“
How far to-day, sir?” asked Rob of the leader of their party, when, having left their camp on the bank of the McLeod at the spot known as the Leavings, they had headed straight west toward the steep divide which rose before them.
“That all depends on luck,” said Uncle Dick. “We’ve got to climb that divide and get down off the top of it. By noon we’ll be higher than the Rocky Mountains!”
“That isn’t possible, of course.”
“I didn’t say higher than the highest peak in the Rocky Mountains. But as a matter of fact on top of the divide between the McLeod and the Athabasca we are four thousand six hundred and forty feet above sea-level, and that is nine hundred and seventeen feet higher than the summit of the Yellowhead Pass where we cross the Rockies.”
“It doesn’t look like a very easy trail,” said Rob.
“No, on the contrary, it is one of the most dismal and desolate parts of the whole march, with its burned forests and its steep grades. Besides, some of the worst muskeg in the country is on each side of this Athabasca divide—it just runs in terraces all up and down both sides.”
“When does the first one come?” asked Rob.
“Just before we get ready for it! But if you don’t discover when we get there I’ll let you know. To my notion, this looks considerable like a muskeg just on ahead of us. Now we’ll take a little lesson in muskeg work. What I want to say to you is, that you must never get angry and excited, either over muskeg or mosquitoes. Take it easy all the time.”
They paused now at the edge of what seemed a thicket covered with low bushes, which rose above green moss and tufts of grasses. In places the swamp looked as though it would hold up either a man or a horse. None the less, the boys could see where long ago an attempt had been made to corduroythe bog. Some of the poles and logs, broken in the middle, stuck up out of the mud. A black seam, filled with broken bits of poles, trampled moss and bushes, and oozing mud, showed the direction of the trail, as well as proved how deceptive the surface of an unbroken muskeg can be.
“Now, Jesse,” said Uncle Dick, “you and John take your guns and go across on foot on one side of the trail. It will probably hold you if you keep moving and step on the tufts and the bushes. The rest of us will have to do the best we can with the horses.”
“Why can’t the horses go out there, too?” demanded Jesse. “It looks all right.”
“There are times,” said Uncle Dick, “when I wish all horses had been born with webbed feet. The hoof of a horse seems made purposely to cut through a muskeg, and the leg of a horse is just long enough to tangle him up in one. None the less, here is the muskeg, and here we are with our horses, and we must get across. We’ll not go dry into camp this day, nor clean, either.”
The two younger boys were able to get across without any very serious mishaps, and presently they stood, a hundred yards ormore away, waiting to see what was going to happen. The horses all stood looking at them as though understanding that they were on the farther side of the troublesome country.
“Get in, Danny,” said Uncle Dick, and slapped his riding-pony on the hip. The plucky little horse walked up to the edge of the soft ground, pawing at it and sniffing and snorting in dislike. Uncle Dick slapped him on the hip once more, and in Danny plunged, wallowing ahead belly-deep in the black slime, slipping and stumbling over the broken bits of poles, and at times obliged to cease, gallant as were his struggles. Of course the saddle was entirely covered with mud. None the less, in some way Danny managed to get across and stood on the farther side, a very much frightened and disgusted horse.
“She’s a bad one, Moise,” said Uncle Dick, thoughtfully. “I don’t know how they’ll make it with the loads, but we’ve got to try. Come on, Rob, let’s drive them in.”
It took a great deal of shouting and whipping to get the poor brutes to take to this treacherous morass, but one after the otherthey were driven in, until at length the whole dozen of the pack-train were distributed, half-submerged, over the hundred yards of the mucky trail. Uncle Dick, not stopping to think of his clothes, followed Moise in; and Rob, pluckily as either of the others, also took to the mud. Thigh-deep, plunging along as best they could, in the churned up mass, they worked along the animals, exhorting or encouraging them the best they could. It was piteously hard for all concerned, and for a long time it seemed doubtful if they would get the whole train across. Sometimes a horse, exhausted by its struggles, would lie over on its side, and the three of them would have to tug at him to get him started again.
The last horse in the train was the unhappy claybank. Within a few yards of the farther side this horse bagged down, helpless, and fell over on its side, its pack down in the mud, and after plunging viciously for a time lay flat, with its head out, so that Rob had to cut some brush to put under it.
“Broken leg, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Dick. “It’s that rotten corduroy down in the mud there. What shall we do, Moise, cut offthe packs and—but I hate to shoot a horse.”
“S’pose you’ll wait some minute,” said Moise, after a time, coming up plastered with mud from head to foot. “Those horse, she’ll want for rest a little while.”
“Feel down along his hind leg if you can, Moise,” said Uncle Dick; “that’s the one that seems helpless.”
Moise obediently kneeled in the mud and reached his arm along down the cayuse’s legs.
“Those legs, she always there,” said he, arising. “Maybe those horse, she’ll just fool us.” Then he began to exhort the helpless animal. “Advance donc, sacré cochon diable cheval! En avant la—whoop!”
Moise continued his shouts, and, to the surprise of all, the disabled horse began to flounder once more; and as they all lifted at his pack and pushed him forward he gave a series of plunges and finally reached firm ground.
“So,” said Moise, calmly, “thass all right. She was French horse, thass all—you’ll been spoke English on him, and he wasn’t understood it.”
Uncle Dick, grimed as he was from head to foot, could not help laughing at Moise’s explanation. Then they all stood and laughed at one another, for they, as well as the saddles and packs, were black with muck.
“I told you, young men,” said Uncle Dick, “that we wouldn’t make a clean camp to-night. You see now why we have covers on the packs, don’t you, and why we roll everything in canvas? Well, anyhow, we’re across that one, and I hope there’s nothing any worse ahead, although you never can tell.”
The pack-horses seemed to have very short memories of their troubles, for when the line of march was again resumed they went on peacefully enough, even the claybank bringing up the rear as though nothing had happened to him.
It was a stiff climb which confronted them now, on the eastern slope of the big Athabasca divide; but as they rose the terrors of the trail were in some part compensated by the splendid views of the country which now were disclosed as they passed into this or that opening along the jack-pine ridge. A wide panorama lay off to the east, the country from which they had come; and at last, whenfinally they had arrived at the top of the divide, they could see the barren slopes of the Rockies, now apparently so close as to be within a half-day’s travel. It was a savage and desolate scene which lay about them, the more gloomy because of the wide areas of dead and half-burned timber which stretched for miles beyond. Weary and travel-stained as the young travelers were, a feeling of depression came upon them, seeing which Uncle Dick did his best to cheer them up.
