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.
The Clearwater, a river small in a land where rivers are often a mile
in width, meanders between its lofty wooded hills; or rather one should
say, meanders in the deep valley which it has worn for itself through
countless ages.
Ever since the beginning of the fur trade it has been the sole route
followed into the North. More practicable routes undoubtedly exist, but
hitherto the Long Portage (a ridge dividing the waters of the chain of
lakes and rivers we have lately passed from those streams which seek
the Arctic Ocean) and the Clearwater River have formed as it were the
gateway of the North.
This Long Portage, under its various names of La Loche and Methy, is
not a bad position from whence to take a bird’s-eye view of the Great
North.
Once upon a time, how long ago one is afraid to say, a great sea rolled
over what is now the central continent. From the Gulf of Mexico to
the Arctic Ocean, from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the base of the
Rocky Mountains, this ocean has left its trace. It had its shores, and
to-day these shores still show the trace of where the restless waves
threw their surge upon the earlier earth. To the eye of the geologist
the sea-shell, high cast upon some mountain ridge, tells its story of
the sea as plainly as the tropic sea-shell, held to the dreamer’s ear,
whispers its low melody of sounding billow.
To the east of this ocean the old earth reared its iron head in those
grim masses which we name Laurentian, and which, as though conscious of
their hoary age, seem to laugh at the labour of the new comer, man.
The waters went down, or the earth went up, it little matters which;
and the river systems of the continent worked their ways into Mother
Ocean: the Mississippi south, the St. Lawrence east, the Mackenzie
north. But the old Laurentian still remained, and to-day, grim, filled
with wild lakes, pine-clad, rugged, almost impassable it lies, spread
in savage sleep from Labrador to the Arctic Ocean.
At the Methy Portage we are on the western boundary of this Laurentian
rock; from here it runs south-east to Canada, north to the Frozen Ocean.
It is of the region lying between this primary formation and the Rocky
Mountains, the region once an ocean, of which we would speak.
I have said in an earlier chapter that the continent of British
America, from the United States’ boundary, slopes to the north-east,
the eastern slope terminates at this Portage la Loche, and henceforth
the only slope is to the north; from here to the Frozen Sea, one
thousand miles, as wild swan flies, is one long and gradual descent.
Three rivers carry the waters of this slope into the Arctic Ocean;
the great Fish River of Sir George Back, at the estuary of which the
last of Franklin’s gallant crew lay down to die; the Coppermine of
Samuel Hearne; and the Mackenzie which tells its discoverer’s name. The
first two flow through the Barren Grounds, the last drains by numerous
tributaries, seventeen hundred miles of the Rocky Mountains upon both
sides of that snow-capped range. All its principal feeders rise beyond
the mountains, cutting through the range at right angles, through
tremendous valleys, the sides of which overhang the gloomy waters.
The Liard, the Peel, the Peace rivers, all have their sources to
the west of the Rocky Mountains. Even the parent rill of the Great
Athabasca is on the Pacific side also. Nor is this mountain, thus
curiously rent in twain by large rivers, a mere ridge, or lofty
table-land; but huge and vast, capped by eternal snow, it lifts its
peaks full fifteen thousand feet above the sea level.
Many large lakes lie spread over this ancient sea bottom; Lake
Athabasca, Great Slave, and Great Bear Lake continue across the
continent, that great Lacustrine line, which, with Winnipeg, Superior,
Huron, and Ontario, forms an aggregate of water surface half as large
as Europe.
Of other lakes, the country is simply a vast network, beyond all
attempt at name or number; of every size, from a hundred yards to a
hundred miles in length, they lie midst prairie, or midst forest,
lonely and silent, scarce known even to the wild man’s ken.
And now, having thus imperfectly tried to bring to the reader’s mind a
vision of this vast North, let us descend from the height of land into
the deep valley of the Clearwater, and like it, hurry onward to the
Athabasca.
