Sault Saint Marie, August, 1846.
Generally speaking, the voyager of the northwest is the shipping
merchant of the wilderness; for his principal business is to transport
furs from the interior county to the frontier settlements, or
merchandise from the settlements into the interior. By birth he is half
French, and half Indian, but in habits, manners, and education, a
full-blooded Indian. Like the Indian, his home is where he may happen to
pitch his tent. His usual possessions consist of a good supply of bark
canoes, and he ever holds himself in readiness, either to transport
goods, or act as a guide and companion to the traveller who may require
his services. His dress is something less than half civilized, and his
knowledge of the world equal to that of his savage brethren;—amiable
even to a fault, but intemperate and without a religion.
It was in a company of some fifty men, composed of voyagers and Indians,
and commanded by Allen Morrison, that I performed my pilgrimage to the
head waters of the Mississippi, and around the shores of Lake Superior.
There were ten canoes in our _fleet_; the largest (about forty feet
long) was occupied by Morrison, myself, and five picked men. He was on
his annual visit to the north, to attend the Indian payments, and the
great majority of the Indians travelled under his flag, partly for the
fun of it, but principally for the purpose of drawing upon him for food,
which he always dealt out to them with a liberal hand.
Our time of starting was at day-break, and having paddled three pipes,
(about eighteen miles,) we generally landed upon a pleasant sand-bar, or
in some leafy nook, and spent an hour or more in cooking and eating our
breakfast. A “pipe,” I should here remark, is what a sporting gentleman
might call a _heat_ of six miles, at the end of which our oarsmen would
rest themselves, while enjoying a smoke of ten minutes. Our principal
food consisted of pork and dough, which were invariably boiled in a tin
kettle. Whenever we happened to have any game, or fish, this rarity was
also placed in the same kettle with the pork and dough, all of which we
disposed of with the assistance of our fingers and a large knife. As Mr.
Morrison and myself were acknowledged to belong to the “first class” of
people, we were privileged to use (without giving offence) a small
quantity of tea and maple sugar, which we had brought with us. Simple as
was our food, it was as wholesome, and at that time as palatable to my
taste, as any that I could have obtained from Delmonico’s. I was in the
habit of devouring, and digesting too, long strings of heavy dough,
which would, under ordinary circumstances, have actually destroyed me.
Our meals, however, were always looked forward to with unalloyed
pleasure, and were considered a luxury to be enjoyed only twice during
the day,—breakfasting, as we did, at ten, and supping soon after
pitching our tents in the evening. Fifty miles per day, when there were
no portages or rapids to pass, were generally considered a good run. The
two or three hours before bedtime I generally spent in conversation with
Morrison, the voyagers, or Indians,—and usually retired with my head as
full of wilderness images, as a bee-hive at swarming time. The only
trouble with my ideas was, that they created a great excitement, but
would not swarm according to my will. My couch (a part of which was
appropriated to Morrison) consisted of a _soft spot of ground_, while my
gun and pouch answered for a pillow, and my only covering was a large
green blanket. When the weather was clear we did not pitch our tent, but
slept under a tree, or used the star-studded sky for a canopy. After
such a night, I have awakened, and found my blanket actually white with
frozen dew.
The pleasures of this mode of travelling are manifold. The scenery that
you pass through is of the wildest character, the people you meet with
“are so queer,” and there is a charm in the very mystery and sense of
danger which attend the windings of a wilderness stream, or the
promontories and bays of a lonely lake. The only _apparent_ miseries
which befall the voyager, are protracted rain storms and musketoes. On
one occasion, while coasting Lake Superior, we were overtaken by a
sudden storm, but succeeded in reaching the shore (about a mile off)
without being swamped. It was about sundown, and owing to the wind and
rain we were unable to make a fire, and consequently went supperless to
bed. For my part, I looked upon our condition as perfectly wretched, and
cared little what became of me. We had landed on a fine beach, where we
managed to pitch our tents, and there threw ourselves down for the
purpose of sleeping; and though wet to the skin, I never slept more
sweetly in my life,—for the roaring of Lake Superior in a storm is a
most glorious lullaby. On the following morning, I was awakened _by the
surf washing against my feet_.
As to musketoes, had I not taken with me a quantity of bar netting, I
positively believe the creatures would have eaten me. But with this
covering fastened to four sticks, I could defy the wretches, and I was
generally lulled to sleep by their annoying hum, which sometimes seemed
to me like the howls of infernal spirits.
The only animals which ever had the daring to annoy us, were a species
of gray wolf, which sometimes succeeded in robbing us of our food. On
one occasion, I remember we had a short allowance of pork, and for the
purpose of protecting it with greater care than usual, Mr. Morrison had
placed it in a bag under his head, when he went to sleep.
“At midnight, in his un-guarded tent,” his head was suddenly thumped
against the ground, and by the time he was fairly awakened, he had the
peculiar satisfaction of seeing _a wolf, on the keen run, with the bag
of pork_.