“Never mind,” said he; “that much is behind us at least. We’re nearly a thousand feet above the McLeod River here, and it’s over thirteen hundred feet down to the Athabasca yonder. There’s bad going between here and there, although the valley itself isn’t so bad. So I tell you what I think we’ll do—we’ll make an early camp, and Moise and I will go off to the south of the main trail and see if we can’t work over the heads of some of the creeks. It may be rougher country, but it ought not to be quite so soft.”
They were glad enough to follow this counsel, and when at last they came to alittle open glade with running water they pulled up and began the unpleasant work of removing the muddy packs.
“I’ve got mud in my hair and my eyes and my mouth yet,” said Rob, laughing.
“And my stirrups are full, and my rifle scabbard and everything else,” added Jesse.
“Well, I don’t call this any fun,” said John; “I don’t like to be dirty.”
“Nonsense!” said Rob. “It’ll all wash off. And once we are clean and have a cup of tea, we’ll be just as good as new.”
“
Well, what luck did you have, Uncle Dick?” inquired Jesse, the next morning, when, a little later than usual, they were once more ready to take the trail.
“Do you mean what luck I had in finding a new trail? Well, none too good, but better, I think, than the one on ahead. Anyway, we’ll try it. If we can make the mouth of Hardisty Creek, we can’t complain. Besides, talking of adventures, you can’t think of anything that has more chance in it than finding a new trail down the Athabasca side of this divide—no telling how many muskegs or hills or creeks we may run into.”
Uncle Dick, however, proved to be a very practical wilderness guide, for he now led the party considerably to the south of the old trail into country broken and covered with down timber, but with little or none ofbad muskeg in it. By noon they were well down toward the water-grade of the Athabasca itself, and at night, after a long, hard day’s work, they made their encampment at a point which to the eye seemed almost within touch of the Rocky Mountains themselves. They counted on much better going in the flat valley of the Athabasca than they had had in crossing the country back of them, broken as it had been with many little waterways and by the deep, troughlike valleys of the bolder streams making northward into the Athabasca.
By this time their camp work seemed less like a picnic and more like routine work, but on the other hand they were settling down to it in steady and businesslike fashion, so that it did not take them long either to make or to break camp. Nor did their weary bodies leave them time to enjoy the splendid mountain view which now lay about them.
On the next day, leaving the big peak of Mount Hardisty behind them, they made a swift climb up the valley of a little creek called Prairie Creek, the beaten trail leaving the main valley and heading off parallel to the big shallows of the Athabasca, knownas Brule Lake. Now the great shoulders of the Rockies seemed to come close about them. They were following the general course of the Athabasca valley southward to the point where it breaks out through its gate of the hills. Folding Mountain now rose to the left of them, and when finally they pitched their camp on the next night in a little glade near its foot they felt the pleasing assurance that at last they were getting to the Rockies themselves. Their leader pointed out to them that they were now within the original lines of the great Dominion reserve known as Jasper Park, five thousand square miles in extent, and reaching from the place where they were to the summit of the Rockies themselves, and to the eastern edge of the province of British Columbia.
“From where we are,” said Uncle Dick, that night, “it is seven or eight miles to the Athabasca River at the end of Brule Lake. Once more we are at a place where we have the choice of two evils.”
“I know,” said Rob, once more pulling out his map; “you mean we’ll have to go over the Roche Miette—that big hill on ahead there.”
“Yes, if we keep this side the Athabascawe will,” said Uncle Dick. “The Roche Miette is a historic landmark on this trail of the fur-traders, and I never heard that any of them ever loved it, either. There’s no way of getting between it and the Athabasca, and the trail over it certainly is bad enough. There are places where a pack-horse might slip off, and if so it would go many a hundred feet before it stopped.”
“What would we do if that sort of thing happened?” demanded John.
“Well,” said Uncle Dick, “we’d do precisely what other fellows have done when that happened to them. But it hasn’t happened yet, and maybe won’t at all.”
“It’s over a thousand feet high,” said Rob, standing and looking at the face of the big cliff ahead of them.
“Yes, and that means a thousand feet down on the other side, too. Worse than that, it means fording the Rocky River on beyond, and she’s a wild one. Then you’ve got to ford the Maligne, as well as a lot of little creeks. After that you’ve got to ford the Athabasca—because we’ve got to get across the Athabasca in order to go up the Miette River to the Yellowhead Pass.”
The boys stood silent, looking at one another, none too happy at these hardships and dangers which confronted them.
“Don’t look so glum,” said Uncle Dick. “I’ve been over this trail three times each way, and the old traders used to cross here dozens of times each way and thought nothing of it. You must learn to be like soldiers, and be contented if you have a good supper and a good place to sleep. Besides, I’ve got a plan that I’ll tell you about in the morning.”
The boys felt a little more cheerful the next morning after they had had their breakfast, and Rob finally asked the noncommittal leader of their party what he had meant the night before when he mentioned his plan for avoiding the Roche Miette.
“Well, some of us may get wet again,” said Uncle Dick; “but if we can make it through, we can save a little time and a little risk, I think.”
“I know,” said Rob; “you mean to ford the Athabasca—or swim it.”
Uncle Dick nodded. “The horses will have to swim, but I hope we will not. For that matter, we might have to swim the Rocky River, on ahead. Of course, the higher up the Athabasca we go the less water there is in it, but down in this country she spreads out on gravel-bars and sand-flats. If we canmake it across here, it’ll be a good thing, the way I figure it.”
“The streams are not as high now as they will be a month from now,” said Rob. “It’s cold up in the hills yet, and the snow isn’t melting. This country’s just like Alaska in that way.”
“That’s the way I figure,” said Uncle Dick. “I know the regular trail is on this side the Athabasca, but at the same time they do sometimes ford it down below here. We’ll go have a look, anyhow.”
Accordingly, they started out from their camp near Folding Mountain, not in the direction of Roche Miette, but departing from the trail nearly at right angles. They pulled up at last on the shores of the rushing, muddy Athabasca. Here they found a single cabin, and near it a solitary and silent Indian. What was better, and what caused Uncle Dick’s face to lighten perceptibly, was a rough home-made bateau of boards which lay fastened at the shore.
“How deep?” asked Uncle Dick, pointing to the swirling waters, here several hundred yards in width.
