OVER THE GREAT PLATEAU.
It is a wonderful place, this roof of the Labrador. Ridge on ridge,
some of considerable height, roll away seemingly to the world’s end. In
the valleys and cups of the hills lie thousands of nameless lakes. The
winds, during the greater part of the year, rage over it. It is sheer
desolation, abysmal and chaotic. Of dominant notes there are but two,
the ivory-coloured reindeer moss and the dark Laurentian stone. On the
flanks and on the peaks of the mountains, in the beds of the brooks, on
the shore of the lakes all over this huge tableland, are strewn the grey
Laurentian boulders in their infinite millions—gigantic and glacier-born
seeds sown in the dawning of the world. When the sun shines, to quote
Saltatha, the Yellowknife Indian, “the lakes are sometimes misty, and
sometimes blue, and the loons cry very often.” Then it is a land of stern
and imposing beauty, perhaps unlike any other on earth, where sky and
clouds are mirrored in the shallow lakes, and the lazy, monster fish
rise among the ripples in the red and gold of evening. But when the
clouds ride it, and the wind and rain, sleet and snow rave over it, as
they do nearly all the year round, a desolation more appalling cannot be
conceived. There is no shelter for him who travels it; hardly one of the
glacier-driven stones is more than four feet high; every lake is whipped
into wrath and thunders on its shores; the loon may cry out there in the
storm, but no human ear could hear him. Lucky the man if he can find a
rock beneath which to creep, and in that cold refuge shiver as he peers
out and watches the elemental Spirit of the Tempest rejoicing in what
seems to be the very heart of his kingdom.
[Illustration: “Tired and Irritable.”]
We could not help, realising, however, on our first sight of these upland
barrens, that in one respect our calculations had been deficient. From
any ridge or mound that rose above the general level the land could be
seen stretching away interminably in every direction, a stony wilderness,
with here and there some coarse grass growing in the marshes, dotted
profusely with ponds and lakelets, but without a bush or tree of any kind
to break the monotonous and dreary prospect. This was something quite
different from the experience of any of the former travellers in Labrador
with which our reading had acquainted us, and there followed from it,
two, if not three, inconveniences. In the first place we could procure
no poles for our tents and had no obvious means of shelter should bad
weather assail us. Secondly, fire for warmth was an utter impossibility,
and for the simplest cooking a problem. Diligent search revealed here
and there a straggling growth of dwarf birch, a foot or two in height
at the outside, and the stems of these shrubs did not exceed a finger’s
thickness. This was the only obtainable fuel, and even that was very far
from plentiful. Thirdly, we felt that any obstruction from intervening
lakes or rivers might, after the canoe was abandoned, present quite
unanticipated difficulties. Relying on timber of some kind we had vaguely
planned to negotiate such obstructions with extemporised rafts, tied with
spruce root or twisted alder, such as we had used in other places, but
here the necessary materials were wholly and unexpectedly absent.
On that evening we realised perhaps for the first time how difficult
a task we had undertaken, and how it happens that the coast-dwelling
settlers and Eskimo fear, as they certainly do, the grip of this vast
wilderness, on whose verge they live.
While Porter began to cut twigs and roots of dwarf birch for the fire,
Hardy and I took rifle and rod and went off into the last half hour of
daylight to prospect. The same thought was in both our minds, as we
walked together along the margin of the upland lake: “Can any life exist
in the heart of this incredible barrenness?” In the answer to these words
lay the success or failure of our advance. Many miles’ travel to the
westward was our goal—the George River, or River of the Barren-grounds.
To reach it we must live the life of the nomadic savage, facing the same
conditions as those under which he exists in ever-decreasing numbers. We
must find game and kill it.
Just as we passed the head of the Lake, Hardy whispered to me that he
could see a ptarmigan among the stones. It was a moment before I espied
the beautiful bird, which, although we were quite close, remained
perfectly still, evidently in the hope that we would overlook it.
But that was not to be, and soon Hardy was running back to camp for the
little ·22 rifle, while I sat down upon a rock to keep what we hoped
would be our morning meal in view. Presently, thinking that the coast was
clear, the ptarmigan darted away among the rocks, and was nearly out of
sight before Hardy returned.
Then once more the ptarmigan “froze.” Hardy crept up within range, for,
tame as these birds sometimes are, we were in no mood for taking chances,
and a moment later we were admiring the wonderful coloration of the first
game with which the plateau had provided us.
As dark fell we walked back to camp. Arrived there we ate our ration
beside a tiny fire of green twigs and leaves, and then lay down beneath
the stars. There was a splendid display of Northern Lights, the
“searchlights of God,” all across the heavens; but we could not watch
them, for between us and the sky with its melting loops and rays of
light, danced and whirled ever thickening legions of mosquitoes, lean
and grey. We drew our blankets over our heads and spent a most miserable
night.
