From Fort McPherson to Rampart House : Crossing the Peel
River : An Attempt at Intimidation : The Summit of the Rocky
Mountains : In Pacific Waters : The Porcupine : John Quatlot
Departs.
The following day I commenced to make preparations for the next stage
in my trip.
I had hoped to be able to proceed first up Rat Creek to near the summit
of the Rocky Mountains where I would make a portage of some ten miles
over the summit into the waters of the Bell River, a tributary of the
Porcupine, the latter a tributary of the Yukon, all flowing to the
Pacific, and I had brought along a good Peterborough canoe for the
purpose.
There were a few Indians at McPherson who had recently come over from
near Rampart House on the Alaskan boundary and who were willing to
engage in assisting me on my way, but they said that owing to the low
state of the water it would take us three weeks to get to Bell River
via Rat Creek with my canoe. They had come over the long portage of
eighty miles leaving their birch bark canoes at Bell River, and they
advised me to allow them to carry my outfit and supplies over this
trail to their landing place, and that as one of their canoes was a
large one I could have room in it while making the journey down to
Rampart House. This seemed a wise course and I arranged with them for
the trip.
On Tuesday, July 24, at 3.30 P.M., we crossed the Peel River to where
the trail starts. Here we made up our packs. Altogether our party
consisted of four Indians and one squaw. The latter carried only a
small pack but took charge of our three dogs, the latter also each
carrying a pack of about thirty pounds.
It was 5.30 P.M. when all was arranged and we climbed up the steep
bank of the Peel and commenced our overland journey. The weather was
sultry and threatened rain which finally overtook us. Our path was for
a few miles through a rather stunted forest which to a certain extent
protected us, but as we got away from the river the trees became
smaller and more scattered till finally at about ten o’clock we found
ahead of us a dreary Arctic swamp covered only with a short growth of
grass mixed with low shrubbery. This was the tundra so often mentioned
by Arctic travellers. The grass grows in hummocks known as _tête de
femme_ (woman’s head). The trail is generally covered with some water,
and one is often tempted to try to step from one to another of these
tufts of grass, but as the somewhat larger head rests on a slender
neck you will soon prefer to wade along the narrow path, after perhaps
having a few tumbles, which, to any one loaded with a pack, is not a
pleasant experience.
Before entering the open at about 10 P.M. and seven miles from our
starting-point, as the rain was increasing, we determined to camp for
the night. This was accomplished with some difficulty as the wind
had great strength as it blew uninterruptedly in from the dreary
waste stretching away to the north and west of us. However, with the
assistance of Mr. Stefansson, who accompanied me this far we finally
succeeded in getting my tent up and made fast in the swampy soil.
I have already referred to Mr. Stefansson, as one who no doubt will be
heard more of in the future. It is now over five years since we bade
each other good-bye on that dreary night, and ever since he has lived
almost constantly along the Arctic coast, collecting information which
it is hoped he may return to publish. He is at present somewhere in
that barren region busily studying the ethnological characteristics
of that strange race which probably at some time in its past history
was driven by its enemies beyond the habitable land to seek shelter on
these islands and capes which they have now grown to love so dearly
that they would not exchange them for any other.
There seems no reason for this except the sentiment that is enshrined
in the word “Home.” A sentiment that is world wide and which every race
on earth holds dear.
“_The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Proclaims the happiest land his own,
The naked negro panting on the line
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine._”
It rained all night and during the early morning, but cleared up about
ten o’clock when we prepared to resume our journey.
I had engaged the Indians to carry my outfit across the portage, thence
in their canoes to Rampart House, for a certain sum, and had paid them
in advance at Fort McPherson. In addition to the four Indians and squaw
whom I have mentioned, a young man had joined the party on starting,
and assisted thus far on the journey.
