the sake of the bait is the prime cause of man's hatred, and its cleverness in eluding his efforts at retaliation give it still more importance.
It is, above all, the dreaded enemy of a cache, and as already seen, we took the extra precaution of putting our caches up trees that were protected by a necklace of fishhooks. Most Northern travellers have regaled us with tales of this animal's diabolical cleverness and wickedness. It is fair to say that the malice, at least, is not proven; and there is a good side to Wolverine character that should be emphasized; that is, its nearly ideal family life, coupled with the heroic bravery of the mother. I say "nearly" ideal, for so far as I can learn, the father does not assist in rearing the young. But all observers agree that the mother is absolutely fearless and devoted. More than one of the hunters have assured me that it is safer to molest a mother Bear than a mother Wolverine when accompanied by the cubs.
Bellalise, a half-breed of Chipewyan, told me that twice he had found Wolverine dens, and been seriously endangered by the mother. The first was in mid-May, 1904, near Fond du Lac, north side of Lake Athabaska. He went out with an Indian to bring in a skiff left some miles off on the shore. He had no gun, and was surprised by coming on an old Wolverine in a slight hollow under the boughs of a green spruce. She rushed at him, showing all her teeth, her eyes shining blue, and uttering sounds like those of a Bear. The Indian boy hit her once with a stick, then swung himself out of danger up a tree. Bellalise ran off after getting sight of the young ones; they were four in number, about the size of a Muskrat, and pure white. Their eyes were open. The nest was just such as a dog might make, only six inches deep and lined with a little dry grass. Scattered around were bones and fur, chiefly of Rabbits.
The second occasion was in 1905, within three miles of Chipewyan, and, as before, about the middle of May. The nest was much like the first one; the mother saw him coming, and charged furiously, uttering a sort of coughing. He shot her dead; then captured the young and examined the nest; there were three young this time. They were white like the others.
Not far from this camp, we found a remarkable midden-yard of Lemmings. It was about 10 feet by 40 feet, the ground within the limits was thickly strewn with pellets, at the rate of 14 to the square inch, but nowhere were they piled up. At this reckoning, there were over 800,000, but there were also many outside, which probably raised the number to 1,000,000. Each pellet was long, brown, dry, and curved, i.e., the winter type. The place, a high, dry, very sheltered hollow, was evidently the winter range of a colony of Lemmings that in summer went elsewhere, I suppose to lower, damper grounds.
After sunset, September 5, a bunch of three or four Caribou trotted past the tents between us and the Lake, 200 yards from us; Billy went after them, as, thanks to the Wolverine, we were out of meat, and at one shot secured a fine young buck.
His last winter's coat was all shed now, his ears were turning white and the white areas were expanding on feet and buttocks; his belly was pure white.
On his back and rump, chiefly the latter, were the scars of 121 bots. I could not see that they affected the skin or, hair in the least.
Although all of these Caribou seem to have the normal foot-click, Preble and I worked in vain with the feet of this, dead one to make the sound; we could not by any combination of movement, or weight or simulation of natural conditions, produce anything like a "click."
That same day, as we sat on a hill, a cow Caribou came curiously toward us. At 100 yards she circled slowly, gazing till she got the wind 150 yards to one side, then up went her tail and off she trotted a quarter of a mile, but again drew nearer, then circled as before till a second time the wind warned her to flee. This she did three or four times before trotting away; the habit is often seen.
Next afternoon, Billy and I saw a very large buck; his neck was much swollen, his beard flowing and nearly white. He sighted us afar, and worked north-west away from us, in no great alarm. I got out of sight, ran a mile and a half, headed him off, then came on him from the north, but in spite of all I could do by running and yelling, he and his band (3 cows with 3 calves) rushed galloping between me and the lake, 75 yards away. He was too foxy to be driven back into that suspicious neighbourhood.
Thus we had fine opportunities for studying wild life. In all these days there was only one unfulfilled desire: I had not seen the great herd of Caribou returning to the woods that are their winter range.
This herd is said to rival in numbers the Buffalo herds of story, to reach farther than the eye can see, and to be days in passing a given point; but it is utterly erratic. It might arrive in early September. It was not sure to arrive until late October, when the winter had begun. This year all the indications were that it would be late. If we were to wait for it, it would mean going out on the ice. For this we were wholly unprepared. There were no means of getting the necessary dogs, sleds, and fur garments; my business was calling me back to the East. It was useless to discuss the matter, decision was forced on me. Therefore, without having seen that great sight, one of the world's tremendous zoological spectacles the march in one body of millions of Caribou—I reluctantly gave the order to start. On September 8 we launched the Ann Seton on her homeward voyage of 1,200 upstream miles.
