A TRIP TO STONY LAKE
My husband had long promised me a trip to Stony Lake, and in the summer
of 1835, before the harvest commenced, he gave Mr. Y----, who kept the
mill at the rapids below Clear Lake, notice of our intention, and the
worthy old man and his family made due preparation for our reception.
The little girls were to accompany us.
We were to start at sunrise, to avoid the heat of the day, to go up
as far as Mr. Y----'s in our canoe, re-embark with his sons above
the rapids in birch-bark canoes, go as far up the lake as we could
accomplish by daylight, and return at night; the weather being very
warm, and the moon at full. Before six o'clock we were all seated in the
little craft, which spread her white sail to a foaming breeze, and sped
merrily over the blue waters. The lake on which our clearing stood was
about a mile and a half in length, and about three quarters of a mile in
breadth; a mere pond, when compared with the Bay of Quinté, Ontario, and
the inland seas of Canada. But it was _our_ lake, and, consequently,
it had ten thousand beauties in our eyes, which would scarcely have
attracted the observation of a stranger.
At the head of the Kutchawanook, the lake is divided by a long neck of
land, that forms a small bay on the right-hand side, and a very brisk
rapid on the left. The banks are formed of large masses of limestone;
and the cardinal-flower and the tiger-lily seem to have taken an
especial fancy to this spot, and to vie with each other in the display
of their gorgeous colours.
It is an excellent place for fishing; the water is very deep close to
the rocky pavement that forms the bank, and it has a pebbly bottom.
Many a magic hour, at rosy dawn, or evening gray, have I spent with
my husband on this romantic spot; our canoe fastened to a bush, and
ourselves intent upon ensnaring the black bass, a fish of excellent
flavour that abounds in this place.
Our paddles soon carried us past the narrows, and through the rapid
water, the children sitting quietly at the bottom of the boat,
enchanted with all they heard and saw, begging papa to stop and gather
water-lilies, or to catch one of the splendid butterflies that hovered
over us; and often the little Addie darted her white hand into the water
to grasp at the shadow of the gorgeous insects as they skimmed along the
waves.
After passing the rapids, the river widened into another small lake,
perfectly round in form, and having in its centre a tiny green island,
in the midst of which stood, like a shattered monument of bygone storms,
one blasted, black ash-tree.
The Indians call this lake Bessikákoon, but I do not know the exact
meaning of the word. Some say that it means “the Indian's grave;”
others, “the lake of the one island.” It is certain that an Indian
girl is buried beneath that blighted tree; but I never could learn the
particulars of her story, and perhaps there was no tale connected with
it. She might have fallen a victim to disease during the wanderings of
her tribe, and been buried on that spot; or she might have been drowned,
which would account for her having been buried away from the rest of her
people.
This little lake lies in the heart of the wilderness. There is but one
clearing upon its shores, and that had been made by lumberers many years
before; the place abounded with red cedar. A second growth of young
timber had grown up in this spot, which was covered also with raspberry
bushes--several hundred acres being entirely overgrown with this
delicious berry.
It was here annually that we used to come in large picnic parties, to
collect this valuable fruit for our winter preserves, in defiance of
black-flies, mosquitoes, snakes, and even bears; all which have been
encountered by berry-pickers upon this spot, as busy and as active as
themselves, gathering an ample repast from Nature's bounteous lap.
And, oh! what beautiful wild shrubs and flowers grew up in that
neglected spot! Some of the happiest hours I spent in the bush
are connected with reminiscences of “Irving's shanty,” for so the
raspberry-grounds were called. The clearing could not be seen from the
shore. You had to scramble through a cedar swamp to reach the sloping
ground which produced the berries.
The mill at the Clear Lake rapids was about three miles distant from our
own clearing; and after stemming another rapid, and passing between
two beautiful wooded islands, the canoe rounded a point, and the rude
structure was before us.
A wilder and more romantic spot than that which the old hunter had
chosen for his homestead in the wilderness could scarcely be imagined.
The waters of Clear Lake here empty themselves through a narrow, deep,
rocky channel, not exceeding a quarter of a mile in length, and tumble
over a limestone bridge of ten or twelve feet in height, which extends
from one bank of the river to the other. The shores on either side are
very steep, and the large oak-trees which have anchored their roots
in every crevice of the rock, throw their fantastic arms far over the
foaming waterfall, the deep green of their massy foliage forming a
beautiful contrast with the white, flashing waters that foam over the
shoot at least fifty feet below the brow of the limestone rock. By a
flight of steps cut in the banks we ascended to the platform above the
river on which Mr. Y----'s house stood.
