THE EASTWARD MARCH.
On August 30th we broke camp on the George or Barren-ground River, with
our hearts and minds set on our journey Eastward Ho! We had stayed on
the George to the last possible moment, and when we finally started on
the return journey we had the following provisions left. There was a
little over two pounds of flour, three-quarters of a pound of bacon,
a few ounces of tea, three soup tablets, and enough deer’s meat for a
light lunch. At Camp No. 4, Sandy Camp, a five-pound slab of bacon was
_cached_; a day beyond that, again, at Camp 3, lay a little chocolate
food, the balance of a box of raisins, and twenty pounds of flour. On
this morning, however, our foremost aim was to kill a deer.
We were located well down towards the south end of Indian House Lake,
at a point where the current was very perceptible. It would have taken
only one full day’s march to regain the route by which we had travelled
when coming into the country. But all three of us disliked the idea of
retracing our footsteps, though, in view of the extreme shortage of
provisions, that would perhaps have been the wiser course, for, though
fifty-five miles straight does not signify, they may, on the Labrador,
only too easily tail out into a hundred. It was impossible to foresee
what obstacles a new route might not present. We knew that there was
a series of large lakes under the Height of Land, and, supposing we
happened to strike one of these in the centre, the walk around it might
add days to the length of our journey. Besides, this fifty-five miles
included a climb up to the great central plateau, which rises to over
two thousand feet above sea level about this region, and afterwards the
crossing it to Sandy Camp; and at that height our progress might be
seriously impeded by the mists, which we knew, by experience, often lie
for days together upon the vast tableland. Our provisions, however, could
only be stretched to provide us with half-a-dozen rather unsatisfying
meals, and we could no longer count with any degree of likelihood upon
shooting a caribou, as even the stragglers of the migration seemed to
have passed.
Nevertheless, as I have said, we were most unwilling to go back over our
old trail, and finally we decided to take our chance and strike east
and then north-east, so as to cut our old route at or about Doe Camp.
To our half-dozen certain meals we hoped to be able to add with the rod
or the ·22 rifle, for there appeared to be every chance of our catching
_namaycush_ and shooting ptarmigan.
We got away upon our return march in good time, but unluckily had not
gone very far when, among some tangled alders and stones, I again
wrenched my ankle, which had not grown very strong since my original
accident with it. This was a tiresome beginning, but by the aid of a
stick to lean on I managed to carry my pack, though over bad ground I was
much the slowest sailer in our fleet.
After a portage of more than an hour we paused on a ridge and looked back
on Indian House Lake, stretching far beneath us. We could still discern
upon the promontories the skeleton Indian teepees from which the lake
received its name. The slopes and the hollows between were soft with
woodland, spruce, birch, juniper, willow, and alder, the latter making
green the shores of the lake to the margin of the blue water. On the
farther side we could see towering up the first of the great series of
rolling ridges which divide the George from the Whale River, sparsely
sprinkled with black spruce; to the south our view was bounded by a rocky
bluff, but to the north it extended over twenty miles till the great
water lost itself in the foot-hills of the Bridgman Mountains.
Then we turned from the fertile valley to look at the route we were
about to travel. A huge ridge struck upwards into the blue of the sky,
for it was a blue day with frequent _dwis_ or showers. The flanks of
the ridge were covered with reindeer moss, over which lay the usual
heavy scattering of quartzite boulders. Across this country we journeyed
until mid-day, when we made a halt near a stunted clump of spruce, blown
crooked by the winds. Beyond these, no sign of wood showed except dwarf
birch. Here we ate a pound of our flour and a thick slice of bacon each,
making up our minds that we would go hungry at night unless we chanced to
kill something. Then till late in the evening, we marched over some of
the roughest ground we had yet encountered. Once only we saw game, in the
shape of five ptarmigan, which to our chagrin would not permit the eager
Hardy to approach within a hundred yards, and consequently flew away
without offering a shot.
[Illustration: The Last Spruce.]
[Illustration: A “Raised Beach” in the George Valley.]
At five o’clock, descending a hill, we saw below us some sandy ridges by
a distant lake, and there we decided to make our hungry camp. While we
were still a mile from the lake, which was turning to gold in the evening
light, I suddenly saw something silhouetted against the glow, and as I
watched this something moved against the background.
“I see either a man or a deer,” I said.
In an instant the apathy of marching had fallen from my companions and
they were all keenness. In that upland air our hunger was great indeed,
and the prospect of a supperless bed had weighted our weariness.
“I see it too; it is a deer!” said Porter in great excitement.
The animal in the meantime had turned broadside on, and had lost the
foreshortened outline which makes a deer standing full face in the
distance and against the skyline look not unlike the figure of a man.
Hardy had lost no time in getting out his glass, and soon found the deer.
“It has horns,” he said. “I think it is a stag.”
A vision of fat kidneys spluttering in the pan flashed through my mind.
Hardy handed me the glass just as the deer, moving parallel to us along
the side of the lake, passed behind a rising dune out of our sight. On
this I hastily threw down my pack, and, seizing my rifle, ran to try and
cut the animal off. Hardy and Porter remained where they were, lying
hungrily anxious upon the hill-side.
As the wind was blowing from the nearer side of the lake, I thought it
wise to make for the opposite end of it, as, if he did not alter his
course, I should then be able to come directly on the stag. If I tried
to approach him from any other point, he might by a chance turn and get
to windward of me; and that I knew would drive him clean off the face of
the country-side, for the Labrador caribou, once he catches wind of man,
never fails to leave the district altogether.
