I SET FORTH ON MY JOURNEY
Although I felt a hunter’s elation at having captured the beaver, he was
really of less value to me than a muskrat. His flesh, especially his
tail, was edible, I knew, but I doubted if I would care to devour his
meat unless very hungry, for the scent and taste of castor would be too
strong. His fur, although thick, was by no means in good condition, and
even if it had been “prime” it would have been of little value to me in
the forest, but, nevertheless, I foresaw that I might find use for
skins, and very wisely, as it turned, decided to skin the creature and
dry and preserve the hide.
While skinning the beaver I was attracted by the strong, white tendons
of his legs and tail, and, knowing how useful such tough, thread-like
material might prove, I carefully removed and washed the tendons and
placed them in a safe spot to dry.
The beaver’s meat looked white, clean, and tender and I decided to cook
and taste some of it. The tail I also decided to cook, for I knew the
Indians and trappers considered beaver tails a great delicacy. The meat
was placed to broil above the hot coals, and the tail, which seemed
tough, was placed to boil in the birch-bark pot—or rather, in a fresh
receptacle—for I found that after once using the bark for boiling it was
worthless and that a new dish must be provided each time I wished to
boil anything.
While the meat and tail were cooking I spread the skin of my beaver to
dry and it then occurred to me that perhaps beaver flesh might be jerked
or dried as well as venison. Accordingly, I cut strips from the carcass
and hung them up. By the time this was done the meat was thoroughly
broiled and ready to taste. Much to my surprise, there was but a very
slight musky taste to the flesh, and while it was far from delicious
without salt or seasoning, yet it was much better than mussels, and I
greatly relished the flavor of real meat once more. The tail proved too
gristly and tough to suit me and I doubt if I could have devoured it
unless I were actually starving. It reminded me of pig’s feet, and I
wondered how any human beings could like it. No doubt if properly
prepared it might be far more palatable, but I then and there decided
that beavers’ tails would be eliminated from my menu unless I was face
to face with starvation.
I was not sorry to discover that beaver flesh was edible, for I knew
that where there was one beaver there were doubtless more, and that I
might reasonably expect to catch others, but unless the meat could be
dried and preserved it would be of little value for my purposes. I
determined to try to dry trout. While thinking of this my mind turned to
the matter of tackle with which to capture fish without the time and
labor of bailing out the pools—a slow method at best and only possible
where there were deep pools or basins. With the hemlock roots I could
braid lines which I felt sure would serve my purpose, but I could not
conceive of any way by which I could form a hook. I happened to notice
the carcass of the beaver and picked it up to throw it into the river,
when I noticed the sharp, chisel-like teeth and strong bones. For a
moment I stood regarding them, turning over in my mind my various wants
and striving to think of some purpose for which I could use either teeth
or bones, for it seemed a pity to waste anything that might serve any
useful purpose. I thought of fish-hooks, for I had heard of certain
savage races using bone hooks, but I could not imagine a way of
transforming either teeth or bones into trout-hooks, and I was on the
point of throwing the body into the stream when bows and arrows again
came to my mind, and instantly it occurred to me that the bones of my
beaver might be sharpened and used for arrow-heads.
At any rate, it was a scheme worth trying, and I promptly began to
dissect out the leg bones from the remaining meat. Lest I should want
other material at some future time, I also removed and set aside the
huge front teeth. This occupied a long time, and I had barely time to
walk out to the trout-brook, catch two fish, after a deal of labor, and
return to camp ere night fell. One of the trout served for my supper and
the other was split, cleaned, and hung up to dry with the beaver meat.
The following morning I awoke to find the woods dripping and the world
gray with a cold, drizzling rain. From my fire a thin, blue wisp of
smoke arose, and I hurried to replenish the fuel and save the little
life there was left in the embers. Before I could fan the coals into
flame the lowering, gray sky poured forth a torrent of rain, and with a
faint hiss the last hot coals grew black and dead.
