[Illustration: DOG-TRAIN FOR THE NORTH.
_Frontispiece._
]
The Wild North Land
THE STORY OF A WINTER JOURNEY WITH
DOGS ACROSS NORTHERN NORTH AMERICA
BY LIEUTENANT-GENERAL
SIR WILLIAM FRANCIS BUTLER, G.C.B.
AUTHOR OF
“THE GREAT LONE LAND” AND “RED CLOUD, THE SOLITARY SIOUX”
“I cannot rest from travel. I will drink life to the lees.”
“I am become a name for always roaming with a hungry heart.”
_WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAP_
TORONTO
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF
CANADA, LTD.
1910
[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM BUTLER’S WILD NORTH LAND.
Part of
BRITISH
NORTH AMERICA
_to illustrate_
“THE WILD NORTH LAND”
Weller & Graham L^{td}. Litho, London
BURNS & OATES.]
PREFACE.
People are supposed to have an object in every journey they undertake
in this world. A man goes to Africa to look for the Nile, to Rome
to see the Coliseum or St. Peter’s; and once, I believe, a certain
traveller tramped all the way to Jerusalem for the sole purpose of
playing ball against the walls of that city.
As this matter of object, then, seems to be a rule with travellers, it
may be asked by those who read this book, what object had the writer
in undertaking a journey across the snowy wilderness of North America,
in winter and alone? I fear there is no answer to be given to the
question, save such as may be found in the motto on the title-page, or
in the pages of the book itself.
About eighteen months ago I was desirous of entering upon African
travel. A great explorer had been lost for years in the vast
lake-region of Southern Central Africa, and the British Nation--which,
by the way, becomes singularly attached to a man when he is dead, or
supposed to be dead--grew anxious to go out to look for him.
As the British Nation could not all go out at once, or together, it
endeavoured to select one or two individuals to carry out its wishes.
It will be only necessary to state here, that the British Nation did
not select the writer of this book, who forthwith turned his attention
from African tropic zones to American frigid ones, and started out upon
a lonely cruise.
Many tracks lay before me in that immense region I call “The Wild North
Land.” Former wandering had made me familiar with the methods of travel
pursued in these countries by the Indian tribes, or far-scattered
fur-hunters. Fortunate in recovering possession of an old and
long-tried Esquimaux dog--the companion of earlier travel--I started in
the autumn of 1872 from the Red River of the North, and, reaching Lake
Athabasca, completed half my journey by the first week of March in the
following year. From Athabasca I followed the many-winding channel of
the frozen Peace River to its great cañon in the Rocky Mountains, and,
journeying through this pass--for many reasons the most remarkable one
in the whole range of the Rocky Mountains--reached the north of British
Columbia in the end of May. From thence, following a trail of 350 miles
through the dense forests of New Caledonia, I emerged on the 3rd of
June at the frontier station of Quesnelle on the Frazer River, still
400 miles north of Victoria.
In the ensuing pages the story of that long tramp--for it was mostly
performed on foot--will be duly set forth. Written by camp fire, or in
cañon, or in the little log-house of a northern fur fort, when dogs and
men rested for a day or two in the long icy run, that narrative will
be found, I fear, to bear many indications of the rough scenes ’mid
which it has been penned; but as, on a former occasion, many critics
passed in gentle silence over the faults and failings of another story
of travel in the Great Lone Land, so now it may be my fortune to tell
to as kindly an audience, this record of a winter’s walk through more
distant wilds--for in truth there has been neither time for revision
nor correction.
Fortune, which eighteen months ago denied me African adventure, offers
it now with liberal hand.
I reached the Atlantic from the Pacific shore to find an expedition
starting from England against Ashantee; and long ere this story finds
a reader I hope to be pushing my way through the mangrove swamps which
lie between the Gold Coast and Coomassie. To others even must fall the
task of correcting proofs, while I assume my part in the correction and
revision of King Koffi Kancalli, and the administration to his subjects
of that proof of British prowess which it has been deemed desirable to
give them.
Meantime, my old friends Chief Kar-ka-konias, Kalder, and Cerf-vola,
will be absent from this new field; but, nevertheless, there will be
present many companions of former travel, and _one_ Chief under whose
command I first sought the Great Lone Land as the threshold to remoter
regions.
W. F. BUTLER.
LONDON,
_September 21st, 1873_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Situation at Home--The West again--A Land of Silence 1
CHAPTER II.
Powder versus Primroses--The American Lounger--“Home, sweet
Home” 8
CHAPTER III.
Fort Garry under new aspects--Social Societies--An old
Friend--Pony “the perverse” 12
CHAPTER IV.
The Wilderness--A Sunset Scene--A white Savage--Cerf-Vola the
Untiring--Doggerel for a Dog--The Hill of the Wolverine--The
Indian Paradise--I plan a Surprise--Biscuits and Water 21
CHAPTER V.
The Forks of the Saskatchewan--A perverse Parallel--Diplomatic
Bungling--Its Results 36
CHAPTER VI.
Our Winter Home--A Welcome--I start again--The Hunter’s
Camp--In quest of Buffalo on the Plains--“Lodge-poling” leads
to Love 43
CHAPTER VII.