While we were packing up in the morning this individual in a rather
defiant manner approached me and in fair English informed me that it
would be impossible, without his assistance, for the others to carry
all that I was bringing; at the same time asking me what I proposed to
pay him for helping them across. I realised that I had to act firmly. I
would gladly have engaged him, but I felt that it was, to use a common
phrase, “a hold up,” and that if I allowed him to intimidate me at this
early stage in the journey there was no telling what he might attempt
next. My authority with the others would be weakened and they would
look on him rather than myself as leader of the party. I told him that
all the loads had been weighed before starting from the post, that his
people had been given all they asked for the work, and that if they
wanted his assistance it rested with them to pay him. In a somewhat
angry tone he said “that was not the way for a white man to talk, and
that if I did not pay him he would go ahead light and make the journey
in half the time we would.” I then told him that he must provide for
himself, as I did not want him in our party. With this he hurriedly
gathered up his blankets and a little dried meat he had, and with his
gun started ahead, and we saw no more of him. I felt greatly relieved
when he left, and after this I heard not the slightest complaint from
any one of the party, though they were heavily loaded; so much so that
I could not refrain from assisting them myself, and the fact was that
from this point across I believe I bore my fair share with the rest,
according to my strength, though in real weight I only took a small
fraction of what one of the men carried. This particular Indian and his
wife, who was with us, were really fine specimens of their race. Both
were young, of splendid stature, and really good looking, and though he
must have carried over 100 pounds across that eighty miles, it was all
done without any show of irritability but with the utmost good nature,
while the wife also bore her share without complaint.
We did not get started on this, our second day on the trail, till 11
o’clock, but travelled till 8.30 P.M. and camped on the bank of a
small stream flowing southerly and emptying into a larger one flowing
easterly into the Peel. The latter is known as La Pierre or “Stony
Creek,” and our trail lay in the valley of this stream all the way to
the “great divide.” The small stream where we camped was at this time
only two rods wide and fifteen inches deep, but evidently is one of
considerable size at other seasons of the year.
The weather was hot till late in the afternoon, when it turned cooler.
My Indians informed me that on their trip across this portage a few
weeks before they had suffered with the intense heat and lost some of
their dogs in consequence of it.
This was about the same time that we had experienced the excessive
heat on the Athabaska. Perhaps the reader will recall the extreme
hot weather that I am informed was general throughout what I may call
Southern Canada as well as the United States in the early part of July
1906. It would seem that this hot wave had extended from the Gulf of
Mexico to the Arctic Ocean.
During this second day’s journey the trail was generally through what
might be called an Arctic swamp, but occasionally we would ascend an
eminence, and on each occasion I cast a glance back where I could see
Fort McPherson, but each successive time it grew more indistinct,
till finally it was lost to view and the last link with civilisation
in that direction was broken. It had seemed to me up to this time
that something might happen which would prevent my getting across the
portage and cause me to return to McPherson by the same route which I
had previously taken. But the return would not have been by steamers,
but in my canoe, which was still at McPherson. From now on, however,
there was fortunately no looking backward.
On July 26 we started at 9 A.M. and travelled till 7 P.M., making about
eighteen miles, and crossing another small stream in the afternoon.
Our course still lay westerly up the same valley, with Stony Creek far
below us to the left. The day was quite cool and the night decidedly
so. We were now well up the mountains and some snow was seen in the
ravines. This was the most fatiguing day of the trip. Though there
was really no mountain climbing in the usual sense of the term, the
continual gradual ascent was most wearisome, and right glad was I when
the Indians threw off their packs on the bank of another small creek.
We left camp at 8.30 A.M. on Friday the 27th, and at 1 P.M. reached
“the summit” of the Rocky Mountains at a height of 2600 feet above
sea level in the pass, though the mountains on each side are from two
to three thousand feet higher. Shortly after this we crossed a stream
which flowed into one further south, similar in size to Stony Creek,
but, of course, flowing westerly with its waters coursing on their way
into the Pacific Ocean.
