On to White-fish Lake--Beautiful country--Indian camp--Strike
northward into forest land.
We remained over Sunday at the fort. Father held service, and Monday
morning saw us away, mounted on fresh horses, which had been provided
by the gentlemen in charge of the fort.
Our course was now more northerly, and the country increased in
interest as we travelled. Away in the distance to the south and
west, we caught glimpses of the winding valley of the big river.
Around us, on every hand, were beautiful lakes with lawn-like banks;
gems of prairie with beautiful clumps of spruce and poplar, and birch
and willow artistically intersecting them; great hills, and broad
valleys, and gently rippling streams; a cloudless sky; an atmosphere
surcharged with ozone above us; good horses under us; father, and
guide, and myself all thoroughly optimistic in thought and outlook.
No wonder that I, in the full tide of strength, and health, and
youth, was fairly intoxicated amid such surroundings! Father was
only a little more sober or a little less "drunk" than I was.
We were travelling steadily and fast, and amused ourselves by
locating farms and homesteads, and villages and centres of
population, and running imaginary railroads through the country as we
trotted and cantered from early morn until night, through those
never-to-be-forgotten lovely August days of 1862.
For food we had pemmican and dried meat.
Occasionally we shot chickens or ducks, but the distance we had to
travel and the limited time father had at his command forbade us
doing much shooting while pemmican or dried meat lasted.
We rode over the Two Hills; we galloped along the sandy beach of
Sandy Lake; we saw Frog Lake away to the right; a few miles farther
on we crossed Frog Creek, then Moose Creek, then the Dog Rump.
Here I missed my first bear. He was down in a deep ravine, almost
under me, and, as is usual with a "tenderfoot" at such a time, I shot
over him, and as my gun was a single-barrelled muzzle-loader, the
bear had plenty of time to disappear into the thick brush down the
ravine. We had no time to follow him.
On we went, over hills and across broad plains, thickly swarded with
pea-vine and rich grasses, passing Egg Lake to the left.
Early the third day we came to Saddle Lake, on the north side of
which we found a camp of Cree Indians.
Some of these belonged to White-fish Lake, and were nominally
Christians. Others were wood and plain Indians, still pagan, and
without any settled home, but all glad to see us. Most of the
leading men and hunters had gone across the river and out on to the
plains for a hunt.
From these people we learned that Mr. Steinhauer and his people,
still at the Mission, contemplated a trip out to the plains for
provisions, and that they and these were but awaiting the return of
the hunters to this camp to decide from the report they would bring
as to the direction of their trip. This determined father to hurry
on to White-fish Lake, and catch Mr. Steinhauer at home if possible.
We spent about three hours with this camp, and had lunch in one of
the tents, where we were the guests of Mrs. Hawke, who very kindly
loaned father a fresh horse, a fine animal, to take him to the
Mission.
Father held a short service, and late in the afternoon we started on,
two of the patriarchs of the camp accompanying us to where we stopped
for the night.
Many were the questions they asked, long was the talk father held
with them, and it was late when we rolled into our blankets and went
to sleep. Early next morning we parted company with our venerable
friends and continued our journey.
Our course lay almost north-east. We were entering the fringe of the
forest lands of the north country. We were going farther out of the
course of the war-paths of the plain Indians. The more bush and
forest, the less danger from these lawless fellows.
A plain Indian dreads a forest, does not feel at home in it, and this
was the reason for the selection of White-fish Lake as a mission
centre, a place where the incessant watchfulness and unrest (the
prevailing condition of the times) on the plains south of the
Saskatchewan might, for the time, at least, be largely laid aside.
On into this thickening forest-land we trotted, a narrow bridle-path
our road.
Water became abundant, and mud correspondingly so.
Within a few miles of the Mission we came to the thickly wooded banks
of a stream where we had to swim our horses. Here we met some
Indians who were starting out on a moose hunt, and, to my
astonishment, one of them seemed to be speaking English--at least I
thought so. He was shouting "_Dam, dam,_" but like all men who
presume on a too hasty judgment, I was mistaken, for the old fellow
was only calling to his horse, "Tom, Tom," urging him to swim across
the stream. With his accent, "t" was "d."
Resaddling and galloping on, early in the afternoon we came to the
Mission, and found Mr. Steinhauer and family well; and as we had
heard at Saddle Lake, Mr. Steinhauer and people were making
preparations for a trip out to the plains for provisions.
As with everybody in the West in those days, their storehouse and
market was the buffalo, which, after all, was exceedingly precarious,
for pemmican, dried meat, or any kind of provision, and even fish,
were alike at a premium when we arrived at White-fish Lake, and it
behoved all parties, both residents and visitors, to move somewhere
very soon.