Leaving Fort Norman : A Sad Case : In Arctic Regions : Arrival at
Fort McPherson.
We left Fort Norman about midnight; had a good run, and on rising the
next morning the 19th, were more than half way to Fort Good Hope. At
2 P.M. and at a distance of about six miles above Fort Good Hope we
noticed that all our fellow-passengers who knew the river were on
deck. This meant something, and as we looked forward and on each side
it seemed as if we were in a cul-de-sac. We knew the river must find
a passage somewhere but so far as one could see it seemed impossible
that there could be an opening anywhere of sufficient size to permit
the escape of the waters of this mighty stream. As we were watching
and wondering where the outlet could be the steamer suddenly turned
sharply to starboard and before us lay a narrow strip of shining water
apparently only a few hundred feet in width. Down this we glided
at great speed between cliffs of limestone on either side of great
heights. We had reached the upper ramparts of the Mackenzie. These
walls of perpendicular sandstone resemble huge fortifications, like
another Gibraltar but one which no enemy is likely to approach.
For about four miles we were hurried down this great gorge at almost
railway speed, so it was not long till the waters again expanded to
a width of a mile or more and revealed on the right bank another
picturesque whitewashed village, Fort Good Hope. Its situation on a
level plateau is charming. The banks are about thirty feet high and the
soil is similar to that all along the river, being a rich deposit very
much resembling that of our great prairies. I saw potatoes in blossom,
cabbage, onions and other vegetables in the gardens here, but this was
the last we saw going North. As we proceeded farther the frost in the
soil reached too near the surface to permit their maturing. Spruce
timber of sufficient size for sawing into lumber is obtained on an
island in the river.
[Illustration:
_Copyright Ernest Brown_
THE RAMPARTS, MACKENZIE RIVER]
A SAD CASE
Some time in April before leaving home I received a letter from an old
friend named Slean. It had been written on Christmas Day from Arctic
Red River Post, some 300 miles beyond Fort Good Hope. The writer, who
had gone north the previous summer from Edmonton was engaged with
an independent fur trading company, and being a young man of good
education was desirous of having some diversion from the everlasting
talk of “Furs and Supplies,” to beguile his lonely life and requested
me to endeavour to get the Government to establish a Meteorological
Office there, and to say that if they would send him a few instruments
and the necessary forms he would be glad to report as frequently as
possible, adding a most unusual proposition for an applicant for a
government position that he would not expect any salary. This request I
forwarded on to my friend Mr. Stupart, Director of the Meteorological
Observatory, and on my way down I had the satisfaction of seeing these
requisites en route.
I did not reply to the letter inasmuch as I was going by the first
transport and would reach his post in person at the same time as a
letter would, and I looked forward with a good deal of pleasure to
surprising him in his distant home.
Just as we were entering Great Slave Lake, a week before reaching Good
Hope, we passed the scows owned by Slean’s Company, also going North as
far as Fort Good Hope, which point we would reach some time before they
would. I was informed by the man in charge that Slean would probably
come up to Good Hope to get the scow containing his supplies which they
pointed out to me as “No. 11,” and that he would likely be there on our
arrival.
Our steamer had been expected at Fort Good Hope for several days and
her arrival was anxiously looked for, so that when she did appear at a
convenient hour all the village was on the bank to greet us. I looked
anxiously among the dusky faces to see the fair complexion of my friend
but he was not present, so I inquired for the buildings of his Company.
A few whitewashed houses were pointed out a little down the river to
which I at once repaired, and on inquiry from a white man whom I met
was informed that my friend was in one of the houses, but that he was
very ill. On entering I was told that he had reached Good Hope two
weeks previously from his own post after a ten days’ journey up stream,
but in such a weak condition that he had to be helped up the bank from
his canoe. Since that time he had continued to get worse and that there
was no hope of his recovery. I was informed that he was sleeping in an
adjoining room. A few moments later he awoke and I entered the room. It
had little the appearance of a sick room except that of the occupant.
We are so accustomed to associate with the sick chamber clean linen,
comfortable bedding, with all the little delicacies of nourishment and
soothing cordials, that the contrast in this case was disheartening.
Not that his two white friends were not less attentive than a trained
nurse would have been. On the contrary they were doing all that mortals
could under the circumstances. One of these men was a Mr. Darrell, who
had accompanied Hanbury, on his trip around the shore of the Arctic
Sea a year or two before, and whose excellent qualities are mentioned
in Hanbury’s narrative of that expedition, and I know he refused a
good offer for the season rather than leave the sick man. The other
young man, Slater, who was also with him I have no reason to think was
less attentive, but it was impossible to obtain, especially before the
arrival of the supplies which our boat brought, food that would tempt
the palate of a white man even in good health. He recognised me at once
and commenced his conversation by informing me in broken accents that
he had taken a little cold on his way up the river but that he was all
right and would get up the next morning, take a good cold bath and be
around again; but I saw at once that he was in a delirious condition
and that in all human probability his wanderings would soon be over.
I spent an hour with him which I repeated before our steamer left at
midnight. His death came even sooner than I expected, for I afterwards
learned that he passed away the next day, and when our steamer called
on her return trip shortly after, the passengers visited a lonely grave
in the Catholic Cemetery in which lay the remains of William John
Slean. This was another reminder that the bright Arctic summer days
sometimes have their dark shadows.