Descending the many-curving Clearwater for one day, we reached, on the
last day of February, its junction with the Athabasca, a spot known as
the Forks of the Athabasca. The aspect of the country had undergone a
complete change; the dwarf and ragged forest had given place to lofty
trees, and the white spruce from a trunk of eight feet in circumference
lifted its head fully one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. Nor
was it only the aspect of the trees that might have induced one to
imagine himself in a land of plenty. In the small fort at the Forks,
luxuries unseen during many a day met the eye; choice vegetables, the
produce of the garden; moose venison, and better than all, the tender
steak of the wood buffalo, an animal now growing rare in the North.
There was salmon too, and pears and peaches; but these latter luxuries
I need hardly say were not home produce; they came from the opposite
extremes of Quebec and California. Here, then, in the midst of the
wilderness was a veritable Eden. Here was a place to cry Halt, to build
a hut, and pass the remainder of one’s life. No more dog-driving, no
more snow shoes, no smoky camp, no aching feet, no call in midnight;
nothing but endless wood buffalo steaks, fried onions, moose moofle,
parsnips, fresh butter, rest and sleep: alas! it might not be; nine
hundred miles yet lay between me and the Rocky Mountains; nine hundred
miles had still to be travelled, ere the snow had left bare the brown
banks of the Peace River.
And now our course led straight to the north, down the broad bed of the
Athabasca. A river high shored, and many islanded, with long reaches,
leagues in length, and lower banks thick wooded with large forest trees.
From bank to bank fully six hundred yards of snow lay spread over
the rough frozen surface; and at times, where the prairie plateau
approached the river’s edge, black bitumen oozed out of the clayey
bank, and the scent of tar was strong upon the frosty air.
On Sunday, the 2nd of March, we remained for the day in a wood of large
pines and poplars. Dogs and men enjoyed that day’s rest. Many were
footsore, some were sick, all were tired.
“The Bheel is a black man, and much more hairy; he carries archers
in his hand, with these he shoots you when he meets you; he throws
your body into a ditch: by this you will know the Bheel.” Such, word
for word, was the written reply of a young Hindoo at an examination
of candidates for a Government Office in Bombay a few years ago. The
examiners had asked for a description of the hill-tribe known as
Bheels, and this was the answer. It is not on record what number of
marks the youthful Brahmin received for the information thus lucidly
conveyed, or whether the examiners were desirous of making further
acquaintance with the Bheel, upon the terms indicated in the concluding
sentence; but, for some reason or other, the first sight of a veritable
Chipewyan Indian brought to my mind the foregoing outline of the Bheel,
and I found myself insensibly repeating, “The Chipewyan is a red man,
and much more hairy.” There I stopped, for he did not carry archers in
his hand, nor proceed in the somewhat abrupt and discourteous manner
which characterized the conduct of the Bheel. And here, perhaps, it
will be necessary to say a few words about the wild man who dwells in
this Northern Land.
A great deal has been said and written about the wild man of America.
The white man during many years has lectured upon him, written learned
essays upon him, phrenologically proved him this, chronologically
demonstrated him that, ethnologically asserted him to be the tother!
I am not sure that the conchologists even have not thrown a shell at
him, and most clearly shown that he was a conglomerate of this, that,
and tother all combined. They began to dissect him very early. One
Hugh Grotius had much to say about him a long time ago. Another Jean
de Leut also descanted upon him, and so far back as the year of grace
1650, one Thorogood (what a glimpse the date gives of the name and the
name of the date!) composed a godly treatise entitled “Jews in America,
or a probability that Americans are of that race.” Perhaps, if good
Master Thorogood was in the flesh to-day he might, arguing from certain
little dealings in boundary cases, consequential claims and so forth,
prove incontestably that modern American statesmen were of that race
too. But to proceed. This question of the red man’s origin has not yet
been solved; the doctors are still disputing about him. One professor
has gotten hold of a skull delved from the presumed site of ancient
Atazlan, and by the most careful measurements of the said skull has
proceeded to show that because one skull measures in circumference the
hundredth and seventy-seventh decimal of an inch more than it ought, it
must of necessity be of the blackamoor type of headpiece.