Immediately after crossing the height of land we found the travelling
much easier, for we were now on the descent and though to the eye this
was scarcely discernible, and the swamp was just as wet as before,
yet, when we rested for the night I was by no means so tired as on the
previous night, though we had travelled several miles farther. The
weather was cool and (blessed boon) there were no mosquitoes. We passed
over some snow on the hill sides, but without the least difficulty, as
it was almost as hard as ice.
On Saturday the 28th we started at 8 A.M. and immediately forded the
stream by which we had camped and in the valley of which we had been
travelling since crossing the summit; it was of considerable size, but
at this season was easily forded. Four miles further on we crossed
the same stream again. The mountain scenery here was very beautiful,
though the peaks are not so high as further south, though they probably
attain an elevation of 5000 feet above sea level. No large glaciers
are to be seen in this region, but considerable snow remains the year
round on some of the peaks. At noon a high mountain lay directly in
front of us to the west with great valleys both north and south of it.
Following our trail as it bore off to the north to avoid this mountain,
we finally came to the same stream again which we now crossed for
the last time, now flowing to the north. It had evidently received a
tributary since our last crossing, for its contents were much greater,
and though its depth was not over eighteen inches the current was
very rapid, and without the assistance of one of the Indians I fear I
would have had trouble in making the ford. We camped immediately after
crossing.
So far we had experienced no rain after the first night out, but this
afternoon showed symptoms of an approaching storm, which I greatly
feared, the swamps being bad enough even in dry weather. As we were
wading through one of these the squaw asked me if I would travel the
next day (Sunday). I did not wish to show them a bad example, while
at the same time I disliked halting a whole day when the weather was
threatening and our supplies of food were growing short, so I told her
they could do as they chose in the matter. She immediately replied
that Archdeacon Macdonald always told them it was not wrong to walk on
Sunday when they were short of “grub.” I told her Archdeacon Macdonald
was a good man. She said “yes,” and I knew then what they would do.
On the following morning old John Quatlot, as faithful a man as I ever
met, was up at an unusually early hour and had breakfast ready by
about six o’clock. After this was over and before starting, I walked
down along the stream a short distance, and, on my way back heard an
old familiar hymn, and on approaching found all had joined in the
religious service for this particular day. Each of them had his prayer
and hymn book, while one who was a lay reader had with him Archdeacon
Macdonald’s translation of a portion of the scriptures. After the
service was concluded they shouldered their packs and started again on
the trail, and soon entered one of the worst swamps we had encountered.
After this we made a slight ascent and then commenced the descent of
a steep hill partially wooded, at the foot of which flowed the Bell
River. We had at last, in less than five days, reached the end of the
portage, the length of which was, as has been previously said, about
eighty miles. I have only one further word to say about this trail,
and it is to warn any one not to attempt the journey without a guide,
even in summer, for there is very little travel over it, and the marks
made in the swamps one year will be almost obliterated the next. In
many places the path is covered with water, but there is no fear of
miring anywhere, as perpetual frost is found less than a foot below the
surface.
On the bank of the Bell we left the Indian, Charlie Fox, and his wife
with their dogs, he having given us his canoe. After resting a day or
two he intended to build a raft on which they would float down stream
over a hundred and fifty miles to his home, at the junction of the Old
Crow River with the Porcupine.
It was a pleasant sight to behold the calm waters of the Bell in front
of us and to realise that by our journey of less than five days we had
reached the waters flowing into the Pacific Ocean, but this pleasure
was soon marred when I saw the canoes in which we were about to embark.
I had been assured that one of the three was a large craft capable of
carrying two men with a lot of “dunnage,” I had also expected that this
one would be constructed on lines similar to those used in the east,
where my man would sit in the stern and steer while I would have the
pleasure of a comfortable seat in the bow and be able to assist with
my paddle. But I soon realised that this would be impossible, as this
canoe was built on the same lines as those I had seen at McPherson and
at other points along the Mackenzie. They are very long and narrow
with the bow and stern decked over similar to the Esquimaux kayak. In
other respects they resemble a single scull without the sliding seat.