It was a little after midnight of July 20, when we left Good Hope and
on rising next morning I found we had passed the Arctic Circle. The
river is now widening, the banks are getting lower and the timber is
growing smaller, all these indicate that we are fast drifting down
towards the Arctic Sea. Some time in the evening we stopped at Arctic
Red River at the entrance of a stream of the same name. It certainly
was the least desirable place for any civilised man to choose for
a home, that I had yet seen in all this Northland. A few houses,
the church and the graveyard were all crowded on the side of a hill
rising abruptly from the river. Perpetual frost was found only a foot
beneath the surface of the soil, and we no longer beheld the emblems
of civilised life, the vegetable and flower gardens, that go so far to
make many of those lonely posts seem somewhat cheerful.
I wandered up to the log shack which poor Slean had occupied during the
previous winter and which he had left only a few weeks before. A more
dreary habitation it would be difficult to imagine. I looked around the
room to see if there was any memento that I might carry home to his
friends, but the only thing I could see was a little green flag pinned
to the wall, a touching tribute of patriotic devotion to the far away
island which had given him birth. It seemed like desecration to remove
it, so I allowed it to remain where he had placed it.
We only stopped an hour or two at this dreary place and then started
for our last and the most northerly post in the country, Fort
McPherson. At 1.30 the next morning, July 21, I rose as we were
rounding Point Separation, so named from the parting here of Sir John
Franklin and Dr. Richardson in 1825, when they separated for their
perilous trips around the shores of the frozen ocean, Franklin going
west from the mouth of the Mackenzie, and Richardson, coasting easterly
towards Coronation Gulf. The sun was just skirting the northern horizon
and I endeavoured to get a photo of it which I am sorry proved rather a
failure.
[Illustration:
_Copyright Ernest Brown_
THE MIDNIGHT SUN]
Point Separation lies at the junction of the Peel River with the
Mackenzie, and is in latitude about 67° 50´ N. Below this point lies
the delta of the Mackenzie which is many miles in width, with numerous
islands between here and the sea about 100 miles distant. At the point
where Franklin and Richardson camped two spruce trees were pointed
out marked as lobsticks which are said to have been so marked by them
in commemoration of the event. Both are still standing, though one is
now dead. The Indians have a tradition that a quantity of spirits were
cached somewhere in this vicinity, which they say they have never been
able to discover. Personally, I have very grave doubts of the accuracy
of this report. The Indian is a good hunter, and I know of nothing that
would excite him to greater activity than the prospect of such a reward.
After rounding Point Separation we enter the Peel River which at this
point is over a mile wide. We soon noticed that our speed was much
slower than heretofore and the reason was obvious. For the first time
in our long journey of over 1800 miles we were going against the
current. Heretofore we have been constantly sailing down the Arctic
slope. Shortly after entering the Peel our steamer stopped to take
on wood, this reminded me of the frequent habit of railway trains
which, after running for hundreds of miles on time stop all at once
just outside the station of their destination. We were all anxious to
see this far northern village at the end of our long river journey and
anxiously waited for a final start. After about two hours’ delay a
start was made, and soon after we beheld in the distance on the high
bank of the east side of the Peel, the houses of Fort McPherson with
the white tents of the Esquimaux on the beach below. These Esquimaux
had come over in their whale boats from Herschel Island in the Arctic
Sea to meet the _Wrigley_. Their complexion is almost white with a dash
of ruddy colour that indicates health. They are very cheerful and good
natured, are not at all diffident like so many of our Indian tribes. On
the contrary, they are very inquisitive and disposed to make themselves
almost too familiar. They are of fair stature and do not show any of
the marks of the struggle for existence that is so observable in their
neighbours, the Indians, in this part of the country.
[Illustration: AT MCPHERSON: INDIANS, HALF-BREEDS AND ESQUIMAUX IN
FOREGROUND]
At Fort McPherson, as at all points visited in the last 1300 miles of
our journey, no news from the outside world had been received since the
last winter mail in March. For over four months the news passed on from
post to post was purely local, hunting parties returning from their
winter quarters, whose accounts frequently were of hardships endured,
among which the phrase, “short of meat,” were familiar words even in
the mouths of natives who knew very little English. Another item would
come from the ice bound whalers out on the Arctic Sea.
We were the first to inform them of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius
and of the San Francisco earthquake both of which had happened months
before. Another message was one of sadness to all throughout the
Mackenzie and Yukon Valleys, namely, the death of Bishop Bompas, truly
named the Apostle of the North, who was familiarly known to every
inhabitant and as universally esteemed.
Fort McPherson is as stated the most northerly of the Hudson Bay
Company’s Posts. Its latitude is 67° 25´ and it is truly an Arctic
Village. For six weeks in summer the sun never sets and is constantly
below the horizon for the same time in winter. The thermometer went as
low as 68° below zero (Fahrenheit) the winter before. The inhabitants
are in close touch with the Esquimaux of the Arctic Sea and with the
whaling ships that annually visit these waters. These whalers are
mostly from San Francisco, coming up through Behring Strait in the
early summer and returning in the autumn. In the season of 1905 most
of them were trapped in the ice that blocked the Straits and were
compelled to remain there till the next season. They went into winter
quarters at Herschel Island where there is a detachment of the Royal
North-West Mounted Police. They were not sufficiently supplied with
provisions for this emergency, and they, too, soon became familiar
with the common phrase, “short of meat,” and had to rely largely on
what could be obtained in the country. They engaged the Indians of
the Mainland to supply them with meat from the chase with the result
that the shipment of fur from McPherson for that season was very much
smaller than usual.