An Ocean of Grass--The Red Man--Whence comes he?--The
Buffalo--Puritans and Pioneers--The Red Man’s Friend 49
CHAPTER VIII.
Buffalo Hunts--A Picture once seen long remembered--L’Homme
capable--A wonderful Lake--The lost Indian--An Apparition--We
return Home 57
CHAPTER IX.
Strange Visitors--At-tistighat the Philosopher--Indian
Converts--A Domestic Scene--The Winter Packet--Adam and his
Dogs 70
CHAPTER X.
A _tale_ of Warfare--Dog-sleds--A Missing Link--The North
Sea--“Winterers”--Samuel Hearne 83
CHAPTER XI.
A Dog of no Character--The Green Lake--Lac Ile à la Crosse--A
Cold Day--Fort Ile à la Crosse--A long-lost Brother--Lost
upon the Lake--Unwelcome Neighbours--Mr. Roderick
Macfarlane--“A beautiful Morning”--Marble Features 95
CHAPTER XII.
The Clearwater--A bygone Ocean--A Land of Lakes--The Athabasca
River--Who is he?--Chipewyan Indians--Echo--Major succumbs at
last--Mal de Raquette 118
CHAPTER XIII.
Lake Athabasca--Northern Lights--Chipewyan--The real Workers of
the World 137
CHAPTER XIV.
A Hudson’s Bay Fort--It comes at last--News from the outside
World--Tame and wild Savages--Lac Clair--A treacherous
Deed--Harper 143
CHAPTER XV.
The Peace River--Volcanos--M. Jean Batiste St. Cyr--Half a Loaf
is better than no Bread--An oasis in the Desert--Tecumseh and
Black Hawk 158
CHAPTER XVI.
The Buffalo Hills--A fatal Quarrel--The exiled
Beavers--“At-tal-loo” deplores his Wives--A Cree Interior--An
attractive Camp--I camp alone--Cerf-vola without a
Supper--The Recreants return--Dunvegan--A Wolf-hunt 171
CHAPTER XVII.
Alexander Mackenzie--The first Sign of Spring--Spanker
the Suspicious--Cerf-vola contemplates Cutlets--An
Indian Hunter--“Encumbrances”--Furs and Finery--A “Dead
Fall”--The Fur Trade at both Ends--An old Fort--A Night
Attack--Wife-lifting--Cerf-vola in Difficulties and
Boots--The Rocky Mountains at last 191
CHAPTER XVIII.
The wild Animals of the Peace River--Indian Method of hunting
the Moose--Twa-poos--The Beaver--The Bear--Bear’s Butter--A
Bear’s Hug and how it ended--Fort St. John--The River
awakes--A Rose without a Thorn--Nigger Dan--A threatening
Letter--I issue a Judicial Memorandum--Its Effect is all that
could be desired--Working up the Peace River 206
CHAPTER XIX.
Start from St. John’s--Crossing the Ice--Batiste le
Fleur--Chimeroo--The last Wood-buffalo--A dangerous
Weapon--Our Raft collapses--Across the Half-way River 225
CHAPTER XX.
Hudson’s Hope--A Lover of Literature--Crossing the Peace--An
unskilful Pilot--We are upset--Our Rescue--A strange Variety
of Arms--The Buffalo’s Head--A glorious View 236
CHAPTER XXI.
Jacques, the French Miner--A fearful Abyss--The Great Cañon of
the Peace River--We are off on our Western Way--Unfortunate
Indians--A burnt Baby--“The Moose that walks” 247
CHAPTER XXII.
Still Westward--The Dangers of the Ice--We enter the main
Range--In the Mountains--A Grizzly--The Death of the
Moose--Peace River Pass--Pete Toy--The Ominica--“Travellers”
at Home 263
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Black Cañon--An ugly Prospect--The vanished Boat--We
struggle on--A forlorn Hope--We fail again--An unhoped-for
Meeting and a Feast of Joy--The Black Cañon conquered 279
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Untiring over-estimates his Powers--He is not particular as
to the Nature of his Dinner--Toil and Temper--Farewell to the
Ominica--Germansen--The Mining Camp--Celebrities 294
CHAPTER XXV.
Mr. Rufus Sylvester--The Untiring developes a new Sphere of
Usefulness--Mansen--A last Landmark 304
CHAPTER XXVI.
British Columbia--Boundaries again--Juan de Fuça--Carver--The
Shining Mountains--Jacob Astor--The Monarch of
Salmon--Oregon--“Riding and Tying”--Nation Lake--The Pacific
310
CHAPTER XXVII.
The Look-out Mountain--A gigantic Tree--The Untiring retires
before superior Numbers--Fort St. James--A strange Sight in
the Forest--Lake Noola--Quesnelle--Cerf-vola in civilized
Life--Old Dog, good-bye! 327
POSTSCRIPT 343
APPENDIX 349
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Dog-Train for the North _Frontispiece_
PAGE
Cerf-Vola, the Esquimaux Dog 16
View from the Spathanaw Watchi 31
“Our Hut at the Forks of the Saskatchewan” 43
Sunset Scene, with Buffalo 57
Tent in the Great Prairie 69
The Valley of the Peace River 158
Alone in the Wilderness 181
Night into Day 187
The Wolf-Chase 189
Clinging to the Canoe 239
Mount Garnet Wolseley and the Peace River 266
Cutting up the Moose 271
Running stern foremost the Black Cañon 283
“The Look-out Mountain” 327
THE
WILD NORTH LAND.
