Scarcity of food--The winter packet--Start for Edmonton for the
eastern mails--A lonely journey--Arrive at Fort Edmonton--Start for
home--Camping in a storm--Improvising a "Berlin"--Old
Draffan--Sleeping on a dog-sled en route--A hearty welcome home.
That trip with dog-train was enough for Williston. He did not want
any more of such work, so I took an Indian boy who had joined our
party and started out again. Later on I traded Williston to William
for Neils, the Norwegian, who made several trips with me. During
that winter the Indian camps at which we could obtain provisions were
never nearer than about 150 miles, and were sometimes much farther
away; and as we intended building the next spring on the site of the
new mission, at the river, we had to make every effort to secure a
sufficiency of provisions. When we had neither flour nor vegetables,
animal food alone went fast. Then, besides the hauling of food long
distances, we had to transport lumber and timber and other material
from where we were living to the new and permanent site on the river
bank, which was some thirty-five miles distant. Sometimes with the
dog-teams 'we took down a load' of lumber to the river and returned
the same day, thus making the seventy-mile round trip in the day.
The horses would take from three to four days for the same trip.
It was some time in February that, having started from our first
encampment on the way out, long before daylight one dark morning we
saw the glimmer of a camp-fire, and wondered who it could be; but as
the light was right on our road, we found when we came up that it was
the one winter packet from the east on its way to Edmonton. Mr.
Hardisty was in charge of the party, and the reason they had stopped
and made a fire on our road--which they should have crossed at right
angles--was that through the darkness of the winter morning they had
missed their way, and were waiting for daylight to show them their
course.
Mr. Hardisty gave me some items of news from the outside world, and
also told me, what was tantalizing in the extreme, that there were
letters for Mr. Woolsey and myself in the packet, but that this was
sealed and could not be opened until they reached Edmonton. How I
did long for those letters from home and the loved ones there. But
longing would not open the sealed packet box.
With the first glimmering of day we parted, the winter packet to
continue its way through the deep snow and uncertain trail on to
Edmonton; we to make our way out to the Indian camps. These were
continually moving with the buffalo, so that the place that knew them
to-day might possibly never know them again forever, so big is this
vast country, and so migratory in their habits are its peoples.
In due time we found one of the camps, and trading our loads made for
home; but as this was the stormy and windy season of the year, we
made slow progress. Finally we reached Mr. Woolsey, and I importuned
him to let me go for our mail, which he finally consented to do, but
said he could not spare anyone to go with me. However, I was so
eager that I resolved to go alone. My plan was to send Neils and the
boy Ephraim out for more provisions, and I would accompany them as
far as the spot where we had seen the packet men some two weeks
before. Then I should take their trail, and try and keep it to
Edmonton. Mr. Woolsey very reluctantly assented to all this.
About three o'clock one dark, cloudy morning found us at the "parting
of the ways," and bidding Neils and Ephraim good-bye, I put on my
snowshoes and took the now more or less covered trail of the packet
men. I had about 250 pounds of a load, consisting of ammunition and
tobacco that Mr. Woolsey had borrowed from the Hudson's Bay Company,
and was now returning by me. I had great faith in my lead dog
"Draffan," a fine big black fellow, whose sleek coat had given him
his name, "Fine-cloth." In fact, all four of my dogs were noble
fellows, and away we went, Draffan smelling and feeling out the very
indistinct trail, and I running behind on snowshoes. It was my first
trip alone, and I could not repress a feeling of isolation: but then
the object, "letters from home," was constantly in my thoughts and
spurring me on. By daylight I came to the snow-drifted dinner camp
of the packet men; by half-past ten I was at their night encampment.
I am doing well, thought I, and here I unharnessed my dogs and made a
fire, and by melting snow boiled my kettle, but did not feel very
much like eating or drinking. The whole thing was inexpressibly
lonely. The experience was a new one and not too pleasant.
My dogs hardly had time to roll and shake themselves from the long
run of the morning when I was sticking their heads into the collars
again, and away jumped the faithful brutes, Draffan scenting and
feeling the much-blinded road. On we went, the dogs with their load,
and I on my light snowshoes, keeping up a smart run across plains,
through bluffs of willow and poplar, over hills and along valleys.
About the middle of the afternoon, or later, I noticed the snow was
lessening, and presently I took off my snowshoes, and also my coat,
and tying these on the sled, started up the dogs with a sudden sharp
command, and away they jumped. We increased our speed, and went
flying westward toward the setting sun; for though I had never been
over this country before, I had an idea that Edmonton was about on
our course. On towards sundown I noticed a well-timbered range of
dark hills in the distance, and said to myself, "There is where we
must camp," and I could not help already feeling a premonition of
great loneliness coming over me.
On we sped, the dogs at a sharp trot, with an occasional run, and I
on what you might call two-thirds or three-fourths speed, when all of
a sudden we came into a well-beaten road, which converged into our
trail, and now, with the solid, smooth track under their feet, my
noble team fairly raced away, making my sledge swing in good shape.
Thinking to myself that I might catch up to or meet some party
travelling in this evidently well-frequented road, I put on my coat,
seated myself on the sled, and my hardy team went flying on the best
tracked road they had struck that winter. Presently we came to the
edge of a great hill, which I found to be but the beginning of a
large, deep valley. Hardly had I time to get astride the sled, and
with my feet brake or help to steer its course, when down, down,
down, at a dead hard run, went my dogs. Then over a sloping bottom,
and to my great astonishment out we came on the banks of a big river.