The Captain, and the propeller of the craft, took his seat near the
centre, and I was assigned one immediately behind him, so near him as
to make it impossible for me to use a paddle. All I had to do was to
sit perfectly still while my man did all the paddling and steering.
The latter was done by his making about four strokes on one side and
then changing his paddle to the other side. However, before starting,
at my instance, they lashed the three canoes together by cross pieces,
making a sort of catamaran, and we were soon gliding down stream at
the rate of about four miles an hour, without any danger of capsizing,
but with some feelings for poor Charlie Fox and his wife, who waved
us good-bye until a turn in the river hid them from view. But this
feeling of security did not last long. After a couple of hours we went
ashore for lunch, and, to my dismay, on starting they insisted on
disengaging the canoes and by no manner nor means could I induce them
to desist from this determination. Finally we compromised on their
agreeing to try how they would go separately, and if not satisfactory
to again lash them together. With great reluctance I took my place in
the largest canoe, weighed down in the centre to about three inches of
the water. In a steady craft this would have been ample, but ours was
about the most cranky of its species. On starting I thought it would be
utterly impossible for us to continue this, but, once under way, the
impetus made it a little steadier, and, as the water this afternoon was
perfectly calm, we succeeded in making a landing in the evening without
any accident, but with the firm determination on my part that we would
revert to our former plan the next morning. In the evening we discussed
the matter as best we could, considering their limited knowledge of
English and my ignorance of their language. They tried to persuade me
that there was less danger separately than when hitched together if
the water became rough, as in that case it would splash up between
the canoes and swamp them, but I soon learned that the real reason
for their refusal was that they could go much faster separately, and
they were in a great hurry to get to their homes before the run of the
salmon was over.
GAME AND FISH
Heretofore the principal talk all down the Mackenzie Valley has been
of the bear, the moose and the caribou but once the Pacific waters are
reached the salmon occupies the same place with the natives that the
wheat crop does with the prairie settler. It forms the great staple
of the country and stands between the inhabitants and starvation. Sir
Alexander Mackenzie tells us of how he intimidated an Indian chief near
the Pacific by informing him that Great Britain owned the ocean and
that unless he treated him properly he would inform his king, who would
stop the salmon from coming up the rivers. His threat had the desired
effect.
The day was cloudy with some rain, but the men paddled hard and on
till ten o’clock at night, and when we went ashore we were probably
between twenty-five and thirty miles from where we started with the
canoes.
The next morning, finding it useless to try to persuade them to connect
their canoes, and seeing that they were making such fast time with them
separated, I docilely took my place again, but I can never forget the
few days during which I occupied this position. I was aware that there
was perhaps little danger if I sat perfectly still, providing we did
not strike a rock or snag in the river, but to sit perfectly still for
about sixteen hours out of the twenty-four was most trying. If I made
the slightest move my man would look round and though he said nothing
there was an expression on his face which conveyed at once a reproof
and a warning. If I could have had anything to do it would have been
a great relief, but to sit upright without moving was exceedingly
wearisome and moreover, after the fatiguing trip across the portage,
once I was relieved of exercise, the monotony of the river journey made
it almost impossible for me to resist falling asleep. This I dared
not do, for the chances would be that once consciousness was gone I
would make a move that would upset our frail craft. I have since read
an account of a canoe trip made across Great Slave Lake over a hundred
years ago, by one of the early traders, in a craft of the same kind,
which graphically describes a similar experience, and in which the
difficulty of keeping awake is emphasised.
Shortly after starting on the first day the Indians killed three wild
geese, which made us an excellent meal, and, strange to say, during the
excitement of the shooting, notwithstanding the greater risk, I forgot
all sense of danger that was otherwise constantly with me.