The Indian grinned and made signs, motioningwith his hand at his knees, at his waist, and far above his head.
“Swimming it, eh?” said Uncle Dick. “Well, that means swimming the horses across. Also it means freighting the packs. Off with the loads, then, boys, and let’s get busy.”
The Indian and Uncle Dick now examined the boat and found that it would ferry something like five hundred pounds besides two men acting as oarsmen. As they had something like three-quarters of a ton in the pack-loads, this meant several trips in the boat.
Meantime Moise, singing and laughing as usual, proceeded to build a fire and to make a little midday camp, for he knew they would tarry here for some time.
“We’ll wouldn’t took all the grub over right way first thing,” said he. “Better eat plenty first.”
“All right, Moise,” said John; “I’m hungry right now, and I’ll eat any time you say. But I think we’d better wait until we see how they come out with the boat.”
With the first load of supplies in the skiff, Uncle Dick and the Indian had a good stiff pull of it, for the current of the Athabascahere is at least six or eight miles an hour. But by heading up stream they managed to land nearly opposite the place where they had started. By the time they had returned for the second load all the packs were off and the horses were ready for the crossing. Uncle Dick thought that it would be best to cross the horses at once, as any mountain stream is lower in the early part of the day than it is in mid-afternoon, when the daily flood of melting snow is at its height.
The boys had often heard of this way of getting a pack-train across a river too deep to ford, and now they were to see it in actual practice. The Indian, wading out, showed that there was a shallow hard bar extending some distance out and offering good footing. He pushed the boat out some distance from shore and sat there, holding it with an oar thrust into the sand. Uncle Dick rode his saddle-pony out a little way, and led the white bell-mare, old Betsy, along behind him, passing Betsy’s rope to the Indian as he sat in the boat. Betsy, as may be supposed, was a sensible and courageous horse, well used to all the hardships of mountain work.
It is the way of all pack-horses to be givento sudden frights, but, still, if they see that another horse has gone ahead they nearly always will try to follow. All the other horses now stood looking out at Betsy. As they did so the others of the party made a sort of rope corral behind them and on each side. All at once Moise and Uncle Dick began to shout at the horses and crowd them forward toward the water. Although they plunged and tried to break away, they were afraid of the rope, and, seeing Betsy standing there, one after another they splashed out into the shallow water.
Uncle Dick sprang on top of his horse, Danny, once more, and headed off those which undertook to come back to the bank. Then, once more riding out to the boat, he sprang off nearly waist-deep into the water and climbed into the boat, leaving Danny to take his chances with the others. Both men now bent to the oars. Old Betsy, seeing her rope fast to the boat for the time, swam toward it so strongly that they were almost afraid she would try to get into it, so at length Uncle Dick cut off the rope as short as he could and cast everything loose. By that time, as good-fortune would have it, all thehorses were swimming, following the white lead-mare, which, seeing the shore on ahead, and not seeing the shore behind, and, moreover, seeing human beings in the boat just ahead, struck out sturdily for the other side.
The swift icy current of the Athabasca carried the animals far down-stream, and this time Uncle Dick did not try to keep the boat up-stream, but allowed it to drift with the horses, angling down. It seemed to those left on the hither shore at least half an hour before a call from the other side announced that the boatmen had reached shallow water. Of course it was not so long; but, whether long or short, it certainly was fortunate that the journey had been made so quickly and so safely. For now, one after another, they could see the horses splashing and struggling as they found solid footing under them, so what had lately been a procession of heads and ears became a line of pack-horses straggling up the bank; and a very cold and much-frightened train of pack-horses they were, too, as Uncle Dick could have told his young companions. But what he did was to give a great shout which announced to them that all was safe.
After that, of course, it was simply a question of freighting over the remainder of the supplies and the others of the party, and of rounding up the scattered horses from the grazing-places in the woods. Moise insisted on having tea before the last trip was made; and by this time the boys realized that at no time in these operations had they been left alone with no one older than themselves to care for them in case of accidents, nor had they been left without supplies close at hand.
“You’re a pretty good manager, Uncle Dick,” said John, while they sat on a long log by the fireside before the last trip across the river. “I’m willing to say that you’re a pretty good engineer as well as a pretty good contractor.”
“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Uncle Dick. “You have to use your head on the trail a little bit, as well as your nerve, however. We’d have had to swim the Athabasca anyhow, and I’d about as soon swim a train over a broad, steady river as to try to cross a rough mountain river with a loaded train, and maybe get a horse swept under a log-jam. Anyway, we can call the river crossed, and jolly glad I am of it, too.”
“When do we get any fishing?” asked Jesse. “That water looks too muddy for trout.”
“We won’t get any fishing for a couple of days yet, probably,” said Uncle Dick. “And as to shooting, you must remember that we are now in Jasper Park, and if we struck a game warden he would seal all our guns for us.”
“Well,” said Rob, “I see there’s a lake over here called Fish Lake.”
“Yes. The old traders’ trail runs between Fish Lake and Brule Lake, and a great piece of sand it is in there, too—we engineers will have to put blankets on that country to keep it from blowing away when we build the railroad through. But we’ll miss all that, and to-morrow we’ll stop at Swift’s place, on the other side of the river.”
“Whose place?” asked John. “I didn’t know anybody lived in here.”
“It’s an odd thing about this country,” said Uncle Dick, “but people do live all over it, and have done so for a hundred years or two, although it, none the less, is the wilderness. Sometimes you will find a settler in the wildest part of the mountains. Now, Swift is an old Yankee that came up here fromthe States about thirty years ago. He used to trade and trap, perhaps, and of late years he has made him quite a farm. Besides that, he has built himself a mill and makes his own flour. He’s quite an ingenious old chap, and one of the features of the country. We engineers found his fresh vegetables pretty good last season. For my part, I hope he makes a fortune out of his land if we locate a town near him. His place isn’t so very far from Jasper House. That was the first settlement in this country—the Hudson’s Bay’s post, more than a hundred years ago.”
“Is it still standing?” asked Rob.
