THE BLACKWATER DIVIDE
About noon the next day we suddenly descended to the Blackwater, a
swift stream which had been newly bridged by those ahead of us. In
this wild land streams were our only objective points; the mountains
had no names, and the monotony of the forest produced a singular
effect on our minds. Our journey at times seemed a sort of motionless
progression. Once our tent was set and our baggage arranged about us,
we lost all sense of having moved at all.
Immediately after leaving the Blackwater bridge we had a grateful
touch of an Indian trail. The telegraph route kept to the valley
flat, but an old trail turned to the right and climbed the north bank
by an easy and graceful grade which it was a joy to follow. The top
of the bench was wooded and grassy, and the smooth brown trail wound
away sinuous as a serpent under the splendid pine trees. For more
than three hours we strolled along this bank as distinguished as
those who occupy boxes at the theatre. Below us the Blackwater looped
away under a sunny sky, and far beyond, enormous and unnamed, deep
blue mountains rose, notching the western sky. The scene was so
exceedingly rich and amiable we could hardly believe it to be
without farms and villages, yet only an Indian hut or two gave
indication of human life.
After following this bank for a few miles, we turned to the right and
began to climb the high divide which lies between the Blackwater and
the Muddy, both of which are upper waters of the Fraser. Like all the
high country through which we had passed this ridge was covered with
a monotonous forest of small black pines, with very little bird or
animal life of any kind. By contrast the valley of the Blackwater
shone in our memory like a jewel.
After a hard drive we camped beside a small creek, together with
several other outfits. One of them belonged to a doctor from the
Chilcoten country. He was one of those Englishmen who are natural
plainsmen. He was always calm, cheerful, and self-contained. He took
all worry and danger as a matter of course, and did not attempt to
carry the customs of a London hotel into the camp. When an Englishman
has this temper, he makes one of the best campaigners in the world.
As I came to meet the other men on the trail, I found that some
peculiar circumstance had led to their choice of route. The doctor
had a ranch in the valley of the Fraser. One of "the Manchester boys"
had a cousin near Soda Creek. "Siwash Charley" wished to prospect on
the head-waters of the Skeena; and so in almost every case some
special excuse was given. When the truth was known, the love of
adventure had led all of us to take the telegraph route. Most of the
miners argued that they could make their entrance by horse as
cheaply, if not as quickly, as by boat. For the most part they were
young, hardy, and temperate young men of the middle condition of
American life.
One of the Manchester men had been a farmer in Connecticut, an
attendant in an insane asylum in Massachusetts, and an engineer. He
was fat when he started, and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds.
By the time we had overtaken him his trousers had begun to flap
around him. He was known as "Big Bill." His companion, Frank, was a
sinewy little fellow with no extra flesh at all,--an alert, cheery,
and vociferous boy, who made noise enough to scare all the game out
of the valley. Neither of these men had ever saddled a horse before
reaching the Chilcoten, but they developed at once into skilful
packers and rugged trailers, though they still exposed themselves
unnecessarily in order to show that they were not "tenderfeet."
"Siwash Charley" was a Montana miner who spoke Chinook fluently, and
swore in splendid rhythms on occasion. He was small, alert, seasoned
to the trail, and capable of any hardship. "The Man from Chihuahua"
was so called because he had been prospecting in Mexico. He had the
best packhorses on the trail, and cared for them like a mother. He
was small, weazened, hardy as oak, inured to every hardship, and very
wise in all things. He had led his fine little train of horses from
Chihuahua to Seattle, thence to the Thompson River, joining us at
Quesnelle. He was the typical trailer. He spoke in the Missouri
fashion, though he was a born Californian. His partner was a quiet
little man from Snohomish flats, in Washington. These outfits were
typical of scores of others, and it will be seen that they were for
the most part Americans, the group of Germans from New York City and
the English doctor being the exceptions.
There was little talk among us. We were not merely going a journey,
but going as rapidly as was prudent, and there was close attention to
business. There was something morbidly persistent in the action of
these trains. They pushed on resolutely, grimly, like blind worms
following some directing force from within. This peculiarity of
action became more noticeable day by day. We were not on the trail,
after all, to hunt, or fish, or skylark. We had set our eyes on a
distant place, and toward it our feet moved, even in sleep.
The Muddy River, which we reached late in the afternoon, was silent
as oil and very deep, while the banks, muddy and abrupt, made it a
hard stream to cross.
As we stood considering the problem, a couple of Indians appeared on
the opposite bank with a small raft, and we struck a bargain with
them to ferry our outfit. They set us across in short order, but our
horses were forced to swim. They were very much alarmed and shivered
with excitement (this being the first stream that called for
swimming), but they crossed in fine style, Ladrone leading, his neck
curving, his nostrils wide-blown. We were forced to camp in the mud
of the river bank, and the gray clouds flying overhead made the land
exceedingly dismal. The night closed in wet and cheerless.
The two Indians stopped to supper with us and ate heartily. I seized
the opportunity to talk with them, and secured from them the tragic
story of the death of the Blackwater Indians. "Siwash, he die hy-u
(great many). Hy-u die, chilens, klootchmans (women), all die. White
man no help. No send doctor. Siwash all die, white man no care belly
much."