Another equally learned professor, possessed of another equally curious
skull (of course on shelf not on shoulders), has unfortunately come to
conclusions directly opposite, and incontestably proven from careful
occipital measurements that the type is Mongolian.
While thus the doctors differ as to what he is, or who he is, or whence
he came, the farce of theory changes to the stern tragedy of fact;
and over the broad prairie, and upon the cloud-capped mountain, and
northwards in the gloomy pine-forest, the red man withers and dies out
before our gaze: soon they will have nothing but the skulls to lecture
upon.
From the Long Portage which we have but lately crossed, to the barren
shores where dwell the Esquimaux of the coasts, a family of cognate
tribes inhabit the continent; from east to west the limits of this
race are even more extensive. They are found at Churchill, on Hudson’s
Bay, and at Fort Simpson, on the rugged coast of New Caledonia. But
stranger still, far down in Arizona and Mexico, even as far south
as Nicaragua, the guttural language of the Chipewyan race is still
heard, and the wild Navajo and fierce Apache horseman of the Mexican
plains are kindred races with the distant fur-hunters of the North. Of
all the many ramifications of Indian race, this is perhaps the most
extraordinary. Through what vicissitudes of war and time, an offshoot
from the shores of Athabasca wandered down into Mexico, while a hundred
fierce, foreign, warlike tribes occupied the immense intervening
distance, is more than human conjecture can determine.
To the east of the Rocky Mountains these races call themselves
“Tinneh,” a name which signifies “People,” with that sublimity of
ignorance which makes most savage people imagine themselves the sole
proprietors of the earth. Many subdivisions exist among them; these
are the Copper Indians, and the Dog Ribs of the Barren Grounds; the
Loucheux or Kutchins, a fierce tribe on the Upper Yukon; the Yellow
Knives, Hares, Nehanies, Sickanies, and Dahas of the Mountains and the
Mackenzie River; the Slaves of the Great Slave Lake; the Chipewyans of
Lake Athabasca, and Portage la Loche, the Beavers of the Peace River.
West of the Rocky Mountains, the Carriers, still a branch of the
Chipewyan stock, intermingle with the numerous Atnah races of the
coast. On the North Saskatchewan, a small wild tribe called the
Surcees also springs from this great family, and as we have already
said, nearly three thousand miles far down in the tropic plains of Old
Mexico, the harsh, stuttering “tch” accent grates upon the ear. Spread
over such a vast extent of country it may be supposed they vary much
in physiognomy. Bravery in men and beauty in women are said to go hand
in hand. Of the courage of the Chipewyan men I shall say nothing; of
the beauty of the women I shall say something. To assert that they are
very plain would not be true; they are undeniably ugly. Some of the
young ones are very fat; all of the old ones are very thin. Many of the
faces are pear-shaped; narrow foreheads, wide cheeks, small deep-set
_fat_ eyes. The type is said to be Mongolian, and if so, the Mongolians
should change their type as soon as possible.
Several of the men wear sickly-looking moustaches, and short, pointed
chin tufts; the hair, coarse and matted, is worn long. The children
look like rolls of fat, half melted on the outside. Their general
employment seems to be eating moose meat, when they are not engaged in
deriving nourishment from the maternal bosom.
This last occupation is protracted to an advanced age of childhood,
a circumstance which probably arises from the fact that the new-born
infant receives no nourishment from its mother for four days after its
birth, in order that it shall in after life be able to stand the pangs
of hunger; but the infant mind is no doubt conscious itself that it is
being robbed of its just rights, and endeavours to make up for lost
time by this postponement of the age of weaning.
This description does not hold good of the Beaver Indians of Peace
River; many of them, men and women, are good-looking enough, but of
them more anon.
All these tribes are excellent hunters. The moose in the south and
wooded country, the reindeer in the barren lands, ducks and geese in
vast numbers during the summer, and, generally speaking, inexhaustible
fish in the lakes yield them their means of living. At times, one
prodigious feast; again, a period of starvation.