“Oh no, and hasn’t been for years. We can still see a few logs there, and nothing more. It fell into disuse maybe fifty years ago, and was abandoned altogether twenty-five years back, and since then burned down. It’s the only post, so far as I know, called after a man’s Christian name. The old posts were called ‘houses,’ but this one was built by Jasper Hawse. Hardy old chap, old Jasper, I presume; because, he made such good fur returns that the rival company, the old Nor’westers, came in here and built a post, which they called Henry House, on up theriver some miles from Jasper House. But the Nor’westers couldn’t stand the competition, and before long they abandoned their post, and it has been left so ever since. Lastly came the engineers, following the traders, who followed the Indians, who followed the wild-game trails; and behind us will come the railroads. In two or three years, if you like, you youngsters can come through here on the train a great deal more easily than you are doing it now.
“But now,” concluded Uncle Dick, “we must go across the river and see how old Betsy is getting along with her family.”
They made this final trip with the boat without incident, and Uncle Dick gave the Indian ten dollars for his help, which seemed to please that taciturn person very much.
“
Well, I want to shoot something,” said John, as they stood in their camp the following morning. “I don’t like this park business.”
“Nonsense, John,” said Rob. “A park is just a place where you raise wild animals; and if there were no parks, pretty soon there wouldn’t be any wild animals. Besides, it’s such a glorious morning, and this country is so beautiful, that for one I don’t much care whether or not we shoot anything for a day or two.”
“Well, I like a free country,” said John, loudly.
“So do I, but you can say one thing; when a railroad comes into a country and it begins to settle up, you can’t have free hunting forever.”
“We can have good fishing before long,young gentlemen,” said Uncle Dick. “In fact, I’ll show you a lake or two up above here where you shall have all the fun you want. This used to be a great fur country. I fancy the Stony Indians killed off a good many of the sheep and bears on the east side of the Rockies below here, and of course along the regular trails all game gets to be scarce, but I will show you goat trails up in these hills which look as though they had been made by a pack-train. I don’t doubt, if one would go thirty or forty miles from here, he could get into good grizzly country, but you know we put our grizzly shoots off for the other side of the Rockies, and we all agreed just to plug on through until we got to the summit.”
“How’s the country on ahead?” asked John, dubiously.
“Bad enough,” said Uncle Dick, “but it might be worse. At least, there is a lot of ground on this side the river which is solid, and in fact I wouldn’t say there is anything very bad until we get pretty well up the Miette River where the cross-creeks come down. We may find some soft going up there, with the snow just beginning to melt,as it is. But now let’s get into saddle and push on.”
They soon were under way once more, passing up the wide valley and now entering deeper and deeper into the arms of the great Rockies themselves. Not far from their camp they paused for a moment at the ruins of old Jasper House. It was as Uncle Dick had said. Nothing remained excepting one cabin, which showed evident marks of being modern.
“It’s too bad,” said Rob, “that these old historic houses ever were allowed to pass away. How nice it would be if we could see them now, just the way old Jasper Hawse built them. But log cabins don’t stand as well as stone houses, I’ve noticed.”
“I wonder if Mr. Swift is going to build him a stone house when the town comes,” said Jesse. “I suppose it’s only a log house he’s got now.”
“Quite right,” said Uncle Dick, “and it’s only a little way until we reach it to-day. We’ll celebrate our crossing the Athabasca by making a short journey to-day.”
So presently they did pull up at the quaint frontier home known all along the trail as “Swift’s.” They were met by the oldman himself, who seemed to be alone—a gaunt and grizzled figure of the old frontier breed. He came out and shook hands with each in turn and helped all to get off their saddles and packs, evidently glad to see them, and still more pleased when Uncle Dick told him that these boys had come all the way from Alaska.
“Alasky?” said he. “You don’t tell me! Now here I be, and I thought I’d come a long way when I come from the States thirty year ago. Alasky, eh? I’ve heard there’s gold up there. Maybe I’ll stroll over there some day.”
“It’s a good long way, Mr. Swift,” said Rob, smiling.
“Well, maybe ’tis, maybe ’tis,” said the old man, “but I betche when they get the railroad across it wouldn’t be any farther than it was when I punched a pack-horse up from the state of Washington. Which way you headed?”
“Clear across to the Pacific,” said Rob, nonchalantly. “We live at Valdez, in Alaska, and that’s a week’s sail from Seattle. We crossed the Peace River summit last year—”
“You did? Now you don’t tell me that!”
“Yes, sir, and Moise here was with us. And this year we’re going across the Yellowhead and down the Fraser to the Tête Jaune Cache, and from there we are going down the Canoe River to the Columbia, and down the Columbia River to the railroad, and then west to the coast. It’s easy enough.” And Rob spoke rather proudly, perhaps just a little boastfully.
The old man shook his head from side to side. “Well, I want to know!” said he. “If I didn’t know this gentleman of the engineers I’d say you boys was either crazy or lying to me. But he’s a good man, all right, and I reckon he’ll get you through. So you’re going over to the old Tee-John, are you? I know it well.”
“And we hope to see the old Boat Encampment on the Columbia where the Saskatchewan trail came in,” added Rob, reaching for his map.
“I know it well,” said the old man—“know it like a book, the whole country. Well, good luck to you, and I wish I was going through; but I’ll see ye up in Alasky in a couple of years, when this here railroad gets through. I got to stay here and tend to mygarden and farm and my town lots for a while yit.”
The old man now showed them with a great deal of pride his little fields and his system of irrigation, and the rough mill which he had made with no tools but a saw and an ax. “I used to pack in flour from Edmonton, three hundred and fifty miles,” said he, “and it wasn’t any fun, I can tell you. So I said, what’s the use—why not make a mill for myself and grind my own flour?”
“And good flour it is, too, boys,” said Uncle Dick, “for I’ve tasted it often and know.”
“I s’pose we ought to get on a little bit farther this evening,” said John to the leader of the party, after a while.
“No, you don’t,” said the old man; “you’ll stay right here to-night, I tell you. Plenty of trouble on ahead without being in a hurry to get into it, and here you can sleep dry and have plenty to eat. I haven’t got any trout in the house to-day, but there’s a little lake up by Pyramid Mountain where you can ketch plenty, and there’s another one a few miles around the corner of the Miette valley where you can get ’em even better.Oh yes, from now on you’ll have all the fish you want to eat, and all the fun, too, I reckon, that you come for. So you’re all the way from Alasky, eh? Well, I swan! I’ve seen folks here from England and New York and Oregon, but I never did see no one from Alasky before. And you’re just boys! Come in and unroll your blankets.”
“
Well, boys,” said Swift, the next day after breakfast, “I wisht ye could stay longer with me, but I reckon ye got to be on your way, so I’ll just wish ye well and go about my planting.”
