TRACKERS OF THE NORTH.
What appears marvelous and positively uncanny to a town person is
simple to a bushman.
Years of continuous observation develops the bump of locality, every
object has a place and meaning to a trapper; his eye is ever on the
alert, and what his eye sees is photographed on the brain and remains
there for future reference at any time he may require it.
This bump of locality is highly developed in all Indians and whites
who have passed many years in the bush. Without the faculty of
remembering objects a bushman could not find his way through the
dense forests.
Providing the trapper has once passed from one place to another, he
is pretty sure to find his way through the second time, even if years
should have elapsed between the trips. Every object from start to
finish is an index finger pointing out the right path. A sloping
path, a leaning tree, a moss-covered rock, a slight elevation in
land, a cut in the hills, the water in a creek, an odd-looking stone,
a blasted tree--all help as guides as the observant trapper makes his
way through a pathless forest.
Of course, this tax on the memory is not required of trappers about a
settled part of the country, but I am telling of what is absolutely
necessary for the safety of one's life in the faraway wilds of the
North, where to lose one's self might possibly mean death.
I followed an Indian guide once over a trail of 280 miles, whereon we
snowshoed over mountains, through dense bush, down rivers and over
lakes. To test my powers of a retentive memory, the following winter,
when dispatches again had to be taken to headquarters, I asked the
Indian to allow me to act as guide, he following.
On that long journey of ten or twelve days, always walking and
continually thinking out the road, I was in doubt only once. We were
standing on the ice; a tongue of land stood out toward us; a bay on
either side. The portage leaving the lake was at the bottom of one of
these bays, but which? The Indian had halted almost on the tails of
my snowshoes, and enjoyed my hesitation, but said nothing. To be
assured of no mistake, I had to pass over the whole of last winter's
trip in my mind's eye up to the point on which we stood. Once the
retrospect caught up with us, there was no further trouble. Our route
was down the left-hand bay.
When the Indian saw me start in that direction, he said:
"A-a-ke-pu-ka-tan" ("Yes, yes, you are able").
The most difficult proposition to tackle is a black spruce swamp. The
trees are mostly of a uniform size and height, the surface of the
snow is perfectly level, and at times our route lies miles through
such a country, and should there be a dull leaden sky or a gentle
snow falling, there is nothing for the guide to depend on but his
ability to walk straight.
It has been written time and again that the tendency when there are
no land marks is to walk in a circle.
By constant practice, those who are brought up in the wilds acquire
the ability to walk in a straight line. They begin by beating a trail
from point to point on some long stretch of ice, and in the bush,
where any tree or obstruction bars the way they make up for any
deviation from the straight course by a give-and-take process, so
that the general line of march is straight.
During forty years in the country, I never knew an Indian or white
bushman to carry a compass. Apart from a black spruce swamp, it would
be no use whatever.
In going from one place to another, the contour of the country has to
be considered, and very frequently the "longest way round is the
shortest way home." A ridge of mountains might lay between the place
of starting and the objective point, and by making a detour round the
spur of same, one would easier reach his destination, rather than to
climb up one side and down the other.
On the first day after my arrival in London (the only time I ever
crossed the water) a gentleman took me out to see some of the sights.
He lived on the Surrey side, and took me direct, or, I should say
crooked, into the city across the Thames. After walking me around
several blocks and zigzagging considerably about, he came to a sudden
stop at a corner. "Now," he said, "Hunter, suppose I was to disappear
all at once, do you think you could find your way back to Elm Tree
Lodge? I have always heard that you bushmen can find your way
anywhere."
Now, although there was no necessity for it, my years of schooling
had caused me to observe every conspicuous object, and every turn we
had made since leaving his residence; and therefore I replied, with
the utmost confidence, "Why, to return to your house from here is as
simple as falling off a log."
Looking at me with the greatest incredulity, he said, "If you can
find your way back unaided I will pay for the best hat in London."
"Well, my dear sir, my number is 7, and I want it soft felt and dark
bottle green. Now follow me, and you can get the hat in the morning."