"What is this?" thought I; "surely I have missed my way." I had
never heard of a large stream emptying into the Saskatchewan from the
south side. While thus perplexed and anxious, my dogs took a short
jump over a cut bank, and I was landed, sled and dogs and all, on the
ice of this big river. Then I looked up westward, and to my surprise
saw in the waning light the wings or fans of the old wind-mill which
stood on the hill back of Fort Edmonton. I could hardly believe my
eyes, but on sped my eager dogs. Soon we were climbing the opposite
bank, and presently, just as the guard was about to shut the eastern
gate of the Fort, we dashed in and were at our journey's end.
"Where did you come from to-day, John?" asked my friend, Mr.
Hardisty. My reply was, "About fifteen miles north of where we saw
you the other morning." "No," said he; but nevertheless it was true.
They had travelled all that day after we had seen them, as they left
us at the first approach of daylight; then they had started long
before daylight the next morning, and it was evening when they
reached Edmonton; while I had done the same distance and fifteen
miles more--that is, I had made a good round hundred miles that day,
my first trip alone.
Right glad I was at being thus relieved from camping alone that
night, and with my letters all cheering, and the kind friends of the
place, I thoroughly enjoyed the hospitality of Old Fort Edmonton. It
was Friday night when I reached the Fort. Spending Saturday and
Sunday with the Hudson's Bay officers and men, I started on my return
trip Monday, about 10.30 a.m., and by night had made the camp where I
had lunched on the way out. To some extent I had got over the
shrinking from being alone, so I chopped and carried wood for my
camp, made myself as comfortable as I could, fed my dogs, and
listened to the chorus of wolves and coyotes as they howled dismally
around me. Then the wind got up, and with gusts of wild fury came
whistling through the trees which composed the little bluff in which
I was camped. Soon it began to drift, so I turned up my sled on its
edge to the windward, and stretching my feet to the fire, wrapped
myself in buffalo and blanket, and went to sleep.
When I awoke I jumped up and made a fire, and looking at my watch,
saw it was two o'clock. The wind had become a storm. I went out of
the woods to where I thought the trail should be, and felt for it
with my feet (for I had grown to have great faith in Draffan and his
wonderful instinct, and thought that if I could start him right he
would be likely to keep right), and there under the newly drifted
snow was the frozen track. I then went back to the camp and
harnessed my dogs, and as I had little or no load, I made an
improvised cariole, or what was termed a "Berlin," out of my wrapper
and sled lashings, and when ready drove out to where I had discovered
the track.
The storm was now raging, the night was wild, and the cold intense;
but, wrapped in my warm robe, I stretched myself in the "Berlin," and
getting as flat as possible in order to lessen the chances of
upsetting, when ready I gave the word to Draffan, saw that he took
the right direction, and then covering up went to sleep. With
sublime faith in that dog I slept on. If I woke up for a moment, I
merely listened for the jingle of my dog-bells, and by the sound
satisfied myself that my team were travelling steadily, and then went
to sleep again.
When coming up I had noticed a long side hill, and I said to myself:
"If we are on the right track I will most assuredly upset at that
point"--and sure enough I did wake up to find myself rolling, robe
and all, down the slope of the hill. I was compensated for the
discomfort by being thus assured that my faithful dogs had kept the
right track. Jumping up, I shook myself and the robe, righted the
sled, stretched the robe into it, and then giving my leader a caress
and a word of encouragement, I put on my snowshoes and away we went
at a good run, old Draffan picking the way with unerring instinct.
Thus we kept it up until daylight, when we stopped and I unharnessed
the dogs, and, making a fire, boiled my kettle and had breakfast.
Then, starting once more, I determined to cut across some of the
points of the square we had made coming up; and for about four hours
we went straight across country, and striking our provision trail
opposite Egg Lake, I took off my snowshoes and got into the "Berlin."
My dogs bounded away on the home-stretch, we still having about forty
or forty-five miles to go, and it was already past noon.
All day it had stormed, but now we were on familiar ground, and right
merrily my noble dogs rang the bells, as across bits of prairie and
through thickening woods we took our way northward. I was so elated
at having successfully made the trip up to this point, that I could
not sit still very long, but, running and riding, kept on, never
stopping for lunch. Thus the early dusk of the stormy day found us
at the southerly end of Smoking Lake, and some twelve or fifteen
miles from home. Here I again wrapped myself in my robe, and lying
flat in the sled, felt I could very safely leave the rest to old
Draffan and a kind Providence, and go to sleep, which I did, to wake
up as the dogs were climbing the steep little bank at the north end
of the lake. Then a run of two miles and I was home again.
Mr. Woolsey was so overjoyed he took me in his arms, and almost wept
over me. He brought dogs, sled and my whole outfit into the house.
The kind-hearted old man had passed a period of great anxiety; had
been sorry a thousand times that he had consented to my going to
Edmonton; had dreamed of my being lost, of my bleeding to death, of
my freezing stiff; but now with the first tinkle of my dog-bells he
was out peering into the darkness, and shouting, "Is that you, John?"
and my answer, he assured me, filled him with joy. He did not ask
for his mail, did not think of it for a long time, he was so thankful
that the boy left in his care had come back to him safe and sound.
For my part I was glad to be home again. The uncertain road, the
long distance, the deep snow, the continuous drifting, storm, the
awful loneliness, were all past. I had found Edmonton, had brought
the mail, was home again beside our own cheery fire, and was a proud
and happy boy.
In a day or two Neils and Ephraim came in from the camp, and we once
more, a reunited party, made another start for more provisions, and,
later on, yet another for the same purpose, never finding the Indians
in the same place, but always following them up. We were successful
in reaching their camps and in securing our loads; so that my first
winter on the Saskatchewan gave me the opportunity of covering a
large portion of the country, and becoming acquainted with a goodly
number of the Indian people. I also had constant practice in the
language, and was now quite familiar with it.