“So long, friend,” said Uncle Dick, as they parted. “We’ll see you from time to time. When the railroad gets through we’ll all be neighbors in here.”
“Sure,” said the old man, none too happily. “It’s a fright how close things has got together sence I packed north from the Columby thirty year ago. Well, I hope you’ll get some trout where you camp to-night. You’d ought to go up on my mountain and ketch some of them lake-trout. I dun’ no’ where they come from, for there ain’t nothing like ’em in no other lake in these mountains. But I reckon they was always in there, wasn’t they?”
“Certainly they were,” answered Uncle Dick. “I know about those trout. They tell me they are just like the lake-trout of the Great Lakes. But we can’t stop for them to-day. I’ll promise the camp some rainbow-trout for supper, though—at least for to-morrow night.”
“I know where ye mean,” said the old man, smiling; “it’s that little lake off the Miette trail. Plenty o’ rainbows in there.”
“We’ll camp opposite that lake to-night.”
“And pass my town site this morning, eh? Wish it well for me. If I’ve got to be civilized I’m going to be plumb civilized. Well, so long.”
They all shook hands, and the little pack-train turned off up the north-bound trail.
They were now following along a rude trail blazed here and there by exploring parties of engineers. Presently Uncle Dick pointed them out the place where the new town was to be built.
“Here,” said he, pulling up, “is where we will have a division point, with railway shops, roundhouses, and all that. Its name will be Fitzhugh.”
“Huh!” said John, “it doesn’t look much like a town yet. It’s all rocks and trees.”
“But there’s a fine view,” said Rob, looking out over the landscape with critical eye. “I presume that’s the valley of the Maligne River coming in on the other side of the Athabasca, isn’t it, Uncle Dick?”
“Yes, and I am glad we don’t have to ford it, but are on this side of the big river.”
“It looks like another valley coming down from the right, on ahead,” said Rob.
“That’s the Miette valley, and we turn up that as though we were going around a corner. Just ahead is where we leave the Athabasca valley. That river runs off to the left. The big white mountain you see square ahead is Mount Geikie. The Athabasca runs south of that, and the Miette this side. In short, this is the place where the old trails fork. Yonder goes the trail to the Athabasca Pass, and here to the right is ours to the Yellowhead.”
“Which did they find first, Uncle Dick?” inquired John.
“As I was telling you, the Athabasca Pass was the first discovered. That is, it was found before the Yellowhead. Far south, at the head of the Saskatchewan, Duncan McGillivray discovered what is called theHowse Pass. That was in 1800. Some suppose that pass was named after old Jasper Hawse, or Howse, who founded Jasper House just below us on the river here.
“The traders used the Howse Pass quite a while, until, as I told you, the Flathead Indians and Kootenais got guns from the west and whipped the Piegans, down below here. That started old David Thompson out hunting for another pass further north. It is thought that the Athabasca Pass was discovered by J. Henry, a free trapper, about 1810. The Yellowhead Pass, which we are going to cross in due time, was not really discovered or used by the traders until about 1825 or 1826. But our friend Jasper Hawse seems to have used it before that time.”
“And he went right up this way where we are going now,” said Rob, musingly.
“He certainly did,” said Uncle Dick. “There wasn’t any other place for him to go if he started up the Miette.”
“It seems to me as though the engineers were always following rivers,” said Jesse.
“Precisely. When you have learned the rivers of a country you know its geography, and a good part of its history, too. You’llrealize more and more that white explorers did very little discovering. They clung to the rivers, which already had paths along them—paths made by the native tribes. Engineers like to stick to stream valleys because the grades are light. All the great passes of the Rockies were found by following rivers back into the hills, just as we are doing now.”
“It’s fine,” said John, “to feel that we are right here where the old men used to travel, and that we’ve got to travel the way they did. I’m glad I came.”
“I’m glad, too,” said Uncle Dick. “It has been rather hard work, and now I propose to give you a little rest, so the horses can pick up as well as ourselves. There’s good grass in the valley on ahead, and we’ll go into camp rather early.”
They pushed on now, swinging away presently from the great valley of the Athabasca, hemmed in by its mountains, and beginning to climb the steeper ascent of the Miette. At the foot of the narrow valley they could see the racing green flood of the river, broken here and there by white rapids, on its way to the valley of the Athabasca, whose rift inthe hills they now lost as they continued their ascent.
Late in that afternoon they found good camping-ground by the side of a brawling little mountain stream. The boys were happy and light-hearted as they went about pitching their camp, for the spot was very lovely, the weather fine, and the going had not been so difficult as to tire them out. They plunged into the camp duties with such enthusiasm as to please Moise very much.
“Those boy, she’ll been all right, Monsieur,” said that worthy to Uncle Dick. “She’ll come through all right, all same trapper man.”
“Certainly,” said Uncle Dick; “unless we have some bad accident we’ll have a very fine journey all the way across.”
“And to-morrow she’ll caught some feesh?” inquired Moise. “Why not get some sheeps, too? Me, I am tired of those bacon all the time.”
“We’re still inside the Jasper Park Reservation,” replied Uncle Dick, “so we can’t shoot game, but to-morrow I’ll promise you some fish in camp. We’re now getting into the Rockies, and we’ll have fish every day now, if you like.”
The boys were up early, excited by the prospect of a day’s sport, and before the sun had more than shown above the hills they were out in the dewy grass and ready for breakfast. From their camp they could hear the rushing of the swift Miette below them. All around them lay a wonderful mountain view—Mount Geikie on one side, and off ahead, apparently closing the valley itself, three tall white peaks which were to rise before them for some time yet. The high, dry air of the mountains was most refreshing, and all were full of life and joy when their leader at length told them that they might start for the hidden lake back in the hills.
“How’d you happen to find that lake?” asked John. “It doesn’t seem to show anywhere in this valley.”
“We found it on the same principle as they found the Yellowhead Pass,” said Uncle Dick. “When we struck this little creek we knew it must come from somewhere, and as a matter of fact we were hungry for trout. So we followed the creek until we discovered the lake that we call Rainbow Lake, where we are going to-day. It’s bad walking along the creek, however, and we’ll find it much easier to go on up the valley a little way, and then cross over the high ridge to the right. It’s a climb of about a thousand feet, but the going is good, and it’s only a mile or so over to the lake in that way.”