We reached the mouth of the Bell and entered the Porcupine about 10
o’clock of the second day. The Bell at our start was perhaps a hundred
yards or less in width, which increased as we approached its mouth,
while the Porcupine where we entered it must have been three or four
times as large. The colour of the water in the Bell, too, is darker
than in the larger stream. Both streams, following the character of
many of these northern rivers, have strong currents, but very few
rapids. So much is this the case that even with our small canoes we had
not a single portage to make all the way from our starting point down
to Rampart House on the Alaska boundary, a distance of not less than
225 miles. Not only this, but from Rampart House down to the Yukon, a
distance equally great, was made in a small row boat without a single
interruption.
A fringe of small timber, principally spruce, lines the banks of both
streams but does not extend far back.
The day was cool and cloudy with occasional light showers. The Indians,
however, cared not for these, but paddled very hard all day, and till
9.30 at night, when we went ashore and camped at the mouth of Driftwood
River, having made probably sixty miles. The land along the route so
far was clay and gravel, but no matter what its quality the climate
forbids successful agriculture. At less than a foot below the surface
the ground is constantly frozen, even during the hottest summer months.
The Indians killed several wild geese with very little effort. Most of
them, notwithstanding the fact that they were full size, were unable to
fly, owing to their wings not having yet attained sufficient strength.
They merely chased the fowls to the shore and killed them when they
attempted to climb the steep banks of the river.
On Tuesday, July 31, we left camp at 7 A.M. and made another long
journey about the same distance as the day before, arriving at Old
Crow River at 7 P.M., and killing eight or ten geese on the way;
another twelve wearisome and uneasy hours. A raw wind with showers made
travelling very uncomfortable during the whole day, but the Indians had
set their hearts on reaching their home that night and nothing would
stop them.
Both the Bell and Porcupine are very crooked, so much so that the
distance is probably three times as great by following the windings
of the stream as it would be in a straight line, and while the wind
assisted us on certain stretches, this was more than counter-balanced
by the delay it caused us on others, and I was in almost constant fear
that our canoes would be swamped.
The high cut banks of the Porcupine when seen at a distance through
a haze or light fog take on the most fantastic shapes, frequently
resembling great buildings of all styles of architecture, and it is
impossible for me to adequately describe an illusion of this kind that
met our view as we approached the Indian encampment at the mouth of the
Old Crow River.
It was a cloudy hazy evening with a stiff wind from the north and,
as we rounded a point leading up to the encampment, a great city
apparently lay a few miles away, with piers and vessels in front and
buildings of various kinds extending far back from the shore. There
was a church with its spire so real in its appearance as almost to
persuade me that my Indians had been over modest in not informing me of
their skill in architecture. It was a most bewildering sensation and
gave me some anxious thoughts. Could it be that the strain that I had
undergone, especially during those last few days, produced by fear and
anxiety, was causing such visions to appear, or was it the prelude of a
catastrophe that seemed any moment likely to happen as our little canoe
was at this very time attempting to ride waves on this stretch of the
river which it seemed foolhardy to attempt?
Altogether the situation was to me most perplexing.
This illusion was kept up for fully half an hour, though varying
somewhat in appearance. I watched the panorama till finally through
the haze one portion of the high bank after another gave up its
fancied appearance and resumed its true character, when, instead of
the castellated city, which in this vision I had pictured as the
home of the Indians, I saw only about forty half-starved creatures
out on the bank to welcome us, while behind among the trees were a
dozen dilapidated tents; the entire surroundings indicating want and
starvation, sickness and a struggle for existence known only to those
who are condemned to live in this Arctic land.
AN INDIAN CAMP
Before reaching the village one of my men fired off his gun as a signal
of our approach. This was quickly answered, and shortly after our three
canoes landed and John Tizzard, his son Jacob, and old John Quatlot, my
three companions, were welcomed by their friends.