It was a large, rough-looking, log building, surrounded by barns and
sheds of the same primitive material. The porch before the door was
covered with hops, and the room of general resort, into which it
immediately opened, was of large dimensions, the huge fire-place forming
the most striking feature. On the hearth-stone, hot as was the weather,
blazed a great fire, encumbered with all sorts of culinary apparatus,
which, I am inclined to think, had been called into requisition for our
sole benefit and accommodation.
The good folks had breakfasted long before we started from home, but
they would not hear of our proceeding to Stony Lake until after we had
dined. It was only eight o'clock, A. M., and we had still four hours to
dinner, which gave us ample leisure to listen to the old man's stories,
ramble round the premises, and observe all the striking features of the
place.
Mr. Y---- was a Catholic, and the son of a respectable farmer from the
south of Ireland. Some few years before, he had emigrated with a large
family of seven sons and two daughters, and being fond of field sports,
and greatly taken with the beauty of the locality in which he had
pitched his tent in the wilderness, he determined to raise a mill upon
the dam which Nature had provided at his hands, and wait patiently
until the increasing immigration should settle the township of Smith and
Douro, render the property valuable, and bring plenty of grist to the
mill. He was not far wrong in his calculations; and though, for the
first few years, he subsisted entirely by hunting, fishing, and raising
what potatoes and wheat he required for his own family, on the most
fertile spots he could find on his barren lot, very little corn passed
through the mill.
At the time we visited his place, he was driving a thriving trade, and
all the wheat that was grown in the neighbourhood was brought by water
to be ground at Y----'s mill. He had lost his wife a few years after
coming to the country; but his two daughters, Betty and Norah, were
excellent housewives, and amply supplied her loss. From these amiable
women we received a most kind and hearty welcome, and every comfort
and luxury within their reach. They appeared a most happy and contented
family. The sons--a fine, hardy, independent set of fellows--were
regarded by the old man with pride and affection. Many were his
anecdotes of their prowes in hunting and fishing. His method of giving
them an aversion to strong drink while very young amused me greatly, but
it is not every child that could have stood the test of his experiment.
“When they were little chaps, from five to six years of age, I made them
very drunk,” he said; “so drunk that it brought on severe headache and
sickness, and this so disgusted them with liquor, that they never could
abide the sight of it again. I have only one drunkard among the seven;
and he was such a weak, puling crathur, that I dared not play the same
game with him, lest it should kill him. 'Tis his nature, I suppose, and
he can't help it; but the truth is, that to make up for the sobriety of
all the rest, he is killing himself with drink.”
Norah gave us an account of her catching a deer that had got into the
enclosure the day before.
“I went out,” she said, “early in the morning, to milk the cows, and I
saw a fine young buck struggling to get through a pale of the fence,
in which having entangled his head and horns, I knew, by the desperate
efforts he was making to push aside the rails, that if I was not quick
in getting hold of him, he would soon be gone.”
“And did you dare to touch him?”
“If I had had Mat's gun I would have shot him, but he would have made
his escape long before I could run to the house for that, so I went
boldly up to him and got him by the hind legs; and though he kicked and
struggled dreadfully, I held on till Mat heard me call, and ran to
my help, and cut his throat with his hunting-knife. So you see,”
she continued, with a good-natured laugh, “I can beat our hunters
hollow--they hunt the deer, but I can catch a buck with my hands.”
While we were chatting away, great were the preparations making by Miss
Betty and a very handsome American woman, who had recently come thither
as a help. One little bare-footed garsoon was shelling peas in an Indian
basket, another was stringing currants into a yellow pie-dish, and a
third was sent to the rapids with his rod and line, to procure a dish of
fresh fish to add to the long list of bush dainties that were preparing
for our dinner. It was in vain that I begged our kind entertainers not
to put themselves to the least trouble on our account, telling them that
we were now used to the woods, and contented with any thing; they
were determined to exhaust all their stores to furnish forth the
entertainment. Nor can it be wondered at, that, with so many dishes to
cook, and pies and custards to bake, instead of dining at twelve, it
was past two o'clock before we were conducted to the dinner-table. I was
vexed and disappointed at the delay, as I wanted to see all I could of
the spot we were about to visit before night and darkness compelled us
to return.