Following their leader, they all started up the valley, each with his fishing-rod in hand. Soon they were making their way up the steep slope of the lofty ridge which lay between the valley and the hidden lake. From time to time they stopped to catch their breath, and at such times sat looking with wonder at the great mountain prospect which rose before them as they climbed.
“It certainly seems as though we were the first to be here,” said Jesse. “You can’t see the track of anybody in here.”
“No,” said Uncle Dick, “no tin cans justyet, and we might as well call ourselves the first, because we’re traveling precisely as the first men did who came through here. But I would like to ask you whether you discovered anything this morning out of the way.”
John and Jesse could not think of anything, but Rob hesitated. “I’ll tell you what,” said he, “it seems to me there must have been more than one trail up this valley. At least, I’ve seen two this morning.”
“Precisely. The main trail ran lower down, below our camp. The other trail which you noticed cut across a low place in this ridge back of us. Now that trail runs right along the side of our little lake over yonder. It passes back above that lake and heads off into the mountains. It’s as deep and broad as the other trail, but nobody seems to know anything about it. It seems to strike in for the mountains somewhere north of Yellowhead Pass. But where does it go? No one can tell you. Is there another pass in there, north of Yellowhead? No one can answer that. Perhaps the two trails meet somewhere between here and the Yellowhead; but if so, no one has found where. That’s a mystery,isn’t it? Some day, if I ever have time, I’m going to follow out that trail and see where it goes.
“But come on,” he concluded; “we’ll go on over the ridge and see the trail itself by the side of the lake.”
They rose now and pushed on up to the top of their steep climb, and soon passed into the dense growth of small pines which covered it. Their leader pushed on ahead, calling to them to follow; and, although the going was very difficult on account of burned timber and tangled undergrowth, they passed on rapidly down the farther slope, until presently they broke from the cover and stood at the edge of the beautiful little mountain lake which lay green and mirrorlike, a mile or so in extent, surrounded closely on all sides by the great mountain walls.
“Well,” said John, “it’s a beauty, sure enough.”
“It certainly is,” said Jesse, “and no tin cans of worm fishermen anywhere along here, either. It looks fishy, too.”
“It certainly is fishy,” smiled Uncle Dick; “or it was last year, when I was in here. The trout don’t run so very large, but theystrike well and they are mighty good to eat.”
“What’s this old hump we’re on?” inquired Jesse, looking down curiously at his feet. They were standing on a rude pile of poles and sticks which extended well out into the lake.
“Guess,” said Uncle Dick.
“I know,” said Rob at once—“beaver!”
“Right. It’s one of the biggest beaver-houses I ever saw in my life. You’ll find beaver sign all around this lake, but I suppose they caught the last one—maybe old Swift could tell who got him, or some of his Indian friends. So all we’ll use the old beaver-house for is as a kind of pier to stand on while we fish—the trees come so close to the lake that it is hard to get a back-cast here.”
“Well,” said Jesse, “over there to the end of the lake is a sort of point that runs out in—where it is rocky, with little trees and grass.”
“A splendid place to fish, too,” said his uncle. “Now if you and John want to go around there, Rob and I will stay here and try it. But you’ll have to be careful in crossing that marsh at the head of the lake. That’s a beaver marsh—and just to showyou how old our trail is that I was mentioning, you will probably find the marsh was made later than the trail was. But you can follow it along the edge of the lake for quite a ways. It’s all full of bogs and beaver-dams farther up the valley, beyond the lake.”
“Come on, Jess,” said John, “and we’ll go over there where we can get out a good long line.”
These boys were all of them fearless, from their outdoor training in their Alaskan home, so without hesitation the two younger members of the party started out alone and presently, after some running and splashing across the wet marsh, they reached the rocky point which they had mentioned.
“My, but this is a pretty lake!” said Jesse, standing for a time admiring the beautiful sheet of water that lay before them.
“It certainly is all alone,” said John. “I saw a trail back in there which I’ll bet was made by caribou. And there’s beaver in here yet, I’m sure.”
“Yes, and trout,” exclaimed Jesse. “Look at that fellow rise! We’ll get some sure. What fly are you going to use, John?”
“Let’s try the Coachman—I’ve noticed thatin the mountains trout nearly always run at something white, and the white wings look as good as anything to me.”
“All right,” said Jesse, and soon they were both casting as far as they could from the shore.
“Out there is a sort of reef or rocks,” said John; “I’ll bet there’s fish there. Now if I could—Aha!” he cried. “Got him! No!” he exclaimed, a minute later. “There’s two!”
As a matter of fact, John was a good caster for one of his age, and he had laid out thirty or forty feet of line when there came a silvery flash from below, followed by a second one, as two fine trout fastened at his two flies.
“I can hardly hold them, Jess,” said he, “but my! don’t they look fine down in that clear water? Rainbows, both of them, and about a pound each, I think.”
It was some time before John could control his two hard-fighting fish; but after a time, with Jesse assisting, he got them out on the hard gravel beach.
“Now you try out there, Jess,” said he. “Cast out there where the bottom looks black—that’s where they lie.”
“All right,” said Jesse; and, to be sure, hehad fished but a few moments before a splash and a tug told him that he too had hooked a fine trout.
“This is great, John, isn’t it?” exclaimed he. “And how they do fight! We never had any trout up in Alaska that fought this hard. Even the salmon we caught on Kadiak Island didn’t pull much harder.”
When finally they had landed Jesse’s trout they stood at the beach and, holding up their prizes, gave a shout, which was answered by Rob from the other side of the lake. He also held up something in his hand which was white and glistening.
“They’re having good luck, too,” said he. “Well, now let’s settle down and get a mess of trout, for I am like Moise, tired of eating bacon all the time.”
They did settle down, and, each finding a good casting-place on the rocky point, they so skilfully plied their rods that in a short time they had a dozen fine trout between them. As their companions seemed to have stopped fishing by this time, they also reeled up their lines and started back across the marsh.
“Pretty good luck, eh?” said Uncle Dick,as they admiringly held up their string of fish. “Well, Rob and I have got about as many here.”
“Didn’t they fight hard, though?” asked Rob. “I never saw fish of their size make such trouble.”
“The water is very cold,” said Uncle Dick, “and that makes the fish very firm and active. I don’t know just what they eat, but I suppose there must be some little minnows in the lake. Then there are some insects on warm days; and perhaps they get some kind of ground feed once in a while.”