One old squaw, the wife of John Quatlot, instead of exhibiting joy at
their return seemed overcome with grief and commenced a fearful tale
of woe, which led me to think that some, if not all their family had
died during her husband’s absence. I soon perceived that old John paid
little attention to what she said. I had not yet become acquainted with
the practice of these people on meeting each other, which is first to
tell all the troubles they have had since parting.
The first thing done was to make tea. Then all partook of a meal, which
under the circumstances was a very scanty one indeed. Then a hymn was
sung and a thanksgiving service offered up, which certainly seemed very
appropriate. After this there was so much to relate that the short
twilight had given place to the dawning of another day before they
retired to rest.
So anxious were they all to hear the news on our arrival that I had
difficulty in getting any assistance in putting up my tent. Finally a
young man came over and helped me for a few moments and then hurried
back, evidently anxious not to miss any of the news. Of course I
understood but little of what was said, but I heard over and over again
the names of Bishop Bompas and Mary Christie, for they all knew the
late beloved Bishop and some of them were related to the young wife
whose death at Edmonton I have already mentioned. My supplies were
nearly exhausted and dry bread and tea had to suffice for my supper.
The Indian always expects a feast when a white man visits him,
and great was their disappointment when I failed to gratify their
anticipations.
The weather cleared up during the night, and when I awoke in the
morning and walked out from my tent with the sun shining in all its
Arctic splendour the view was more than charming. Our camp was on a
point some forty feet above the river, and, below, the calm waters
glistened in the sunlight like a sea of glass. What a change from
the night before; when the same waters, angered by the north wind,
threatened our little canoes and caused me an hour of downright fear
such as I had never before experienced. For miles and miles the river
could be traced, winding through the valley land, while far beyond
were the mountains with their snow capped peaks, one beyond the other
as far as the eye could reach.
What a smiling morning! All nature was so tranquil, that any
forebodings for the future were too pessimistic, and one could scarcely
even feel lonely or isolated. To add to the picture the Indians were
seen out on the river in their little canoes, at home in their favoured
vocation--fishing for the salmon. Altogether it was such a scene that
the contemplation of it even yet brings the keenest enjoyment.
When the canoes came ashore they were fairly well laden with the
choicest of fish. Owing to the state of my larder I was particularly
glad of their success. I bought a few, giving them money and a little
tea in exchange and promised them that when I got to Rampart House,
where I expected to get fresh supplies, I would send them a present,
especially of tea and tobacco. An Indian camp is always in a starving
condition if it is out of these two articles. The order of supplies
are, first tea, next tobacco, then meat and lastly flour.
In every Indian village along the whole route it was disheartening
to see so many of the people sick and without any means of getting
medical treatment, but this encampment was perhaps the worst of any
in this respect, and the appeals for medicine were most urgent. They
know nothing as to what remedies should be taken for any specific
ailment, but think that any kind of medicine should cure any disease
in the calendar. I remember an incident at Fort Frances many years
ago. A young Indian who had a sprained wrist, insisted that by taking
painkiller inwardly he was greatly relieved, saying that it went down
his throat and then right down to his wrist. Probably the spirits in
this remedy was what he liked most, but I have known them to take other
remedies that certainly were not palatable, where the effect was as
remote from the ailment as in the former case.
During our trip I heard much from John Quatlot regarding his son Elias.
The poor old Indian seemed very proud of his boy, as well as of his
given name, which he took pains to tell me was in the Bible. John
Tizzard seemed to regard this as a boast, and on one occasion made the
remark that the name Jacob, by which his own son was known, was also
in the Bible.
Quatlot informed me, too, that his son had other accomplishments.
He was a good hunter, a good Christian, and he could talk to me in
English. I was further informed that he was an expert canoe man, and of
this I would have proof as he intended having him take me in his big
canoe from Old Crow to Rampart House, the old man explaining that he
was tired and needed a rest after his long journey.