In this simple account of the wiping out of a village of harmless
people by "the white man's disease" (small-pox), unaided by the white
man's wonderful skill, there lies one of the great tragedies of
savage life. Very few were left on the Blackwater or on the Muddy,
though a considerable village had once made the valley cheerful with
its primitive pursuits.
They were profoundly impressed by our tent and gun, and sat on their
haunches clicking their tongues again and again in admiration, saying
of the tent, "All the same lilly (little) house." I tried to tell
them of the great world to the south, and asked them a great many
questions to discover how much they knew of the people or the
mountains. They knew nothing of the plains Indians, but one of them
had heard of Vancouver and Seattle. They had not the dignity and
thinking power of the plains people, but they seemed amiable and
rather jovial.
We passed next day two adventurers tramping their way to Hazleton.
Each man carried a roll of cheap quilts, a skillet, and a cup. We
came upon them as they were taking off their shoes and stockings to
wade through a swift little river, and I realized with a sudden pang
of sympathetic pain, how distressing these streams must be to such as
go afoot, whereas I, on my fine horse, had considered them entirely
from an aesthetic point of view.
We had been on the road from Quesnelle a week, and had made nearly
one hundred miles, jogging along some fifteen miles each day,
camping, eating, sleeping, with nothing to excite us--indeed, the
trail was quiet as a country lane. A dead horse here and there warned
us to be careful how we pushed our own burden-bearers. We were deep
in the forest, with the pale blue sky filled with clouds showing only
in patches overhead. We passed successively from one swamp of black
pine to another, over ridges covered with white pine, all precisely
alike. As soon as our camp was set and fires lighted, we lost all
sense of having travelled, so similar were the surroundings of each
camp.
Partridges could be heard drumming in the lowlands. Mosquitoes were
developing by the millions, and cooking had become almost impossible
without protection. The "varments" came in relays. A small gray
variety took hold of us while it was warm, and when it became too
cold for them, the big, black, "sticky" fellows appeared
mysteriously, and hung around in the air uttering deep, bass notes
like lazy flies. The little gray fellows were singularly ferocious
and insistent in their attentions.
At last, as we were winding down the trail beneath the pines, we came
suddenly upon an Indian with a gun in the hollow of his arm. So
still, so shadowy, so neutral in color was he, that at first sight he
seemed a part of the forest, like the shaded hole of a tree. He
turned out to be a "runner," so to speak, for the ferrymen at
Tchincut Crossing, and led us down to the outlet of the lake where a
group of natives with their slim canoes sat waiting to set us over.
An hour's brisk work and we rose to the fine grassy eastern slope
overlooking the lake.
We rose on our stirrups with shouts of joy. We had reached the land
of our dreams! Here was the trailers' heaven! Wooded promontories,
around which the wavelets sparkled, pushed out into the deep, clear
flood. Great mountains rose in the background, lonely, untouched by
man's all-desolating hand, while all about us lay suave slopes
clothed with most beautiful pea-vine, just beginning to ripple in the
wind, and beyond lay level meadows lit by little ponds filled with
wildfowl. There was just forest enough to lend mystery to these
meadows, and to shut from our eager gaze the beauties of other and
still more entrancing glades. The most exacting hunter or trailer
could not desire more perfect conditions for camping. It was God's
own country after the gloomy monotony of the barren pine forest, and
needed only a passing deer or a band of elk to be a poem as well as a
picture.
All day we skirted this glorious lake, and at night we camped on its
shores. The horses were as happy as their masters, feeding in plenty
on sweet herbage for the first time in long days.
Late in the day we passed the largest Indian village we had yet seen.
It was situated on Stony Creek, which came from Tatchick Lake and
emptied into Tchincut Lake. The shallows flickered with the passing
of trout, and the natives were busy catching and drying them. As we
rode amid the curing sheds, the children raised a loud clamor, and
the women laughed and called from house to house, "Oh, see the white
men!" We were a circus parade to them.
Their opportunities for earning money are scant, and they live upon a
very monotonous diet of fish and possibly dried venison and berries.
Except at favorable points like Stony Creek, where a small stream
leads from one lake to another, there are no villages because there
are no fish.
I shall not soon forget the shining vistas through which we rode that
day, nor the meadows which possessed all the allurement and mystery
which the word "savanna" has always had with me. It was like going
back to the prairies of Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa, as they were
sixty years ago, except in this case the elk and the deer were
absent.
YET STILL WE RODE
We wallowed deep in mud and sand;
We swam swift streams that roared in wrath;
They stood at guard in that lone land,
Like dragons in the slender path.
Yet still we rode right on and on,
And shook our clenched hands at the sky.
We dared the frost at early dawn,
And the dread tempest sweeping by.
It was not all so dark. Now and again
The robin, singing loud and long,
Made wildness tame, and lit the rain
With sudden sunshine with his song.
Wild roses filled the air with grace,
The shooting-star swung like a bell
From bended stem, and all the place
Was like to heaven after hell.