Soaked through, chilled, miserable, and disgusted, I crept into my hut
and, seeking a sheltered spot, sought to secure another fire with my
knife, pebble, and handkerchief. What was my disappointment to find the
handkerchief damp and soggy with moisture, and while one or two spots
appeared quite dry, my utmost endeavors failed to ignite the cotton
cloth. For an hour or more I labored, until my hands were cut and
bleeding and the back of my knife-blade was worn rough and battered, and
then, thoroughly disheartened, I gave up in despair. Hungry as I was, I
had nothing save uncooked fungus to eat, for I had not yet reached the
point where raw mussels, raw frogs, or raw fish could be considered.
Sitting in the partial shelter of my lean-to, I spent a dreary and
forlorn morning, for while the roof was fairly tight the rain drove in
at front and sides, and only in the very center of the hut could I
remain fairly dry. My wet clothes clung to my skin, chilling me to the
bone each time the cold wind whistled down the river, and my reflections
were far from cheering, for I knew that this was but a sample of what I
might expect. Summer was over and the autumn rains had begun, and in a
few weeks more icy winds and snow-squalls would succeed them. With a
roaring fire all might have been well, and I could have laughed at the
elements, but without fire I realized how helpless I was and ever
uppermost in my mind was how to safeguard myself against the loss of my
fire in the future, provided I again succeeded in starting a
blaze—something which I considered very doubtful.
Toward noon, however, the rain ceased, the sky cleared, and by
mid-afternoon the sun was shining brightly. I lost no time in finding a
sunny stone whereon to spread my handkerchief, and as soon as the bit of
cloth was dry I again essayed to ignite it with a spark from my flint.
This time I met with more success, and after several trials I obtained a
blaze and soon had a roaring fire. As soon as the fire was burning well
I cooked food and while this was being done busied myself in making a
neat, tight box or case of birch bark in which to carry my handkerchief.
I was fearful lest the cotton cloth should give out long before I
reached the end of my journey, for only a small portion remained intact.
To provide against such a loss I tore bits of cloth from my shirt,
charred spots on the strips with coals from the fire, and packed these
carefully in additional birch-bark receptacles. To make doubly sure that
these were water-tight, I smeared the edges of the packages with pitch,
as I had seen Joe repair rents in the canoe, and having thus provided
against future showers as far as was possible, I sat down to my meager
meal and the world and my future took on a more roseate hue. While I was
fireless during the forenoon I had determined to try a bow-drill and
spindle for making fire, for I felt that if I could obtain the proper
materials this would be a far easier and quicker way of making fire than
by flint and steel, which could be reserved for emergencies.
With this object in view I entered the woods and searched diligently for
materials for my fire-making apparatus. As I have already mentioned, I
had made fire by this crude, savage method when a boy and I knew by
experience the materials best suited to the purpose.
The bow was an easy matter, for spruce was as good as anything, and this
tree was abundant everywhere. While cutting the bow for fire-making I
remembered my determination to attempt the manufacture of bow and arrows
and I selected several likely-looking spruce boughs for this purpose. I
next looked about for a suitable stick for the drill and selected some
straight, old, dry fir roots from a tree which had been torn up and
blown over by some winter’s storm years before. A piece of the dry,
weathered wood from the same tree served as material from which to make
a fire-block, and from beneath the bark of a dead pine I secured a good
supply of “punk.” A hard pine knot was selected for a drill-socket, but
despite every endeavor I could find nothing which I was sure would serve
as tinder. Shredded cedar bark I knew was as good as anything, but not a
cedar could I find, and finally I decided to try the thin, papery, dried
birch bark which flaked in little curling rolls from the trees. Armed
with these various things, I returned to my lean-to and was soon busily
preparing the materials for use. The flexible, springy spruce limb was
whittled down to a rude bow, and not until then did I remember that all
my youthful attempts at thus making fire had proved failures until I
used a leather bowstring. For a moment I was nonplussed, for leather was
out of the question, until I thought of my shoe-laces. One of these was
sacrificed and replaced by hemlock roots, and I then whittled down a fir
root into a double-pointed, octagonal spindle about fifteen inches long.
With the tip of my knife-blade I dug out a recess in the pine knot and
whittled the outside to fit easily in my hand and then turned my
attention to the fire-block. A piece of the dry, seasoned fir was split
into a little slab about three-fourths of an inch thick with notches cut
along one edge, and I was ready for my experiment at fire-making.