The feast was spread in a large outhouse, the table being formed of
two broad deal boards laid together, and supported by rude carpenter's
stools. A white linen cloth, a relic of better days, concealed these
arrangements. The board was covered with an indescribable variety of
roast and boiled, of fish, flesh, and fowl. My readers should see a
table laid out in a wealthy Canadian farmer's house before they can have
any idea of the profusion displayed in the entertainment of two visitors
and their young children. Besides venison, pork, chickens, ducks, and
fish of several kinds, cooked in a variety of ways, there was a number
of pumpkin, raspberry, cherry, and currant pies, with fresh butter and
green cheese (as the new cream-cheese is called), molasses, preserves,
and pickled cucumbers, besides tea and coffee--the latter, be it known,
I had watched the American woman boiling in the _frying-pan_. It was a
black-looking compound, and I did not attempt to discuss its merits. The
vessel in which it had been prepared had prejudiced me, and rendered me
very skeptical on that score.
We were all very hungry, having tasted nothing since five o'clock in the
morning, and contrived, out of the variety of good things before us, to
make an excellent dinner.
I was glad, however, when we rose to prosecute our intended trip up the
lake. The old man, whose heart was now thoroughly warmed with whiskey,
declared that he meant to make one of the party, and Betty, too, was to
accompany us; her sister Norah kindly staying behind to take care of
the children. We followed a path along the top of the high ridge of
limestone rock, until we had passed the falls and the rapids above, when
we found Pat and Mat Y---- waiting for us on the shore below, in two
beautiful new birch-bark canoes, which they had purchased the day before
from the Indians.
Miss Betty, Mat, and myself, were safely stowed into one, while the old
miller and his son Pat, and my husband, embarked in the other, and our
steersmen pushed off into the middle of the deep and silent stream; the
shadow of the tall woods, towering so many feet above us, casting
an inky hue upon the waters. The scene was very imposing, and after
paddling for a few minutes in shade and silence, we suddenly emerged
into light and sunshine, and Clear Lake, which gets its name from the
unrivalled brightness of its waters, spread out its azure mirror before
us. The Indians regard this sheet of water with peculiar reverence. It
abounds in the finest sorts of fish, the salmon-trout, the delicious
white fish, muskenongé, and black and white bass. There is no island
in this lake, no rice beds, nor stick nor stone, to break its tranquil
beauty, and, at the time we visited it, there was but one clearing upon
its shores.
The log hut of the squatter P----, commanding a beautiful prospect up
and down the lake, stood upon a bold slope fronting the water; all the
rest was unbroken forest. We had proceeded about a mile on our
pleasant voyage, when our attention was attracted by a singular natural
phenomenon, which Mat Y---- called the battery. On the right-hand side
of the shore rose a steep, perpendicular wall of limestone, that had the
appearance of having been laid by the hand of man, so smooth and even
was its surface. After attaining a height of about fifty feet, a natural
platform of eight or ten yards broke the perpendicular line of the
rock, when another wall, like the first, rose to a considerable height,
terminating in a second and third platform of the same description.
Fire, at some distant period, had run over these singularly beautiful
terraces, and a second growth of poplars and balm-of-gileads relieved,
by their tender green and light, airy foliage, the sombre indigo tint of
the heavy pines that nodded like the plumes of a funeral-hearse over
the fair young dwellers on the rock. The water is forty feet deep at
the base of this precipice, which is washed by the waves. After we had
passed the battery, Mat Y---- turned to me and said, “That is a famous
place for bears; many a bear have I shot among those rocks.”
This led to a long discussion on the wild beasts of the country.
“I do not think that there is much danger to be apprehended from them,”
said he; “but I once had an ugly adventure with a wolf two winters ago,
on this lake.”
I was all curiosity to hear the story, which sounded doubly interesting
told on the very spot, and while gliding over those lovely waters.
“We were lumbering at the head of Stony Lake, about eight miles from
here, my four brothers, myself, and several other hands. The winter was
long and severe; although it was the first week in March, there was not
the least appearance of a thaw, and the ice on these lakes was as
firm as ever. I had been sent home to fetch a yoke of oxen to draw the
saw-logs down to the water, our chopping being all completed, and the
logs ready for rafting.