All along the shore of Artillery Lake we saw small groups of Caribou. They were now in fine coat; the manes on the males were long and white and we saw two with cleaned antlers; in one these were of a brilliant red, which I suppose meant that they were cleaned that day and still bloody.
We arrived at the south end of Artillery Lake that night, and were now again in the continuous woods what spindly little stuff it looked when we left it; what superb forest it looked now—and here we bade good-bye to the prairies and their Caribou.
Now, therefore, I shall briefly summarise the information I gained about this notable creature. The species ranges over all the treeless plains and islands of Arctic America. While the great body is migratory, there are scattered individuals in all parts at all seasons. The main body winters in the sheltered southern third of the range, to avoid the storms, and moves north in the late spring, to avoid the plagues of deer-flies and mosquitoes. The former are found chiefly in the woods, the latter are bad everywhere; by travelling against the wind a certain measure of relief is secured, northerly winds prevail, so the Caribou are kept travelling northward. When there is no wind, the instinctive habit of migration doubtless directs the general movement.
How are we to form an idea of their numbers? The only way seems to be by watching the great migration to its winter range. For the reasons already given this was impossible in my case, therefore, I array some of the known facts that will evidence the size of the herd.
Warburton Pike, who saw them at Mackay Lake, October 20, 1889, says: "I cannot believe that the herds [of Buffalo] on the prairie ever surpassed in size La Foule (the throng) of the Caribou. La Foule had really come, and during its passage of six days I was able to realize what an extraordinary number of these animals still roam the Barren Grounds."
From figures and facts given me by H. T. Munn, of Brandon, Manitoba, I reckon that in three weeks following July 25, 1892, he saw at Artillery Lake (N. latitude 62 1/2 degrees, W. Long. 112 degrees) not less than 2,000,000 Caribou travelling southward; he calls this merely the advance guard of the great herd. Colonel Jones (Buffalo Jones), who saw the herd in October at Clinton-Colden, has given me personally a description that furnishes the basis for an interesting calculation of their numbers.
He stood on a hill in the middle of the passing throng, with a clear view ten miles each way and it was one army of Caribou. How much further they spread, he did not know. Sometimes they were bunched, so that a hundred were on a space one hundred feet square; but often there would be spaces equally large without any. They averaged at least one hundred Caribou to the acre; and they passed him at the rate of about three miles an hour. He did not know how long they were in passing this point; but at another place they were four days, and travelled day and night. The whole world seemed a moving mass of Caribou. He got the impression at last that they were standing still and he was on a rocky hill that was rapidly running through their hosts.
Even halving these figures, to keep on the safe side, we find that the number of Caribou in this army was over 25,000,000. Yet it is possible that there are several such armies. In which case they must indeed out-number the Buffalo in their palmiest epoch. So much for their abundance to-day. To what extent are they being destroyed? I looked into this question with care.
First, of the Indian destruction. In 1812 the Chipewyan population, according to Kennicott, was 7,500. Thomas Anderson, of Fort Smith, showed me a census of the Mackenzie River Indians, which put them at 3,961 in 1884. Official returns of the Canadian government give them in 1905 at 3,411, as follows:
Peel . . . . . . . . . . 400Arctic Red River . . . . . . 100Good Hope . . . . . . . . 500Norman . . . . . . . . . 300Wrigley . . . . . . . . . 100Simpson . . . . . . . . . 300Rae . . . . . . . . . . 800Liard and Nelson . . . . . . 400Yellowknives . . . . . . . 151Dogribs . . . . . . . . . 123Chipewyans . . . . . . . . 123Hay River . . . . . . . . 114——-3,411
Of these the Hay River and Liard Indians, numbering about 500, can scarcely be considered Caribou-eaters, so that the Indian population feeding on Caribou to-day is about 3,000, less than half what it was 100 years ago.
Of these not more than 600 are hunters. The traders generally agree that the average annual kill of Caribou is about 10 or 20 per man, not more. When George Sanderson, of Fort Resolution, got 75 one year, it was the talk of the country; many got none. Thus 20,000 per annum killed by the Indians is a liberal estimate to-day.