[Illustration: MY FIRE-MAKING APPARATUS]
Upon a smooth, dry stone I placed a piece of the dry pine punk, with
another piece close at hand. Next I set the fire-block upon the piece of
pine and with the bowstring took a turn about the center of the drill.
Setting one end of the drill in a notch of the fire-block, I placed the
drill-socket, made from the knot, upon the other end of the drill, and
steadying the fire-block with my foot I pressed firmly down upon the
socket with my left hand and drew the bow back and forth with my right
hand. With even, steady strokes I whirled the drill around and around,
and presently a little mound of brownish, powdery sawdust began to
accumulate on the punk beneath the fire-block. Gradually the pile
increased, the hole made by the drill in the block grew larger and
larger, and a faint smell of scorching wood greeted my nostrils. Harder
and harder I pressed down on the socket, faster and faster I twirled the
drill, and an instant later the sawdust turned black and a slender
column of smoke rose from it. Dropping drill and bow, I stooped and blew
gently on the smoldering powder, and as the smoke increased I lifted the
fire-block from the punk beneath, slipped a few bits of the papery birch
bark into the powder, clapped the second pine punk on top of all, and,
seizing the whole in my hand, waved it swiftly back and forth. Hardly
had I swept it through the air when the bark burst into flame, and,
knowing success was mine, I danced and capered about, as pleased as the
first time I had accomplished the feat, years before. The tinder, punk,
fire-block, and socket were inclosed in birch-bark packages, the drill
and bow were laid carefully in the roof of my hut, and I felt sure that
I would be able at any time to secure a fire in dry weather and, unless
soaked with rain, that I could be reasonably sure of kindling a flame
even in wet weather—for I now had two distinct methods of obtaining
fire.
[Illustration: “WITH STEADY STROKES I WHIRLED THE DRILL AROUND AND
AROUND”]
My fire-making apparatus was such a success that I was anxious to go
ahead with my bow and arrows, and I spent a long time scraping and
whittling down the best of my spruce branches to form a bow. The ones I
had selected were dead, seasoned limbs, for I well knew that green wood
would warp and would have a very limited spring. At last one of the
boughs was fashioned to suit me and I looked about for a bowstring.
Hemlock roots seemed the only available material and a long time was
spent in braiding enough of the fine roots together to form a string for
the bow. Eager to try the new weapon, I cut a notch in one end of a
fairly straight stick, placed it on the string, and drew the bow. As I
released the string the bow sprang straight with a delightful “twang,”
and the stick went humming through the air, but with a loud snap the
string parted. I was so greatly pleased at the strength and elasticity
of my bow that the mere matter of the parted string troubled me very
little, for I felt confident I could make some sort of a cord which
would be strong enough for the purpose and I dropped my bow and hurried
into the woods to search for suitable sticks from which to make arrows.
Sticks there were in plenty, but, although I sought everywhere, I was
unable to find one which was really straight and smooth. Cutting the
best I could find, in the hope that I might be able to whittle them into
presentable shape, I made my way back to camp.
I was exceedingly hungry, and with my mind on food I examined the beaver
meat and fish which I had hung up.
It was an ill-smelling mess, and without more ado I cast it into the
river and dined on mussels and fungus, for I was too tired to attempt a
trip to my frog-pond or the brook. The next morning, however, I visited
the brook and my deadfall, but the latter was empty, although sprung,
and I failed to secure a single trout. The reason was simple. The brook
had been so swollen by the recent rains that it was impossible to dam up
any of the pools, while the pond was filled to overflowing and only one
small frog could be found by dint of the most careful search. Despite my
ill luck, however, I returned to camp quite elated, for while making my
way about the little pond in search of frogs I had discovered some thick
bushes with reddish stems so straight, smooth, and polished that they at
once struck me as being perfectly adapted for arrows. Not until long
afterward did I learn that this bush was known as “arrow wood” and that
the Indians formerly used it for their arrows.