Without going into details, suffice it to say, I conducted him to his
own door, and a more perplexed man was not in London; so much so, he
had to call in his wife, his mother-in-law and his next door neighbor
to tell them of my achievement.
At last I had to cut short his flow of words by saying my guiding him
home was a most simple thing. It was merely the result of observing
as I went along, and running the objects backward as I came to the
house.
"If I was to tell you as a fact, my dear sir, that a bushman sees the
track of some wild animal in the snow, he can tell you not only the
name of the animal, but if it was male or female, within an hour of
the time the tracks were made, if it was calm or blowing and the
direction of the wind at that time and many other minor things, you
would think this wonderful. Yet, as wonderful as this may appear, and
hardly to be credited, an Indian boy of ten or twelve can read this
page from nature as easy as one of us can read a page of print."
* * *
When the cold nights of the latter end of October had set in and the
leaves were crisp underfoot, I decided to go and set up a line of
marten traps through a stretch of green timber, between two large
lakes. The distance was considered about eight miles.
I took an Indian youth as companion, for it is lonely work setting
trap in the deep gloom of the forest alone. Our blankets, axes, two
days' provisions, a square of cotton that we call a canopy, to keep
off the wind, and my rifle, made up our necessary equipment, with a
few baits to start work upon.
During the summer I had got an Indian to leave an old canoe on the
shore of the big lake where we expected to come out; this would save
our coming back on our tracks, as we could return by the canoe route,
which was considerably longer, but much easier.
We worked away all the day we left the post, and when camping time
came we found a pretty, sheltered place, the back of a large,
flat-sided boulder. Ten feet in front of this lay a large fallen pine
tree, against which we built our fire. Then we cut a lot of pitch
pine dry wood in short lengths and split, ready to replenish the fire
from time to time during the autumn night.
It is cheerful when one wakes during the night to have a bright blaze
in a few moments.
The boy had worked pretty hard all day, and, after eating to
repletion, rolled himself in his blanket and fell asleep. With me it
was different. I lay back half-reclining, half-sitting, enjoying the
congenial heat and wondering what luck we would have from the traps
when we made our first visit. My rifle lay alongside of me on the
balsam brush, with the muzzle pointing toward the fire, and,
unconsciously my hand grasped the stock and my fore finger toyed with
the trigger. I mention all these details to show how easy what
followed came to pass.
The sparks had all gone out of the wood and only a bright glow
remained, enough, however, to light up the trunk of the pine log and
a considerable distance each side of the fireplace. All at once I
heard the crushing of dried leaves and the breaking of twigs, at some
little distance off in the forest. The sounds were evidently made by
some large animal, and I soon realized it was coming slowly with
steady steps toward the camp.
My first thought was to chuck on some fresh fuel to scare whatever it
was away; but the next moment I decided to keep quiet and await
developments.
With my thumb I drew back the hammer of the rifle and waited. I kept
my eyes steadfast in the direction whence the sounds came, and in a
minute (it appeared an hour to me) I saw the head and forequarters of
an immense black bear, which stood gazing down on the camp from
behind the fallen tree.
To raise my rifle and sight it point blank at Bruin's chest was the
work of an instant. Crash went the bullet, true to the mark, and the
bear fell backward, making the woods echo with its death roars.
The boy sprang to his feet in a stupid, bewildered way, asking what
was the matter. I did not take time to answer him, being occupied in
getting a fresh shell into the barrel, for one never knows when a
bear is really dead. The safest way is to have your gun ready and
stand off at a reasonable distance and wait until he kicks himself
stiff. In this case, however, it was soon over with its bearship, for
the bullet had gone right through the heart.
The joy of the Indian boy knew no bounds when he saw the result of
the shot, for he saw many gorges ahead of him.
I had always been led to believe that smoke, or the blaze from a
camp-fire, would keep away the denizens of the Canadian forests, and
when I told this bear adventure to old hunters they simply listened
and gave a polite smile.
In this instance it must have been a case of inordinate curiosity,
accounted for in a manner from the fact of its being a female bear.