There has been so much talk about destruction by whalers that I was careful to gather all available information. Several travellers who had visited Hershell Island told me that four is the usual number of whalers that winter in the north-east of Point Barrow. Sometimes, but rarely, the number is increased to eight or ten, never more. They buy what Caribou they can from Eskimo, sometimes aggregating 300 or 400 carcasses in a winter, and would use more if they could get them, but they cannot, as the Caribou herds are then far south. This, E. Sprake Jones, William Hay, and others, are sure represents fairly the annual destruction by whalers on the north coast. Only one or two vessels of this traffic go into Hudson's Bay, and these with those of Hershell are all that touch Caribou country, so that the total destruction by whalers must be under 1,000 head per annum.
The Eskimo kill for their own use. Franz Boas ("Handbook of American Indians") gives the number of Eskimo in the central region at 1,100. Of these not more than 300 are hunters. If we allow their destruction to equal that of the 600 Indians, it is liberal, giving a total of 40,000 Caribou killed by native hunters. As the whites rarely enter the region, this is practically all the destruction by man. The annual increase of 30,000,000 Caribou must be several millions and would so far overbalance the hunter toll that the latter cannot make any permanent difference.
There is, moreover, good evidence that the native destruction has diminished. As already seen, the tribes which hunt the Barren-Ground Caribou, number less than one-half of what they did 100 years ago. Since then, they have learned to use the rifle, and this, I am assured by all the traders, has lessened the destruction. By the old method, with the spear in the water, or in the pound trap, one native might kill 100 Caribou in one day, during the migrations; but these methods called for woodcraft and were very laborious. The rifle being much easier, has displaced the spear; but there is a limit to its destruction, especially with cartridges at five cents to seven cents each, and, as already seen, the hunters do not average 20 Caribou each in a year.
Thus, all the known facts point to a greatly diminished slaughter to-day when compared with that of 100 years ago. This, then, is my summary of the Barren-Ground Caribou between the Mackenzie River and Hudson's Bay. They number over 30,000,000, and may be double of that. They are in primitive conditions and probably never more numerous than now.
The native destruction is less now than formerly and never did make any perceptible difference.
Finally, the matter has by no means escaped the attention of the wide-awake Canadian government represented by the Minister of the Interior and the Royal North-west Mounted Police. It could not be in better hands; and there is no reason to fear in any degree a repetition of the Buffalo slaughter that disgraced the plains of the United States.
All night the storm of rain and snow raged around our camp on the south shore of Artillery Lake, but we were up and away in the morning in spite of it. That day, we covered five portages (they took two days in coming out). Next day we crossed Lake Harry and camped three-quarters of a mile farther on the long portage. Next day, September 11, we camped (still in storm) at the Lobstick Landing of Great Slave Lake. How tropically rich all this vegetation looked after the "Land of little sticks." Rain we could face, but high winds on the big water were dangerous, so we were storm-bound until September 14, when we put off, and in two hours were at old Fort Reliance, the winter quarters of Sir George Back in 1833-4. In the Far North the word "old" means "abandoned" and the fort, abandoned long ago, had disappeared, except the great stone chimneys. Around one of these that intrepid explorer and hunter-Buffalo Jones-had built a shanty in 1897. There it stood in fairly good condition, a welcome shelter from the storm which now set in with redoubled fury. We soon had the big fireplace aglow and, sitting there in comfort that we owed to him, and surrounded by the skeletons of the Wolves that he had killed about the door in that fierce winter time, we drank in hot and copious tea the toast: Long life and prosperity to our host so far away, the brave old hunter, "Buffalo Jones."
The woods were beautiful and abounded with life, and the three days we spent there were profitably devoted to collecting, but on September 17 we crossed the bay, made the short portage, and at night camped 32 miles away, on the home track.
Next morning we found a camp of Indians down to the last of their food. We supplied them with flour and tobacco. They said that no Caribou had come to the Lake, showing how erratic is the great migration.
In the afternoon we came across another band in still harder luck. They had nothing whatever but the precarious catch of the nets, and this was the off-season. Again we supplied them, and these were among the unexpected emergencies for which our carefully guarded supplies came in.
In spite of choppy seas we made from 30 to 35 miles a day, and camped on Tal-thel-lay the evening of September 20. That night as I sat by the fire the moon rose in a clear sky and as I gazed on her calm bright disc something seemed to tell me that at that moment the dear ones far away were also looking on that radiant face.
On the 21st we were storm-bound at Et-then Island, but utilised the time collecting. I gathered a lot of roots of Pulsatilla and Calypso. Here Billy amused us by catching Wiskajons in an old-fashioned springle that dated from the days when guns were unknown; but the captured birds came back fearlessly each time after being released.