With a supply of this useful bush I busied myself at arrow-making, for
although I had no feathers I thought that I might be able to make arrows
which would serve to kill the tame and unsuspicious birds and animals,
and I had but to kill one large bird in order to obtain feathers to make
better arrows. Several times I had seen partridges or grouse, and on one
or two occasions I had attempted to snare them by means of a
hemlock-root noose on the end of a light pole, but the material was too
coarse for the purpose and the birds invariably avoided the snare. Once
or twice I had attempted to kill them with stones or clubs, and once I
had even thrown my spear at them, but in every instance they had
escaped. Perhaps it was the season, perhaps the birds were suspicious of
the first man they had seen, but whatever the reason, the fact remains
that they were far wiser and more wary than the grouse I had often seen
when hunting in Joe’s company.
It was a simple matter to cut notches in one end of each arrow, but it
was a far more difficult job to fit heads. The beaver’s bones were the
only material I had for this purpose and I found it hard work indeed to
cut and sharpen these into any semblance of an arrow-head. Indeed, I
found it so difficult that I even sought to chip arrow-heads from the
pebbles of the river, but I had not the remotest idea how stone
arrow-heads were made and my efforts in this direction resulted only in
bruised fingers and irregular, broken stones of no earthly use for my
purpose.
By dint of hard work and the expenditure of many hours I finally cut and
ground down some bones until they had sharp points at one end and a
recess at the other, and to these I bound my arrow sticks with the
sinews taken from the beaver. I still had a bowstring to make, and as I
worked away at the bones I busied my mind trying to invent some sort of
cord which would stand the strain of the bow. I thought of the tendons
of the beaver, but these were neither long enough to serve the purpose
nor were there enough to braid together to form a string, and I was at
last compelled to fall back upon hemlock roots. An examination of the
broken bowstring revealed the fact that it had parted at the knot at one
end, and to avoid this I decided to braid or lash a loop in the new
string. I made this new cord much heavier than the old, selected the
fibers with greater care, and smeared the whole with pitch. The loops at
the ends were twisted in and lashed in place with tendons, and when all
was done I drew the bow with some trepidation for fear all my hard labor
would be wasted. Much to my satisfaction, the string withstood the
strain and I practised until dark with straight sticks which had bits of
stone gummed on with pitch for heads, and I found that up to twenty feet
I could frequently hit a mark the size of a partridge.
Anxious to test my weapons on real game, I arose early the following
morning and entered the woods in search of partridge. I soon flushed a
flock of grouse from among the young fir-trees, and as they perched upon
the branches and craned their heads to view the intruder I approached
closely, placed an arrow on the string, drew the bow, and let drive. I
doubt if I was a dozen feet distant from the birds and they were packed
so closely together on the branch that I could scarcely have missed
them, but when the bone-tipped stick struck one of the grouse in the
breast and with a great flapping he came tumbling to earth, I felt as if
I was the most marvelous archer in the world. As the partridge fell the
others took wing and whirred out of sight, but I paid little attention
to them and hurried to pick up my first feathered game. The arrow was
still sticking in the bird’s flesh, although the stick had been broken
in his fall, but the head was the only valuable portion, and I hurried
back to my fire, happy in the thought that I now had a weapon with which
I could actually kill game.
The wing-feathers of the grouse were carefully saved, and after I had
dined from the delicate meat and had picked every bone clean I devoted
all the rest of the day to feathering and pointing my arrows. How to
carry them was the next question, and here the beaver skin came into
mind. I was learning rapidly to think out and to find ways and means,
and was acquiring a store of useful knowledge, and I smiled to myself as
I thought how far better equipped I was to make my journey out of the
woods now than I would have been when first I scrambled out of the river
not so many days before.
The beaver’s skin furnished an excellent quiver, or case, for my bow and
arrows, with plenty of room for a supply of mussels and fungus, and my
fire-bow and drill in addition, and as there was nothing more to detain
me here I decided to start on my tramp the next morning.
I ate a plentiful breakfast of fungus and mussels, and then, with the
skin filled with my possessions on my back, with pockets bulging with
hemlock roots, tendons, bones, and flint, and with a number of mussels
and some fungi tied in a bundle in one hand, and my frog-spear in the
other, I set out on my long tramp. As I reached a bend of the river and
glanced back for a last look at the little lean-to beside the river, I
felt as if I was leaving home. The wilderness had been kind to me and I
had fared far better than I had dared hope in this spot. As I turned
again toward the south and picked my way along the river-bank, little
did I dream what fate had in store for me or how many dreary months
would pass ere I reached my goal.