“They’re all rainbows, aren’t they?” said Rob. “As near as I can tell, they look like the rainbows on the Pacific slope. How did they get over here?”
“How did they get into any of the streams in the United States east of the Rocky summit?” asked Uncle Dick. “Nobody can answer that. Of course, all the rainbows in the Eastern states are planted there. But when you get up on the marsh of the Yellowhead Pass, where the water doesn’t know which way to run, you will wonder if sometime in the past the Pacific trout didn’t swim into Atlantic waters—just as they are said to havedone at the Two-Ocean Pass, south of the Yellowstone Park. Nature has her own way of doing things, and, as she has had plenty of time, we don’t always know just how she did some things.”
“I wonder,” said Jesse, as he looked around him at the great mountains, “if these old mountains ever have a good time off by themselves in here. They’re awfully old, aren’t they?”
“I’m awfully hungry,” said John. “Let’s go on back to camp.”
Uncle Dick smiled and led the way into the thick underbrush once more. They had a stiff climb before they reached the summit of their ridge where the timber broke away and gave them once more their splendid view out over the Miette valley and the mountains beyond. They ran rapidly down this fair slope and soon were in camp, where Moise greeted them with much joy.
“By gar!” said he, “those boy, she’ll get feesh, eh? What I tole you, Monsieur Deek?”
The day was yet young, but at the earnest request of his young companions Uncle Dick consented to rest one day and allow thehorses to graze, as he had promised. Therefore the boys had plenty of time that afternoon to prowl around in the neighborhood of the camp: and that night Moise, having also had abundant time to prepare his supper, offered them boiled trout, fried trout, and griddled trout, until even John at least was obliged to cry “Enough.”
It seemed to our Young Alaskans that Uncle Dick was nothing if not a hard taskmaster on the trail, for before the sun was up he was calling them out of their tents.
“Come now,” he warned them; “get out of those blankets at once! You’ve had a good day’s fishing, and now we’ll have to make a good day’s travel to pay up for it.”
Tired from their tramp of the day before, they all groaned protestingly; but Moise also called out from his fireside, “Hello, young mans! Suppose you’ll got up and eat some more trout, eh?”
“I certainly am hungry,” said John, and in their laughter at John’s unfailing appetite Rob and Jesse found themselves awake.
“Well, get out and get the horses, young men,” said Uncle Dick, relentlessly, “and then back to breakfast while I make up the packs.You see those three peaks on ahead? Well, we’ve got to get on the other side of them just as soon as we can. We can’t afford to lose a minute at this time of the year, for the fords will be bad enough even as they are.”
When at length their little pack-train began its slow course up the valley of the Miette all the boys turned and looked behind them to say good-by to the great valley of the Athabasca, which had served them as a highway for so long. The excitement of their new adventures, however, kept them keyed up, and certainly the dangers of the trail were not inconsiderable.
The old pass of the traders now swung away from the river, now crossed high ridges, only to drop again into boggy creek-bottoms and side-hill muskeg. Several times they had to ford the Miette, no easy thing, and at other times small streams which came down from the mountains at the right also had to be crossed. The three white peaks ahead still served as landmarks, but it was not until the second day that they reached the flat prairie through which the Miette River now wandered, broken into many little channels. Even here they found the going very soft anddifficult, now impeded by down timber, or again by a rushing torrent where the ford had to be selected with the utmost care. John and Jesse were tired by the end of their second day of this hard travel; and even Rob, muddy to his knees from wading bogs, was glad when at last their leader halted.
“It’s all right, boys,” said Uncle Dick. “I don’t want to drive you too hard, but I know perfectly well that every day counts with us now. We’ve got bad country on ahead as well as bad country behind us, and we must make it through before the spring floods are on. I suppose you’ve noticed that all the creeks are worse late in the afternoon? But I’ve waited at some of these little streams four and five days without being able to ford at all.”
They pushed on up through the open prairie-like country which now lay on about them, continually a panorama of mountains unfolding before them, all strange to them. An angle of the trail seemed to shut off all the valley of the Miette from them, so that they seemed in a different world.
“When will we get to the summit, Uncle Dick?” inquired Rob, after a time, as theyhalted at the edge of a wide green valley in whose deep grass for a time no running stream could be seen.
Uncle Dick smiled. “We’re at the summit now, you might say,” said he. “I knew you couldn’t tell when we got there.”
“This isn’t like the Peace River Pass at all,” said Rob; “it doesn’t look like a pass at all, but more like a flat prairie country.”
“Precisely—they call that the Dominion Prairie over yonder. But a mountain pass is rarely what it is supposed to be. Take the Tennessee Pass, for instance, down in Colorado; you’ll see a wide meadow with a dull creek running through it, something like this. The deep gorges and cañons are lower down in the mountains, not on top of them. What you see before you is the old Yellowhead Pass, and we are now almost at the highest point. The grade rises very little from here to the actual summit.”
“Well,” said John, “I never thought I’d be in a place like this in all my life. It seems a long way off from everywhere.”
“It comes near being the wilderness,” said his uncle. “Far north of us is the Peace River Pass, which you made last year. Justthe other way is the Athabasca Pass. Yonder, south of us, is Mount Geikie, between us and the Athabasca. Over west is Mount Fitzwilliam, and across the lake from him is Yellowhead Mountain; that’s the one the early traders through here used to call Mount Bingley. And on every side of us there is all kinds of country where, so far as any one knows, no white man’s foot has ever trod. Northwest of the pass and north of here we don’t pretend to map the country, and not one mountain in ten has got its name yet. In short, we are in the wilderness here about as much as you’re apt to be in many a long day’s journey, no matter where you go.”
“And yet right out in there it looks like a farm meadow,” said Jesse, pointing to the green flats broken with willows and poplar mottes here and there.
“Beaver out there one time, no doubt,” said Uncle Dick, “and maybe even now; but sometime there will be farms in here. At least, this is the top of the mountains and the lowest pass in all the Rockies. I’ll show you the actual summit when we come to it.”
They sat for some time looking about them and allowing their horses to graze. All atonce Rob broke the silence. “I’m going to be an engineer sometime,” said he. “I believe I’d like to do locating work in wild countries like this.”
“As for me,” said John, “I believe I’d rather stay in the office and make maps and things.”
“And I’m going to be a merchant,” said Jesse, “and I’ll ship things over your road when you get it built.”