All that day we had to lie about camp, keeping under cover on account of the rain. It was dreary work listening to the surf ceaselessly pounding the shore and realising that all these precious hours were needed to bring us to Fort Resolution, where the steamer was to meet us on the 25th.
On the 23d it was calmer and we got away in the gray dawn at 5.45. We were now in Weeso's country, and yet he ran us into a singular pocket that I have called Weeso's Trap—a straight glacial groove a mile long that came to a sudden end and we had to go back that mile.
The old man was much mortified over his blunder, but he did not feel half so badly about it as I did, for every hour was precious now.
What a delight it was to feel our canoe skimming along under the four paddles. Three times as fast we travelled now as when we came out with the bigger boat; 5 1/2 miles an hour was frequently our rate and when we camped that night we had covered 47 miles since dawn.
On Kahdinouay we camped and again a storm arose to pound and bluster all night. In spite of a choppy sea next day we reached the small island before the final crossing; and here, perforce, we stayed to await a calmer sea. Later we heard that during this very storm a canoe-load of Indians attempted the crossing and upset; none were swimmers, all were drowned.
We were not the only migrants hurrying southward. Here for the first time in my life I saw Wild Swans, six in a flock. They were heading southward and flew not in very orderly array, but ever changing, occasionally forming the triangle after the manner of Geese. They differ from Geese in flapping more slowly, from White Cranes in flapping faster, and seemed to vibrate only the tips of the wings. This was on the 23d. Next day we saw another flock of seven; I suppose that in each case it was the old one and young of the year.
As they flew they uttered three different notes: a deep horn-like "too" or "coo," a higher pitched "coo," and a warble-like "tootle-tootle," or sometimes simply "tee-tee." Maybe the last did not come from the Swans, but no other birds were near; I suppose that these three styles of notes came from male, female, and young.
Next morning 7 flocks of Swans flew overhead toward the south-west. They totalled 46; 12 were the most in one flock. In this large flock I saw a quarrel No. 2 turned back and struck No. 3, his long neck bent and curled like a snake, both dropped downward several feet then 3, 4 and 5 left that flock. I suspect they were of another family.
But, later, as we entered the river mouth we had a thrilling glimpse of Swan life. Flock after flock came in view as we rounded the rush beds; 12 flocks in all we saw, none had less than 5 in it, nearly 100 Swans in sight, at once, and all rose together with a mighty flapping of strong, white wings, and the chorus of the insignificant "too-too-tees" sailed farther southward, probably to make the great Swan tryst on Hay River.
No doubt these were the same 12 flocks as those observed on the previous days, but still it rejoiced my heart to see even that many. I had feared that the species was far gone on the trail of the Passenger Pigeon.
But this is anticipating. We were camped still on the island north of the traverse, waiting for possible water. All day we watched In vain, all night the surf kept booming, but at three in the morning the wind dropped, at four it was obviously calmer. I called the boys and we got away before six; dashing straight south in spite of rolling seas we crossed the 15-mile stretch in 3 3/4 hours, and turning westward reached Stony Island by noon. Thence southward through ever calmer water our gallant boat went spinning, reeling off the level miles up the river channel, and down again on its south-west branch, in a glorious red sunset, covering in one day the journeys of four during our outgoing, in the supposedly far speedier York boat. Faster and faster we seemed to fly, for we had the grand incentive that we must catch the steamer at any price that night. Weeso now, for the first time, showed up strong; knowing every yard of the way he took advantage of every swirl of the river; in and out among the larger islands we darted, and when we should have stopped for the night no man said "Stop", but harder we paddled. We could smell the steamer smoke, we thought, and pictured her captain eagerly scanning the offing for our flying canoe; it was most inspiring and the Ann Seton jumped up to 6 miles an hour for a time. So we went; the night came down, but far away were the glittering lights of Fort Resolution, and the steamer that should end our toil. How cheering. The skilly pilot and the lusty paddler slacked not—40 miles we had come that day—and when at last some 49, nearly 50, paddled miles brought us stiff and weary to the landing it was only to learn that the steamer, notwithstanding bargain set and agreed on, had gone south two days before.
What we thought about the steamboat official who was responsible for our dilemma we did not need to put into words; for every one knew of the bargain and its breach: nearly every one present had protested at the time, and the hardest things I felt like saying were mild compared with the things already said by that official's own colleagues. But these things were forgotten in the hearty greetings of friends and bundles of letters from home. It was eight o'clock, and of course black night when we landed; yet it was midnight when we thought of sleep.