The sun was not yet up when I was awakened from the only couple of hours’
rest the mosquitoes allowed me by a cry from the little lake upon the
margin of which we had made our bivouac. Looking out of my blankets I saw
a sight that filled me with delight. Hardy, in the canoe, on the bosom
of the lake, was fast in what looked like a big fish. Just as I joined
him he landed a _namaycush_, as the huge lake trout of the Labrador is
called. We were very pleased, as—breakfast apart—both of us had the
strongest ambition to catch the fabled _namaycush_. Soon we had four
handsome fellows—the largest of which, a 3½ pounder, rose to almost my
first cast—in the bottom of the canoe. They were, however, but relatively
small fish, as in the larger lakes the _namaycush_ often reaches 30 lbs.,
and occasionally scales even up to 40 lbs. and more in weight.
While we were fishing the mosquitoes swarmed over us, nor as the sun rose
higher did it bring any relief from, but rather a reinforcement to, the
hosts of Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies. We had grown used to them in the
valley of the Fraser, and suffered, as we then believed, almost to the
limit of endurance, but we had buoyed ourselves with the hope that the
wind and the chill of the high ground would rid us of the bloodthirsty
battalions. Far from it. We soon discovered that the mosquitoes of the
river valley were but sluggish and incompetent regiments as compared
with the armies of these hardy mountaineers, whose vanguard stabbed as
with red-hot needles sent well home. As to their numbers, I am hopeless
of giving any idea of them. Suffice it to say that when Hardy put his
military blanket out to air, phalanxes three or four deep settled upon
it, until its colour changed from brown to grey—a seething and loathsome
mass of insects; and presently, as we moved about, above each of us
rolled a pillar of mosquitoes, revolving and buzzing, and thousands
strong.
Having breakfasted royally on two of the _namaycush_, well spread with
mosquitoes, we loaded up the canoe and passed on, threading our way
south-west through a series of small lakes, and making several portages.
As we advanced the character of the country grew yet more barren. Again
we realised that we were in a land that bore little likeness to the
accepted Labrador described in the various books of travel. This, of
course, was owing to the fact that all Labrador exploration has hitherto
been carried on largely by way of the river valleys, where timber is
plentiful, but here, on the high ground, 2,000 feet above the sea, we
learnt what the entire lack of wood means in wilderness travel.
[Illustration: Hardy prepared against the Mosquitoes.]
[Illustration: Over the Plateau.]
With our veils and thick gloves, we were at first fairly proof against
the mosquitoes, but their sibilant song as they beat against our
defences was like the music of a nightmare. And, alas! gloves must be
removed for many purposes, and one cannot pack in a veil, nor eat one’s
meals; and over the portages, of which we made five, they stabbed and
thrust abominably. At the mid-day halt, I took over fifty from my tea.
These had committed suicide in the interval between its being poured out
hot into the billy and the moment when it became cool enough to drink.
Nor could we cook cake or fish, but flies were enshrined within it close
as currants. We must devour them or starve; and indeed, we hardly heeded
them, for at any rate these were dead, and the living claimed all our
attention. They thrust through thick tweeds and underclothing wherever
these were stretched tight against the body; they found every seam of
one’s clothes, and pierced a crimson pattern on the flesh beneath. Loaded
as we were, they had the tactical advantage, and cruelly they pressed
that advantage home. To kill them was useless, even childish; to endure
them all day was trying; but when night after night they drove sleep away
and sent us smothering under our blankets as a partial defence, thoughts
of murder filled our souls as we positively cowered and wilted under the
plague.
But man can become used to most things, even to one of the plagues of
Egypt, and during the day we made about eight miles, camping in the late
afternoon upon the shore of apparently the last of the little series of
navigable ponds and lakes.
Immediately on our arrival at the camping place, we climbed a ridge near
by, but from its height saw no sign of navigable water in the direction
in which we had hoped to find it. To the south, it is true, a chain of
lakes extended, but all the western horizon was filled in with rolling
barrens leading to gigantic rock-strewn ridges. We therefore decided that
the next day must be spent in scouting.
Rain and storm came with the dark, when, soaked to the skin, and not a
little dispirited—for we had seen no game all day—we drew the tent-sheet
over the upturned canoe, anchored it with large stones laid upon its
edge and crept into shelter. Above us the rain and the mosquitoes beat
upon the tent-sheet; inside we lit our pipes, and lying in our blankets
discussed the situation.
The morning broke fine and clear after the rain of the night, and the
sun had hardly risen before Hardy had caught a 5½ lb. _namaycush_, which
provided us with an excellent breakfast and saved any further inroad upon
our provisions.
After breakfast we all went off on the day’s work, not meeting again
until dark, when round our evanescent little camp fire of leaves we held
a council.
The question was, should we, figuratively speaking, burn our boats—in
other words, leave the canoe so early in the trip? Sooner or later we
knew we must do so. It was the actual foundation of our plan for reaching
the George River. But after the canoe had been carried with such toil
up on to the plateau we had hoped it would ease our journey over many a
further mile. Instead of this, but half a day’s march from the start, we
had reached the end of the chain of lakes from which we had hoped so much.