My expectations, however, were doomed to disappointment on several
points. Elias spoke sufficient English to ask me how much I intended
to give him for his proposed services. I had already paid considerably
more than I had promised, and the agreement was that they should take
me to Rampart House, so I told him that in this case he was taking the
place of his father, who needed a rest; that I was not anxious that
he should come except to relieve his father; and that it rested with
himself to say whether he wished to come or not. At this he seemed very
much displeased, and the old man himself made ready to start. It was
really painful to see how chagrined he felt at his son’s conduct; not
so much for the work he was compelled to do, as for the unfavourable
impression which he knew I had formed regarding his boy. He said very
little for some time, but his affection for Elias was stronger than
his resentment, and in his very broken English he at length tried to
make excuses for him, saying he was a good boy but that he was not well
enough to come.
A VISIT TO RAMPART HOUSE
About ten o’clock in the morning we started. Our party now consisting
of Jacob in a single canoe and old John and I in another, John Tizzard
remaining with his people at the Old Crow encampment. There was no big
canoe, however, and I took my place behind the old man in the same one
that had carried me before, but as it was not quite so heavily loaded I
felt more comfortable. The day continued fine throughout, the water was
without a ripple, the current strong, and we glided down the tortuous
course of the stream at almost steamboat speed. At night we reached a
point near the entrance of Blue Fish River, a long distance from our
start in the morning, and camped on the beach. The Porcupine is here
about sixty rods wide, and the water becomes clearer as the stream
descends. The night was clear and calm. This was the first of August,
over a month beyond the summer solstice. Consequently the period of
perpetual daylight was passed and the stars were faintly visible for an
hour or more before and after midnight.
I had a restful and refreshing sleep with less forebodings of accident
than I had enjoyed since starting with the canoes. To-morrow we should
reach Rampart House if all should go well. There is one point, however,
on this stretch of the river which we were told at McPherson might
prove dangerous because of a partially submerged rock in a short rapid.
I talked this over as best I could with my two men, but they told me
there would be no danger at the existing depth of the water. This we
afterwards found to be the case.
On Thursday, August 2, another lovely summer day, we left camp at 8.45
A.M. In a few hours the river narrowed to less than half its usual
width, and the current correspondingly increased, carrying us along
at great speed. We were now in the upper ramparts of the Porcupine.
Though not to be compared in grandeur with those of the Mackenzie,
they nevertheless possess characteristics that are entirely unique.
The stream winds around between sandstone banks, and at every turn in
the descent, new scenes open up to view that are very tempting to the
photographer. At noon we saw a tent on the beach, and as we approached
found it occupied by a white man, the first we had seen since leaving
McPherson. He was engaged in fishing, laying up his winter supply for
himself and his dogs.
I soon learned that he was a member of a distinguished family of
Eastern Canada, the son of a man to the foresight and energy of whom
the city and Port of Montreal are greatly indebted. He had wandered
far from his old home and associates through this northern wilderness,
strangely infatuated with the wild life and the charm which it
possesses. He informed me that he was expecting an appointment as
Customs officer from the Dominion Government for Rampart House on the
Alaska boundary, and I told him that I had seen what was undoubtedly
his commission with the forms appertaining to his office many times
on our way down to Fort McPherson, as the mail bag was opened at the
different posts, and that it was then awaiting him at the Fort on
Peel River. Whether he received these precious documents or not I am
unable to say. About an hour after we beheld a few log buildings on
the right bank of the river, and were greeted by the barking of dogs
and a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of this isolated village,
Rampart House. We had looked anxiously forward to our arrival here for
two reasons: first because our supplies of food were all but entirely
exhausted, and secondly it was here where I hoped to be able to discard
those cockle shells of canoes for more comfortable craft.
The white man whom we met an hour before, however, while holding out
some hopes of my getting a row boat from a half breed, conveyed to me
the unwelcome information that the season’s provisions had not yet
reached the post, and that I would probably have to be satisfied with
obtaining only a little dried meat; that they might have a little tea
and tobacco left also, but that they were absolutely out of flour, the
very article I was needing most.