“I did not think it necessary to encumber myself with my rifle, and was,
therefore, provided with no weapon of defence but the long gad I used
to urge on the cattle. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when
I rounded Sandy Point, that long point which is about a mile ahead of us
on the left shore, when I first discovered that I was followed, but at
a great distance, by a large wolf. At first, I thought little of the
circumstance, beyond a passing wish that I had brought my gun. I knew
that he would not attack me before dark, and it was still two long hours
to sundown; so I whistled, and urged on my oxen and soon forgot the
wolf--when, on stopping to repair a little damage to the peg of the
yoke, I was surprised to find him close at my heels. I turned, and ran
towards him, shouting as loud as I could, when he slunk back, but showed
no inclination to make off. Knowing that he must have companions near,
by his boldness, I shouted as loud as I could, hoping that my cries
might be heard by my brothers, who would imagine that the oxen had got
into the ice, and would come to my assistance. I was now winding my way
through the islands in Stony Lake; the sun was setting red before me,
and I had still three miles of my journey to accomplish. The wolf had
become so impudent that I kept him off by pelting him with snowballs;
and once he came so near that I struck him with the gad. I now began
to be seriously alarmed, and from time to time shouted with all my
strength; and you may imagine my joy when these cries were answered by
the report of a gun. My brothers had heard me, and the discharge of a
gun, for a moment, seemed to daunt the wolf. He uttered a long howl,
which was answered by the cries of a large pack of the dirty brutes from
the wood. It was only just light enough to distinguish objects, and I
had to stop and face my enemy, to keep him at bay.
“I saw the skeleton forms of half-a-dozen more of them slinking among
the bushes that skirted a low island; and tired and cold, I gave myself
and the oxen up for lost, when I felt the ice tremble on which I stood,
and heard men running at a distance. 'Fire your guns!' I cried out, as
loud as I could. My order was obeyed, and such a yelling and howling
immediately filled the whole forest as would have chilled your very
heart. The thievish varmints instantly fled away into the bush.
“I never felt the least fear of wolves until that night; but when they
meet in large bands, like cowardly dogs, they trust to their numbers,
and grow fierce. If you meet with one wolf, you may be certain that the
whole pack are at no great distance.”
We were fast approaching Sandy Point a long white ridge of sand, running
half across the lake, and though only covered with scattered groups of
scrubby trees and brush, it effectually screened Stony Lake from our
view. There were so many beautiful flowers peeping through the dwarf,
green bushes, that, wishing to inspect them nearer, Mat kindly ran the
canoe ashore, and told me that he would show me a pretty spot, where an
Indian, who had been drowned during a storm off that point, was buried.
I immediately recalled the story of Susan Moore's father, but Mat
thought that he was interred upon one of the islands farther up.
“It is strange,” he said, “that they are such bad swimmers. The Indian,
though unrivalled by us whites in the use of the paddle, is an animal
that does not take readily to the water, and those among them who can
swim seldom use it as a recreation.”
Pushing our way through the bushes, we came to a small opening in
the underwood, so thickly grown over with wild Canadian roses in full
blossom, that the air was impregnated with a delightful odour. In the
centre of this bed of sweets rose the humble mound that protected
the bones of the red man from the ravenous jaws of the wolf and the
wild-cat. It was completely covered with stones, and from among the
crevices had sprung a tuft of blue harebells, waving as wild and free
as if they grew among the bonny red heather on the glorious hills of the
North, or shook their tiny bells to the breeze on the broom-encircled
commons of England.
The harebell had always from a child been with me a favourite flower;
and the first sight of it in Canada, growing upon that lonely grave, so
flooded my soul with remembrances of the past, that, in spite of myself,
the tears poured freely from my eyes. There are moments when it is
impossible to repress those outgushings of the heart--
“Those flood-gates of the soul that sever.
In passion's tide to part for ever.”
If Mat and his sister wondered at my tears, they must have suspected
the cause, for they walked to a little distance, and left me to the
indulgence of my feelings. I gathered those flowers, and placed them
in my bosom, and kept them for many a day; they had become holy, when
connected with sacred home recollections, and the never-dying affections
of the heart which the sight of them recalled.
A shout from our companions in the other canoe made us retrace our steps
to the shore. They had already rounded the point, and were wondering at
our absence. Oh, what a magnificent scene of wild and lonely grandeur
burst upon us as we swept round the little peninsula, and the whole
majesty of Stony Lake broke upon us at once; another Lake of the
Thousand Isles, in miniature, and in the heart of the wilderness!
Imagine a large sheet of water, some fifteen miles in breadth and
twenty-five in length, taken up by islands of every size and shape, from
the lofty naked rock of red granite to the rounded hill, covered with
oak-leaves to its summit; while others were level with the waters, and
of a rich emerald green, only fringed with a growth of aquatic shrubs
and flowers. Never did my eyes rest on a more lovely or beautiful scene.