Porter, who had scouted all day to the south-west, reported some lake
extensions; but their trend was too southerly to aid us greatly, and the
first and nearest of them lay across a very long and rough portage.
[Illustration: Canoe Camp.]
[Illustration: Sandy Camp.]
Still there was much to be said in favour of taking the canoe, and Porter
volunteered to carry it across if I wished him to do so.
On the other hand the argument was, “We are strong now—certainly stronger
than we shall be after living a week or more on half rations—we can now
make long marches with light packs, and we ought to be almost certain of
killing a caribou on the way to the George.” Upon this there followed an
animated discussion concerning the general “cussedness” of the caribou
herds, which have a knack of being conspicuous by their absence when
their flesh means salvation, and often plentiful when the traveller has
no particular need of their presence.
Yet there were certainly deer on the country, for not only had Porter
seen seven, but both Hardy and I had come upon fresh tracks, and at one
of the fords quantities of hair (the caribou shed their winter coats in
July, and even as late as early August), where the migration had crossed
a little earlier in the season and the animals had shaken the water
from their coats. Yet all the tracks led, and all the deer seemed to be
travelling steadily south-east; which meant that if, as we imagined, the
migration had already passed, it was probable that in a few days there
would not be a caribou in our section of the country.
This was the fact which finally decided us. If the caribou were
travelling away, it seemed to be a case of now or never. A day’s march
over the long ridges to the south-west, Porter had come to a district
which he described as “a more civilised country, where a man can get
alderwood.”
To this place we decided that we would go on the morrow with light packs,
and that there, if all seemed well, we would make our base from which to
start on our final march to the George.
The dawn had hardly begun to whiten when we were afoot; and while Porter
and I made our morning sally out among the mosquitoes to gather enough of
the sparsely growing dwarf birch to make a fire, Hardy, the indefatigable
fisherman, had pulled two _namaycush_ from the lake. Both these he
saw lying in-shore, and dropped a salmon fly above each with the best
results. One was immediately fried; and then, after lashing the canoe so
that it would be safe even against one of the three-day storms which at
every season visit the tableland, we set out for the line of ridges over
which our hopes lay.
At first the mosquitoes tortured us horribly, flying into our eyes and
noses, and covering us with countless stings. Our fly-dope, the pleasant
mixture of Stockholm tar and oil, of which we had carried up a good
supply, kept them off for a few minutes after application; but a shower
of rain, or even the heat of hard work, always caused it to run into our
eyes, and rendered it a nuisance. All the forenoon we had toiled onwards
and upwards into a great wilderness of stones, where for long stretches
the boulders lay so close together that in order to progress we had to
leap from one to the other. A more inhospitable country than this great
barren would be difficult to imagine. It is hardly too much to say that
at times our advance was like a battle in a dream; for whenever the wind
dropped, or our way led into shelter, the lean myrmidons of grey closed
down upon us. Bleeding and swollen, with nerves on edge, we stumbled
along until at last, after four hours’ marching, we gained the highest
point of the ridges, and in the face of a clean sweet wind which swept
our persecutors away for the moment, we began to descend upon the other
side.
We had not long enjoyed this delightful contrast when suddenly I saw
something move below me among the rocks, and the next instant a caribou
dashed out. The deer had seen us, and was galloping across, doubtless to
get the wind and so learn more of us. As the deer paused to stare, the
bullet went on its way, and the caribou, hit in the chest, collapsed. She
was dead before we came up.
Although this deer was both poor and thin, without, indeed, a particle of
fat on her whole body, we were rejoiced at our good fortune. If only we
could succeed in killing others! What a vista the thought opened up! We
would sink the carcases in the ice-cold lakes, one for every two days’
supply. This would enable us to reach the George, even should we use the
last of our provisions in doing so, and on our journey back we could live
on the meat of the submerged carcases—for under water the flies could not
reach it and it would keep good for weeks.
The plan with all its possibilities gave us food for conversation until,
just after sunset, utterly tired out, and overloaded with great slabs
of venison as well as our packs, we walked down the last slope to the
“civilised place” where we were to camp. It was situated at the end of
a deep lake from which a stream flowed away to the west. Upon the banks
there grew a few clumps of alders. On both sides of the river and the
lake there ran from east to west a series of high sandy ridges which
formed the only variation from the other innumerable ridges covered with
grey quartzite.
After gathering wood and arranging our bivouac, Hardy and I left Porter
frying a pan of deer’s meat, and climbed to the top of the highest
cone-shaped sandhill near by. From its summit we looked out to the west.
On the other side of a vast marsh dotted with lakes and ponds which
glimmered like milk in the twilight, there rose two lines of hills, the
last a mere outline of snow-patched blackness—vague and half seen. Hardy
took a bearing. These hills lay due west, and the crossing of them would
mark the next stage of our march.