The more prominent incidents connected with canoe voyaging, which
relieve the monotony of a long voyage, are the making of portages, the
passing of rapids, and the singing of songs.
Portages are made for the purpose of getting below or above those falls
which could not be passed in any other manner, also for the purpose of
going from one stream to another, and sometimes they are made to shorten
the distance to be travelled, by crossing points or peninsulas. It was
invariably the habit of our voyagers to run a race, when they came in
sight of a portage, and they did not consider it ended until their
canoes were launched in the water at the farther end of the portage. The
consequence of this singular custom is, that making a portage is
exceedingly exciting business. Two men will take the largest canoe upon
their shoulders, and cross the portage on a regular trot, stopping,
however, to rest themselves and enjoy a pipe at the end of every
thousand paces. At landing the canoe is not allowed to touch the bottom,
but you must get out into the water and unload it while yet afloat. The
loads of furs or merchandise which these men sometimes carry are
enormous. I have seen a man convey three hundred and fifty pounds, up a
steep hill, two hundred feet high, and that too without once stopping to
rest; and I _heard_ the story, that there were three voyagers in the
northern wilderness, who have been known, unitedly, to carry _twenty-one
hundred pounds_ over a portage of eight miles. In making portages it is
occasionally necessary to traverse tamarack swamps, and the most
horrible one in the northwest lies midway between Sandy Lake and the
Saint Louis River. It is about nine miles in length, and a thousand fold
more difficult to pass than the Slough of Despond, created by the mind
of Bunyan. In crossing it, you sometimes have to wade in pure mud up to
your middle; and on this route I counted the wrecks of no less than
seven canoes, which had been abandoned by the over-fatigued voyagers;
and I also noticed the grave of an unknown foreigner, who had died in
this horrible place, from the effect of a poisonous root which he had
eaten. Here, in this gloomy solitude had he breathed his last, with none
to cool his feverish brow but a poor ignorant Indian;—alone and more
than a thousand leagues from his kindred and home.
But the excitement of passing the rapids of a large river like the
Mississippi, exceeds that of any other operation connected with
voyaging. The strength, dexterity, and courage required and employed for
passing them, are truly astonishing. I have been in a canoe, and on
account of a stone or floating tree have seen it held for some minutes
perfectly still, when midway up a foaming rapid, merely by two men with
long poles, standing at each end of the canoe. If, at such a time, one
of the poles should slip, or one of the men make a wrong move, the canoe
would be taken by the water and dashed to pieces either on the
surrounding rocks, or the still more rocky shore. It is, however, much
more dangerous to descend than to ascend a rapid; for it is then almost
impossible to stop a canoe, when under full headway, and if you happen
to strike a rock, you will find your _wafery_ canoe no better than a
sieve. To pass down the falls of Saint Mary, with an experienced
voyager, is one of the most interesting, yet thrilling and fearful feats
that can be performed. There are rapids and falls, however, which cannot
at any time be passed with safety, and my escape from one of these was
as follows:
In making the Grand Portage in the Saint Louis, owing to the rugged
character of the country, it is necessary to land your canoes only a few
yards above a succession of falls that descend into a pool thirty feet
below. Owing to the thoughtlessness of our pilot, our canoe was suffered
to go nearer than was customary, when Morrison uttered a most fearful
shout, and said that we were within the charmed circle, and unless we
strained every nerve to the utmost, we must surely perish. By that time
we were on the very verge of the cataract, but we sprang to the paddles
with all our might, and “the boldest held his breath.” The agony that we
suffered cannot be expressed;—it lasted, however, only for a moment; we
soon succeeded in reaching the shore, but our brows were heavily beaded,
and we threw ourselves upon the green-sward, actually trembling with
excessive feebleness. As may be supposed, the remainder of that day was
solemnly spent, for our minds were continually haunted by the grim
visage of death.
One of the more prominent traits of the voyager’s character is his
cheerfulness. Gay and mirthful by nature and habit—patient and enduring
at labor—seeking neither ease nor wealth—and, though fond of his family,
it is his custom to let the morrow take care of itself, while he will
endeavor to improve the present hour as he thinks proper. He belongs to
a race which is entirely distinct from all others on the globe. It is a
singular fact, that when most troubled, or when enduring the severest
hardships, they will joke, laugh, and sing their uncouth songs—the
majority of which are extemporaneous, appropriate to the occasion, and
generally of a rude and licentious character. They are invariably sung
in Canadian French, and the following literal translations may be looked
upon as favorable specimens, which I first heard on the Mississippi.
_The Starting._
Home, we are leaving thee!
River, on thy bosom to sail!
Cheerful let our hearts be,
Supported by hope.
Away, then, away! Away, then, away!
Scenes of beauty will we pass;
Scenes that make us love our life;
Game of the wilderness our food,
And our slumbers guarded by the stars.
Away, then, away! Away, then, away!
Home, we are leaving thee!
River, on thy bosom to sail!
Cheerful let our hearts be,
Supported by hope.
Away, then, away! Away, then, away!
_The Way._
The river that we sail
Is the pride of our country;
The women that we love
Are the fairest upon earth.