Not a vestige of man, or of his works was there. The setting sun,
that cast such a gorgeous flood of light upon this exquisite panorama,
bringing out some of these lofty islands in strong relief, and casting
others into intense shade, shed no cheery beam upon church spire or
cottage pane. We beheld the landscape, savage and grand in its primeval
beauty.
As we floated among the channels between these rocky picturesque isles,
I asked Mat how many of them there were.
“I never could succeed,” he said, “in counting them all.”
One Sunday, Pat and I spent a whole day in going from one to the other,
to try and make out how many there were, but we could only count up to
one hundred and forty before we gave up the task in despair. There are
a great many of them; more than any one would think--and, what is very
singular, the channel between them is very deep, sometimes above forty
feet, which accounts for the few rapids to be found in this lake. It is
a glorious place for hunting; and the waters undisturbed by steamboats,
abound in all sorts of fish.
“Most of these islands are covered with huckleberries; white
grapes, high and low-bush cranberries, blackberries, wild cherries,
gooseberries, and several sorts of wild currants grow here in profusion.
There is one island among these groups (but I never could light upon the
identical one) where the Indians yearly gather their wampum-grass. They
come here to collect the best birch bark for their canoes, and to
gather wild onions. In short, from the game, fish, and fruit, which they
collect among the islands of this lake, they chiefly depend for their
subsistence. They are very jealous of the settlers in the country
coming to hunt and fish here, and tell many stories of wild beasts and
rattlesnakes that abound along its shores; but I, who have frequented
the lake for years, was never disturbed by any thing, beyond the
adventure with the wolf, which I have already told you. The banks of
this lake are all steep and rocky, and the land along the shore is
barren, and totally unfit for cultivation.
“Had we time to run up a few miles further, I could have showed you some
places well worth a journey to look at; but the sun is already down, and
it will be dark before we get back to the mill.”
The other canoe now floated alongside, and Pat agreed with his brother
that it was high time to return. With reluctance I turned from this
strangely fascinating scene. As we passed under one bold rocky island,
Mat said, laughingly, “That is Mount Rascal.”
“How did it obtain that name?”
“Oh, we were out here berrying, with our good priest Mr. B----. This
island promised so fair, that we landed upon it, and, after searching
for an hour, we returned to the boat without a single berry, upon which
Mr. B---- named it 'Mount Rascal.'”
The island was so beautiful, it did not deserve the name, and I
christened it “Oak Hill,” from the abundance of oak-trees which clothed
its steep sides. The wood of this oak is so heavy and hard that it will
not float in the water, and it is in great request for the runners of
lumber-sleighs, which have to pass over very bad roads.
The breeze, which had rendered our sail up the lakes so expeditious
and refreshing, had stiffened into a pretty high wind, which was dead
against us all the way down. Betty now knelt in the bow and assisted
her brother, squaw fashion, in paddling the canoe; but, in spite of all
their united exertions, it was past ten o'clock before we reached the
mill. The good Norah was waiting tea for us. She had given the children
their supper four hours ago, and the little creatures, tired with using
their feet all day, were sound asleep upon her bed.
After supper, several Irish songs were sung, while Pat played upon the
fiddle, and Betty and Mat enlivened the company with an Irish jig.
It was midnight when the children were placed on my cloak at the bottom
of the canoe, and we bade adieu to this hospitable family. The wind
being dead against us, we were obliged to dispense with the sail, and
take to our paddles. The moonlight was as bright as day, the air warm
and balmy; and the aromatic, resinous smell exuded by the heat from the
balm-of-gilead and the pine-trees, in the forest, added greatly to our
sense of enjoyment as we floated past scenes so wild and lonely--isles
that assumed a mysterious look and character in that witching hour.
In moments like these, I ceased to regret my separation from my native
land; and, filled with the love of Nature, my heart forgot for the time
the love of home. The very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the
waters, which were broken into a thousand ripples of light by every
breeze that stirred the rice blossoms, or whispered through the
shivering aspen-trees. The far-off roar of the rapids, softened by
distance, and the long, mournful cry of the night-owl, alone broke the
silence of the night. Amid these lonely wilds the soul draws nearer
to God, and is filled to overflowing by the overwhelming sense of His
presence.
It was two o'clock in the morning when we fastened the canoe to the
landing, and Moodie carried up the children to the house. I found
the girl still up with my boy, who had been very restless during our
absence. My heart reproached me, as I caught him to my breast, for
leaving him so long; in a few minutes he was consoled for past sorrows,
and sleeping sweetly in my arms.