For a time living on moose nose, or buffalo tongue, or daintiest
tit-bit of lake and forest; and then glad to get a scrap of dry meat,
or a putrid fish to satisfy the cravings of their hunger. While the
meat lasts, life is a long dinner. The child just able to crawl is seen
with one hand holding the end of a piece of meat, the other end of
which is held between the teeth; while the right hand wields a knife a
foot in length, with which it saws steadily, between lips and fingers,
until the mouthful is detached. How the nose escapes amputation is a
mystery I have never heard explained.
A few tents of Chipewyans were pitched along the shores of the
Athabasca River, when we descended that stream. They had long been
expecting the return of my companion, to whose arrival they looked as
the means of supplying them with percussion gun-caps, that article
having been almost exhausted among them.
Knowing the hours at which he was wont to travel they had marked their
camping-places on the wooded shores, by planting a line of branches
in the snow across the river from one side to the other. Thus even
at night it would have been impossible to pass their tents without
noticing the line of marks. The tents inside or out always presented
the same spectacle. Battered-looking dogs of all ages surrounded the
dwelling-place. In the trees or on a stage, meat, snow-shoes, and dog
sleds, lay safe from canine ravage. Inside, some ten or twelve people
congregated around a bright fire burning in the centre. The lodge was
usually large, requiring a dozen moose skins in its construction.
Quantities of moose or buffalo meat, cut into slices, hung to dry in
the upper smoke. The inevitable puppy dog playing with a stick; the
fat, greasy child pinching the puppy dog, drinking on all fours out
of a tin pan, or sawing away at a bit of meat; and the women, old
or young, cooking or nursing with a naïveté which Rubens would have
delighted in. All these made up a Chipewyan “Interior,” such as it
appeared wherever we halted in our march, and leaving our dogs upon the
river, went up into the tree-covered shore to where the tents stood
pitched.
Anxious to learn the amount of game destroyed by a good hunter in a
season, I caused one of the men to ask Chripo what he had killed.
Chripo counted for a time on his fingers, and then informed us that
since the snow fell he had killed ten wood buffalo and twenty-five
moose; in other words, about seventeen thousand pounds of meat, during
four months. But of this a large quantity went to the Hudson’s Bay
Fort, at the Forks of the Athabasca.
The night of the 4th of March found us camped in a high wood, at a
point where a “cache” of provisions had been made for ourselves and
our dogs. More than a fortnight earlier these provisions had been sent
from Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca, and had been deposited in the
“cache” to await my companion’s arrival. A bag of fish for the dogs, a
small packet of letters, and a bag of good things for the master swung
from a large tripod close to the shore. Some of these things were very
necessary, all were welcome, and after a choice supper we turned in for
the night.
At four o’clock next morning we were off. My friend led the march, and
the day was to be a long one. For four hours we held on, and by an hour
after sunrise we had reached a hut, where dwelt a Chipewyan named Echo.
The house was deserted, and if anybody had felt inclined to ask, Where
had Echo gone to? Echo was not there to answer where. Nobody, however,
felt disposed to ask the question, but in lieu thereof dinner was
being hastily got ready in Echo’s abandoned fireplace. Dinner? Yes, our
_first_ dinner took place usually between seven and eight o’clock a.m.
Nor were appetites ever wanting at that hour either.
Various mishaps, of broken snow-shoe and broken-down dog, had retarded
my progress on this morning, and by the time the leading train had
reached Echo’s I was far behind. One of my dogs had totally given out,
not Cerf-vola, but the Ile à la Crosse dog “Major.” Poor brute! he
had suddenly lain down, and refused to move. He was a willing, good
hauler, generally barking vociferously whenever any impediment in front
detained the trains. I saw at once it was useless to coerce him after
his first break-down, so there was nothing for it but to take him from
the harness and hurry on with the other three dogs as best I could. Of
the old train which had shared my fortunes ever since that now distant
day in the storm, on the Red River steamboat, two yet remained to me.