Row, then, row! Row, then, row!
Toilsome is our way,
Dangerous is our way;
But what matter?
Our trust is in Providence.
Row, then, row! Row, then, row.
The river that we sail
Is the pride of our country;
The women that we love
Are the fairest upon earth.
Row, then, row! Row, then, row!
_The Return._
Joy, joy, our home is not far;
Love-smiles are waiting us;
And we shall be happy!
Happy, happy, happy.
Bend to your oars! Bend to your oars!
Loud, loud, let our voices be,
Echoing our gratitude;
Many leagues have we voyaged,
But soon shall we be at rest.
Bend to your oars, brothers! Bend to your oars!
Joy, joy, our home is in sight;
Love-smiles are waiting us,
And we shall be happy!
Happy, happy, happy!
Home! Bend to your oars! Bend to your oars!
The same canoe in which I explored the upper thousand miles of the
Mississippi, also bore me in safety around the shores of Lake Superior:
first, eastward, along the northern shore, then back again to Fon du
Lac, and afterwards along the southern shore to the Apostle Islands.
Delighted as I was with my canoe wanderings on the head waters of the
Mighty River, I am constrained to yield the palm to Superior. For weeks
did I explore its picturesque bays and extended sweeps of shore,
following the promptings of my wayward will, and storing my mind with
its unnumbered legends, gathered from the lips of my Indian companions.
I seldom took a paddle in hand, unless it were for exercise, but usually
employed my time, when the weather was calm, by reading or sketching;
and often, when the sunshine made me sleepy, have been lulled into a
dreamy repose, by the measured music of the oars, mingled with the wild
chanting of the voyagers. It was the custom with my companions, whenever
they caught me in those lucid intervals of joy, to startle me, by a
piercing whoop, which invariably announced a race upon the watery plain.
And then, indeed, was it a most exciting spectacle to witness the canoes
gliding to the destined goal, almost as swift as “an arrow from a
shivering bow.” Whenever I expressed such a desire, the party came to a
halt upon the shore, and then it was that I mounted the headlands to
gather berries, or obtain a bird’s-eye prospect of the Lake. At times,
the roar of a distant waterfall would fall upon the ear, and I was wont
to beg an hour’s furlough for the purpose of catching a dozen or two of
trout in the waters of a nameless stream. But my chief employment,
whenever we landed, was to gather agates and pebbles of loveliest hue.
In many places the gravelly shores were completely covered with them;
and often, when attracted by one of a particular color or an unusual
size, and when deceived by the marvellous transparency of the water,
have I found myself far beyond my depth in the sleeping waves, which
event was about the only one that could bring me to my senses. Many a
time and oft, like a very child, have I rambled along the beach for
miles, returning to my canoe completely loaded down with my treasures,
which I sometimes carried with me on my journey for a hundred miles, and
then threw away to make room for others which I thought still more
beautiful. Delightful, indeed, were those summer days on the bosom of
that lonely lake. They are associated with my treasured dreams, and I
cannot but sigh when I remember that I may never be privileged to enjoy
the like again. My reason would not stop the tide of civilization which
is sweeping to the remote north and the far Pacific, but if the wishes
of my heart were realized, none but the true worshippers of nature
should ever be permitted to mar the solitude of the wilderness with the
song of Mammon.
But, if that were possible, the nights that I spent upon the shores of
the great northern lake have made a deeper impression on my heart than
those summer days. Never before had the ocean of the sky and the starry
world appeared so supremely brilliant. Seldom would my restless spirit
allow me an unbroken slumber from nightfall until dawn, and I was often
in a wakeful mood, even after the camp fires were entirely out, and my
rude companions were in the embrace of slumber. One of those wonderful
nights I never can forget. I had risen from my couch upon the sand, and
after walking nearly half a mile along the beach, I passed a certain
point, and found myself in full view of the following scene, of which I
was the solitary spectator. Black, and death-like in its repose, was the
apparently illimitable plain of water; above its outline, on the left,
were the strangely beautiful northern lights, shooting their rays to the
very zenith; on the right was a clear full moon, making a silvery
pathway from my feet to the horizon; and before, around, and above me,
floating in the deep cerulean, were the unnumbered and mysterious
stars—the jewels of the Most High. The only sound that fell upon my ear
was the occasional splash of a tiny wave, as it melted upon the shore.
Long and intently did I gaze upon the scene, until, in a kind of
blissful frenzy, or bewilderment, I staggered a few paces, fell upon the
earth, almost insensible, and was soon in a deep sleep. The first gleam
of sunshine roused me from slumber, and I returned to our encampment
perfectly well in body, but in a thoughtful and unhappy mood. In fact,
it seemed to me that I had visited the spiritual world, and I wished to
return hence once more. My friends had not wondered at my absence, when
they awoke, for they supposed that I had gone merely to take my
accustomed bath. But enough, enough. The voyager’s life is indeed a
romantic one, but it will not do for me to talk about it for ever, and I
therefore bring my description to a close.