“That reminds me,” said Uncle Dick, “you young men have not brought up your own map of the country we have crossed over. You are only using the maps that you could make or buy ready-made. Now, John, suppose you be official map-maker for the party and take your notes from day to day.”
“Pshaw! What do I know about making a map?” said John.
“Well, you can do as well as an Indian; and let me tell you an Indian can make a pretty good map with nothing but a stick and a smooth place in the sand.”
“How could I tell how far it was from one place to another?” inquired the newly elected map-maker.
“We can’t tell so very well, as we are nowtraveling. Of course, when engineers go out in a party they measure every mile by a chain, and know just how far they have come. The old trappers used to allow three or four miles an hour for their pack-horses in a country like this. Sometimes an engineer carries what is called a pedometer in his pocket, which tells him how far he has walked. Maybe you did not know that instrument was invented by Thomas Jefferson over a hundred years ago? Suppose you allow twenty or twenty-five miles a day, at most, for our travel. Now you have your compass, and, though you don’t try to put in every little bend in the trail or in the valley, you take the courses of all the long valleys and the general directions from one peak to another. Thus between your compass and your pack-train you will have to do the best you can with your map, because we have no scientific instruments to help us.”
“All right,” said John. “I’ll make my notes the best I can, and every night we’ll try to bring up the map. It’ll be fine to have when we get back home to show our folks, won’t it?”
“Well, I’ll help you all I can,” said UncleDick. “You remember the two big streams that run into the Miette back of us, where we made the fourth ford of the Miette? Well, that is just about eight miles from the Athabasca River. If we had not lost so much time with the horses bogging down we ought to have been in here yesterday instead of to-day, for now we are at Deer Creek, and that is only fourteen miles in a straight line from the Athabasca. This prairie between the forks of Deer Creek is called Dominion Prairie. The valley is soft and marshy for a couple of miles beyond the Dominion Prairie, as you can see from the way the trail runs over the edges of the ridges. The grade is a little bit steeper for three miles west of Dominion Prairie. The width of the marsh or meadow in here is about half a mile to a mile. At the last crossing of the Miette, three miles west of Dominion Prairie, the Miette is just a little stream with many branches. Now note very well the last one of these branches. That points out the true summit of Yellowhead Pass. Perhaps this very summer, if there is high water, some of the drainage water will run west from this marsh into the Fraser River, while some of itwill run east into the Miette and the Athabasca.”
“Then how far have we come up the Miette all together, Uncle Dick?” inquired John, his pencil in his mouth.
“Only about seventeen miles, but they have been rather hard ones. We have climbed about four hundred feet all together in total elevation, but a great deal more than that if we count all the little ridges we have crossed over. Now do you think you can get your directions from your compass and make your map from these figures?”
“I’ll try my best,” said John.
“Well, come ahead,” said Uncle Dick. “It isn’t far from here to the place we call the top of the hill.”
Surely enough, after a little more scrambling progress they pulled up beside a little square stump, or post, to which Uncle Dick pointed silently.
“I helped set that,” said he, “and, believe me, it meant some work. Well, do you see the figures on it? Three, seven, two, o—that’s how high we are above the level of the sea, and this is the lowest of all the mountain passes. It is a little over three thousand fivehundred miles between the Atlantic and the Pacific on this railway line, and this is the highest point on the whole line. Believe me, my young friends, you are at rather an interesting place right here—so interesting that if you don’t mind we’ll forget the short day’s travel for the last few days and make our day’s camp right here.”
Nothing loath, the entire party assisted in hunting out a suitable camping-spot not far from the actual summit where grass and water were to be found and a fairly good place for the tents.
John was much excited with his first attempt at map-making; and all the boys, impressed by the interesting nature of the place in which they were encamped, plied the leader of the party with many questions.
“I was thinking,” said Rob, “that the Yellowhead Pass was one of the earliest ones found, but 1826 is not so very early, is it?”
“Not so very,” said Uncle Dick. “I told you how this pass came to be discovered. Well, as a matter of fact, none of these routes across the mountains were so useful after the big fur companies had established posts on the Pacific coast. This pass was used more thanthe Peace River Pass. The traders used to bring a good deal of buckskin through here, and sometimes this was called the Leather Pass.
“Now you boys are going down the Columbia River on the latter part of your journey. You heard Swift say he came up the Columbia. Well, that was part of the old highway between the two oceans. In 1814 a canoe brigade started up the Columbia from the Pacific coast. Gabriel Franchere was along, and he made a journal about the trip. So we know that as early as May 16 in 1814 they had got to the Athabasca River. He mentions the Roche Miette, which we dodged by fording the river, and he himself forded in order to escape climbing it. He speaks of the Rocky Mountain House, but that was the same as Jasper House. You must remember, however, he did not cross here, but went down the Athabasca south of that big mountain you see over yonder, Mt. Geikie.
“Sir George Simpson and a party of traders came up the Columbia in 1826, but they also crossed the Athabasca Pass. They named a little lake in there the Committee’s Punch Bowl, and it has that name to this day.They stopped at Henry House, and at Jasper House, lower down at Brule Lake. The first record of which I know of a crossing made here where we are was by George McDougall in 1827. He mentions the Tête Jaune Cache as being ‘freshly discovered.’ I presume it was found a year before.
“A great many men crossed the Athabasca Pass, but not so many took the Yellowhead route. Even as late as 1839 the traders preferred the Athabasca Pass to this one. Father de Smet took that route in 1846. I shouldn’t wonder if the mountain called Pyramid Mountain was the one originally called De Smet Mountain.
“There was an artist by the name of Paul Kane that crossed west by the Athabasca Pass in 1846. In those days the Yellowhead Pass was little used. It came into most prominence after the Cariboo Diggings discoveries of gold. Parties came out going east as early as 1860 from the gold-mines. About that time Sir James Hector was examining all this country, and he named a lot of it, too. More than a hundred and fifty miners went west through this pass in ’62 bound for the Cariboo Diggings. They didn’t stop to nameanything, you may be sure, for they were in a hurry to get to the gold; but in 1863 Viscount Milton and Dr. Cheadle went across here and wrote a book about it which is very useful even yet. They named a lot of mountains. I don’t know who named that wonderful peak Mount Robson, but it was named after Premier Robson of British Columbia in 1865.
“Nobody knows much about this country, for the early travelers did not make many maps or journals. But about 1872 they began to explore this country with a view to railway explorations, and from that time on it has been better known and more visited, although really very few persons have ever been right where we are sitting now.”