Pony had succumbed at the Rivière la Loche, and had been left behind at
that station, to revel in an abundance of white fish. The last sight
I got of him was suggestive of his character. He was careering wildly
across the river with a huge stolen white fish in his mouth, pursued
by two men and half-a-dozen dogs, vainly attempting to recapture the
purloined property. Another dog, named “Sans Pareil,” had taken his
place, and thus far we had “marched on into the bowels of the land
without impediment.”
From the day after my departure from Ile à la Crosse I had regularly
used snow-shoes, and now I seldom sought the respite of the sled, but
trudged along behind the dogs. I well knew that it was only by sparing
my dogs thus that I could hope to carry them the immense distance I
purposed to travel; and I was also aware that a time might come when,
in the many vicissitudes of snow travel, I would be unable to walk, and
have to depend altogether on my train for means of movement. So, as day
by day the snow-shoe became easier, I had tramped along, until now, on
this 5th of March, I could look back at nigh three hundred miles of
steady walking.
Our meal at Echo’s over we set out again. Another four hours passed
without a halt, and another sixteen or seventeen miles lay behind us.
Then came the second dinner--cakes, tea, and sweet pemmican; and away
we went once more upon the river. The day was cold, but fine; the dogs
trotted well, and the pace was faster than before. Two Indians had
started ahead to hurry on to a spot, indicated by my companion, where
they were to make ready the camp, and await our arrival.
Night fell, and found us still upon the river. A bright moon silvered
the snow; we pushed along, but the dogs were now tired, all, save my
train, which having only blankets, guns, and a few articles to carry,
went still as gamely as ever. At sun-down our baggage sleds were far to
the rear. My companion driving a well-loaded sled led the way, while I
kept close behind him.
For four hours after dark we held steadily on; the night was still,
but very cold; the moon showed us the track; dogs and men seemed to go
forward from the mere impulse of progression. I had been tired hours
before, and had got over it; not half-tired, but regularly weary; and
yet somehow or other the feeling of weariness had passed away, and one
stepped forward upon the snow-shoe by a mechanical effort that seemed
destitute of sense or feeling.
At last we left the river, and ascended a steep bank to the left,
passing into the shadow of gigantic pines. Between their giant trunks
the moonlight slanted; and the snow, piled high on forest wreck, glowed
lustrous in the fretted light. A couple of miles more brought us
suddenly to the welcome glare of firelight, and at ten o’clock at night
we reached the blazing camp. Eighteen hours earlier we had started for
the day’s march, and only during two hours had we halted on the road.
We had, in fact, marched steadily during sixteen hours, twelve of which
had been at rapid pace. The distance run that day is unmeasured, and is
likely to remain so for many a day; but at the most moderate estimate
it would not have been less than fifty-six miles. It was the longest
day’s march I ever made, and I had cause long to remember it, for on
arising at daybreak next morning I was stiff with Mal de Raquette.
In the North, Mal de Raquette or no Mal de Raquette, one must march;
sick or sore, or blistered, the traveller must frequently still
push on. Where all is a wilderness, progression frequently means
preservation; and delay is tantamount to death.
In our case, however, no such necessity existed; but as we were only
some twenty-five miles distant from the great central distributing
point of the Northern Fur Trade, it was advisable to reach it without
delay. Once again we set out: debouching from the forest we entered
a large marsh. Soon a lake, with low-lying shores, spread before us.
Another marsh, another frozen river, and at last, a vast lake opened
out upon our gaze. Islands, rocky, and clothed with pine-trees, rose
from the snowy surface. To the east, nothing but a vast expanse of
ice-covered sea, with a blue, cold sky-line; to the north, a shore of
rocks and hills, wind-swept, and part covered with dwarf firs, and on
the rising shore, the clustered buildings of a large fort, with a red
flag flying above them in the cold north blast.
The “lake” was Athabasca, the “clustered buildings” Fort Chipewyan, and
the Flag--well; we all know it; but it is only when the wanderer’s eye
meets it in some lone spot like this that he turns to it, as the emblem
of a Home which distance has shrined deeper in his heart.