CHAPTER I.
The Situation at Home.--The West again.--A Land of Silence.
There had never been so many armies in England. There was a new army,
and there was an old army; there was an army of militia, an army of
volunteers, and an army of reserve; there were armies on horse, on
foot, and on paper. There was the army of the future--of which great
things were predicted--and far away, lost in a haze of history (but
still more substantial than all other armed realities, present or
future), there lay the great dead army of the past.
It was a time when everybody had something to do with military matters,
everybody on the social ladder, from the Prime Minister on the topmost
round to the mob-mover on the lowest.
Committees controlled the army, Departments dressed it, Radicals railed
at it, Liberals lectured upon it, Conservatives condemned it, Peers
wrote pamphlets upon it, Dukes denounced it, Princes paraded it, and
every member of Parliament who could put together half a dozen words
with tolerable grammatical fluency had something to say about it.
Surely such a period must have been one in which every soldier would
have recognized the grandeur and importance of his profession, and
clung with renewed vigour to a life which seemed of moment to the
whole British nation. But this glowing picture of the great “nation of
shopkeepers,” suddenly fired by military ardour, had its reverse.
The stream of advancement slowly stagnating under influences devised
to accelerate it, the soldier wearied by eternally learning from
masters the lesson he could have taught, the camp made a place of
garrison routine and not of military manœuvre, the uniform harness
which had galled a Burton, a Palgrave, a Ruxton, and a Hayward,
from ranks where the spirit of adventurous discovery sickened under
chilling regulation--this harness made more unrelaxingly irksome; a
system of promotion regulated by money--the offspring, it is true, of
foul corruption, but which had become not a little purified by lapse
of time; this system, supplanted by one of selection theoretically
pure, but destined to fall into that lowest of all corruptions,
the influence of political jobbery: all this formed the leading
features in that order of things, old and new, which the spectacle
of a neighbouring nation, struck suddenly to the ground by a mighty
army, had caused the panic-stricken British people to overhaul and to
reconstruct.
Taken any way one can, an army on paper is not a satisfactory
profession. It is subject to sudden and unlooked-for bursts of military
zeal; it is so bent upon nervously asserting itself fit for anything;
it is from its nature so much akin to pen, ink, and envelope of a
common-place type; it has such disagreeable methods of garrisoning the
most pestilential spots upon the earth, and abandoning to republican
bluster whole continents called colonies; those who shape its destinies
are so ready to direct it against matchlock monarchs and speared
soldiery; while arms are folded before those conflicts which change the
past and future of the centuries; all these considerations go a great
way towards making the profession of arms, on paper, at any time an
anomaly.
But when there was also present to the memory of one who thus regarded
the new order of military life, the great solitudes, the inland oceans,
the desolate wilds, the gloomy forests of a far-away land, through
which his former wanderings had carried him; when thought re-sought
again those vast regions of the earth where Nature has graven her image
in characters so colossal, that man seems to move slowly amidst an
ocean frozen rigid by lapse of time, frozen into those things we name
mountains, rivers, prairies, forests; man a mere speck, powerless so
far to mark his presence, in blur of smoke, in noise of city, in clash
of crank, or whirl of wheel: when these things came back in pictures
touched by the soft colours Memory loves to limn with, there were not
wanting dull professional outlooks and dearth of service to turn the
footsteps gladly into the old regions again, there to trace new paths
through the almost exhaustless waste which lies between the lonely
prairies of the Saskatchewan and the icy oceans of the North.
What shall we call this land to those who follow us into its depths?
It has prairies, forests, mountains, barren wastes, and rivers; rivers
whose single lengths roll through twice a thousand miles of shoreland;
prairies over which a rider can steer for months without resting
his gaze on aught save the dim verge of the ever-shifting horizon;
mountains rent by rivers, ice-topped, glacier-seared, impassable;
forests whose sombre pines darken a region half as large as Europe;
sterile, treeless wilds whose 400,000 square miles lie spread in awful
desolation. How shall it all be called?
In summer, a land of sound, a land echoing with the voices of birds,
the ripple of running water, the mournful music of the waving
pine-branch; in winter, a land of silence, a land hushed to its inmost
depths by the weight of ice, the thick-falling snow, the intense rigour
of a merciless cold--its great rivers glimmering in the moonlight,
wrapped in their shrouds of ice; its still forests rising weird and
spectral against the Aurora-lighted horizon; its notes of bird or brook
hushed as if in death; its nights so still that the moving streamers
across the northern skies seem to carry to the ear a sense of sound, so
motionless around, above, below, lies all other visible nature.
If then we call this region the land of stillness, that name will
convey more justly than any other the impress most strongly stamped
upon the winter’s scene.