Just as we reached the landing I saw a large row boat tied up at the
shore, on which were a few white men. They were bound for the Upper
Porcupine, where they intended to spend the autumn and winter in
trapping, and also in exploring for mineral in that region. I saw one
of the men sitting in his boat with an Indian at his side, busily
obtaining such information as he could get of the geography of the
upper river country, with which he was a stranger. From the instruction
given him he was endeavouring to construct a map, which I soon saw
would be of little service to him. It so happened I had with me a
lithographed map conveying just the information he needed. Here was
my opportunity, and it was not long till we had made a bargain. For a
few pounds of flour I handed over the map, which was of no further use
to me, but which I had little doubt would be of great service to him;
a good illustration of the fact that barter between individuals is
frequently profitable to both parties.
Rampart House is in Canadian territory, but the 141st meridian which
divides our territory from that of Alaska is only a few hundred yards
west of the post. In fact the surveyed line between the two is within
sight of the village. It was formerly a post of the Hudson Bay Company,
but is now occupied by Mr. Dan Cadzow, an independent trader. He was at
this time absent from his post, having gone to Dawson City some time
before for his winter’s stock of supplies. He was expected back any
day, and his return was eagerly looked for by the few people of the
post as well as by the Indian hunters of the district, all of whom were
dependent on him for many of the necessaries of life.
A French Canadian, bearing the Hibernian name of Healy, was the only
white man at the post during Cadzow’s absence and was in charge of
the store--if such it could be called. Shortly after my arrival, on
learning that I was from Ottawa, he confidentially informed me that he
was expecting the appointment of Customs officer and beseeched me to
urge his claims for the position. The fact of there being two aspirants
for an office that certainly could not be a remunerative one was a
reminder that I was approaching civilisation. Beyond the prestige that
the office might give to the holder among the Indians and half breeds
of the district, I could not see why any one should wish to hold it.
Healy could not speak the Loucheaux tongue, the language of the country
himself, but his better half, an Indian woman, known by the “classic
name” of Big Mary, possessed as he said “Les Deux Langues,” and was the
interpreter for the post.
It was difficult for me to realise that within the comparatively short
period of nine days I had travelled fully 300 miles through a most
inhospitable wilderness, and it was a relief to know that from here on
I would probably have no longer to endure the anxiety that had attended
me from day to day ever since leaving the Peel river at McPherson.
[Illustration: RAMPART HOUSE ON THE PORCUPINE RIVER]
Great news greeted us on our arrival here. Some hunters had come in
from the mountains to the North bearing a report that the caribou had
arrived. They had already shot eleven and could have had many more but
that they were short of ammunition. It was pleasant to see how this
information cheered up the poor natives. Instead of the sad and
hopeless expression which had characterised nearly every one we had
heretofore met, all now looked happy in anticipation of what was to
come. The words which we had so often heard and which meant “short of
meat,” were now changed to “_plenty caribou_,” the latter spoken in
English.
Old John Quatlot spoke more English than I ever thought him capable of,
as he made me understand that he was going to leave his canoe here and
that he and Jacob would go back to their home over the mountains, where
they would be sure to meet the caribou and lay in a winter’s supply of
meat.
Right glad was I to leave him in such a cheerful mood. Surely, if there
is anything in the law of compensation, such a noble disposition as his
deserved some recompense. I have long contended that there is just as
great a diversity of character in individuals in savage as in civilised
life, and this ignorant Loucheaux Indian possessed qualities that would
adorn the life of the best in any society. As I bade him good-bye he
took my hand in his and said that I would go away off to my home in
the south while he would return to his at “Old Crow”; that by-and-by he
would die and I would die, and that then we would make a long journey
through the air; that finally we would meet, and the Great Spirit would
join our hands again. Such simple childlike faith, coupled with such a
warmth of feeling, was almost sublime.