Fort Resolution is always dog-town; and now it seemed at its worst. When the time came to roll up in our blankets, we were fully possessed of the camper's horror of sleeping indoors; but it was too dark to put up a tent and there was not a square foot of ground anywhere near that was not polluted and stinking of "dog-sign," so very unwillingly I broke my long spell of sleeping out, on this 131st day, and passed the night on the floor of the Hudson's Bay Company house. I had gone indoors to avoid the "dog-sign" and next morning found, alas, that I had been lying all night on "cat-sign."
I say lying; I did not sleep. The closeness of the room, in spite of an open window, the novelty, the smells, combined with the excitement of letters from home, banished sleep until morning came, and, of course, I got a bad cold, the first I had had all summer.
Here I said "good-bye" to old Weeso. He grinned affably, and when I asked what he would like for a present said, "Send me an axe like yours," There were three things in my outfit that aroused the cupidity of nearly every Indian, the Winchester rifle, the Peterboro canoe and the Marble axe, "the axe that swallows its face." Weeso had a rifle, we could not spare or send him a canoe, so I promised to send him the axe. Post is slow, but it reached him six months later and I doubt not is even now doing active service.
Having missed the last steamer, we must go on by canoe. Canoeing up the river meant "tracking" all the way; that is, the canoe must be hauled up with a line, by a man walking on the banks; hard work needing not only a strong, active man, but one who knows the river. Through the kindness of J. McLeneghan, of the Swiggert Trading Company, I was spared the horrors of my previous efforts to secure help at Fort Resolution, and George Sanderson, a strong young half-breed, agreed to take me to Fort Smith for $2.00 a day and means of returning. George was a famous hunter and fisher, and a "good man" to travel. I marked his broad shoulders and sinewy, active form with joy, especially in view of his reputation. In one respect he was different from all other half-breeds that I ever knew—he always gave a straight answer. Ask an ordinary half-breed, or western white man, indeed, how far it is to such a point, his reply commonly is, "Oh, not so awful far," or "It is quite a piece," or "It aint such a hell of a ways," conveying to the stranger no shadow of idea whether it is a hundred yards, a mile, or a week's travel. Again and again when Sanderson was asked how far it was to a given place, he would pause and say, "Three miles and a half," or "Little more than eight miles," as the case might be. The usual half-breed when asked if we could make such a point by noon would say "Maybe. I don't know. It is quite a piece." Sanderson would say, "Yes," or "No, not by two miles," according to circumstances; and his information was always correct; he knew the river "like a book."
On the afternoon of September 27 we left "Dogtown" with Sanderson in Weeso's place and began our upward journey. George proved as good as his reputation. The way that active fellow would stride along the shore, over logs and brush, around fallen trees, hauling the canoe against stream some three or four miles an hour was perfectly fine; and each night my heart was glad and sang the old refrain, "A day's march nearer home."
The toil of this tracking is second only to that of portageing.The men usually relieve each other every 30 minutes. So Billy andGeorge were the team. If I were going again into that country andhad my choice these two again would be my crew.
Once or twice I took the track-line myself for a quarter of an hour, but it did not appeal to me as a permanent amusement. It taught me one thing that I did not suspect, namely, that it is much harder to haul a canoe with three inches of water under her keel than with three feet. In the former case, the attraction of the bottom is most powerful and evident. The experience also explained the old sailor phrase about the vessel feeling the bottom: this I had often heard, but never before comprehended.
All day we tracked, covering 20 to 25 miles between camps and hourly making observations on the wild life of the river. Small birds and mammals were evidently much more abundant than in spring, and the broad, muddy, and sandy reaches of the margin were tracked over by Chipmunks, Weasels, Foxes, Lynxes, Bear, and Moose.
A Lynx, which we surprised on a sand-bar, took to the water without hesitation and swam to the mainland. It went as fast as a dog, but not nearly so fast as a Caribou. A large Fox that we saw crossing the river proved very inferior to the Lynx in swimming speed.
The two portages, Ennuyeux and Detour, were duly passed, and on the morning of October 3, as we travelled, a sailboat hove into sight. It held Messrs. Thomas Christy, C. Harding, and Stagg. We were now within 11 days of Fort Smith, so I took advantage of the opportunity to send Sanderson back. On the evening of the 3d we came to Salt River, and there we saw Pierre Squirrel with his hundred dogs and at 1 P. M., October 4, arrived at Fort Smith.