That was a memorable stalk for me. Once again I experienced some of the
feelings with which I had approached the first deer I ever shot. Indeed,
I felt positively sick with excitement as I hobbled along my way, for all
that that stag meant to us kept working in my mind. To kill it meant,
at the best, that we should escape some days of vigorous hunger; at the
worst, if the mist came on and lasted for any length of time, to lose it
might possibly mean starvation. Meantime I struggled on, as fast as my
ankle would allow, over the boulders which choked a part of the valley,
and soon I was climbing out on the first of the ridges near the lake.
Here I turned and began to run, as I thought, parallel to the stag,
shortly to find my further progress stopped by a deep and rapid stream.
Being well aware that the Labrador caribou do not—in my experience, at
least—face water as readily as do those of the Newfoundland species, I
believed this stream would turn the stag, so I veered round towards the
lake and climbed the second ridge. I peered over the summit, but could
see nothing of the deer, and I had just made up my mind to follow the
river to the lake when I caught sight of an object moving on the same
side of the ridge as myself. The next moment there was the stag, about a
hundred and fifty yards away, in full flight across the marsh! I made for
the nearest boulder, and, steadying myself against it, fired twice. The
first bullet went, as far as I was able to judge, over his back, as he
splashed along with the water flying high around him; but the second—the
glorious second—struck him right in the lungs, and within a few yards he
fell dead. Although the antlers were still in velvet and were so soft
as to be worthless, I have never felt more thankful for success than I
did then as I mounted the ridge to signal my companions to come up. They
joined me in an uncommonly short space of time, for, as the lie of the
ground prevented them from seeing what had happened, they did not know
whether they were destined to dine or starve. As they came up, being
tired out, I happened to be sitting on a rock in an attitude of apparent
dejection and Hardy jumped to the conclusion that I had failed.
I then learned the maddening experience to which these two famishing
men had been subjected. No sooner had I left them, and got well out of
hearing, though not out of sight, than the stag headed straight towards
them down the mile-long marsh which lay between them and the lake,
thus following a line which would inevitably, if we both continued in
our respective directions, bring him to windward of me and destroy all
chance of a shot. Meanwhile I pursued my way, quite unconscious of what
was taking place. As Hardy and Porter had no rifle, and were unable,
as the distance made it impossible, to give me warning, they could
do nothing but sit still and watch, hoping that by good luck I might
change my course. “But you would not do so; you ran on and on like a
man possessed,” they told me. They finally had the chagrin of seeing
me disappear from view behind one of the ridges, still running in my
original direction, while the stag continued to advance more slowly
towards them.
At last on a sudden they saw him stop, then rush forward, and almost at
once he also disappeared behind the same ridge as myself. A second later
they heard my two shots.
I was amused, and indeed not a little touched, to find how very careful
Hardy was not to hurt my feelings, for as he came towards me he naturally
concluded that the stag’s change of course at the psychological moment
had prevented my getting a fair shot. When, however, I pointed over the
hill to the dead stag lying in the marsh, the joy of my companions was by
no means disappointing.
Our luck that evening was phenomenal, for as we were cutting up the stag
the heavy showers that had been falling all the day ceased, and near at
hand we found a growth of spruce four feet or so in height. Before long
we were sitting round an aromatic little fire, while above us a great
display of Northern Lights flickered and waved across the sky. Through
their white luminosity the stars shone with a strange blue light; out
on the water a great northern diver uttered its cry—a cry so wild and
mournful that it seemed like the voice of the ultimate wilderness. That
was a night to be remembered—a night which made up for much that had been
disagreeable and difficult; and as there were no mosquitoes (after August
25th we were not again much bothered by these pests) we sat long over our
little fire, and, it must be confessed, consumed pan after pan of meat,
which Porter had fried—a culinary effort rendered none too easy by the
fact that we had broken the handle from our frying-pan—and felt strength
flow into our limbs.
I was awakened the next morning by Hardy, who whispered that a fox
was stealing our meat. We were sleeping on the bare hill-side about
300 yards from the carcass of the caribou. The rising sun showed an
Arctic fox upon the body of the stag, while two others were in the near
vicinity. Of the meat they had devoured a surprising quantity. Shoulders
down and haunches up, they must have pulled and tugged against each
other. After trying in vain to drive them off, Hardy took the little
·22 and stalked them to within range, when he shot one of the thieves;
yet the others almost immediately returned to their meal. As it seemed
senseless to kill any more, and as they persistently returned, he and
Porter carried the meat, or as much of it as was left, into camp,
whereupon the foxes went back again to the carcass. They were very
fearless, probably owing to their ravenous hunger. All over the tableland
we found the predatory animals very abundant, though what they found to
prey upon, apart from lemmings and young ptarmigan, remains a mystery.
After this we were quickly astir, and when Porter had sewn patches on his
own and Hardy’s boots we left Lucky Camp, as we named it, carrying with
us the greater part of the meat of the stag. Fine at first, the weather
grew rapidly threatening, until early in the afternoon the showers
condensed into one continuous downpour, driven before a heavy wind. The
outlook seemed so hopeless that we decided to camp betimes, but could
find no suitable boulder, among all the thousands that surrounded us,
over which we could with any prospect of comfort draw our tent sheet.
We therefore wandered on, and finally, soaking wet, we got up a most
uncomfortable camp underneath a great rock, into the shelter of which we
crawled among our wet packs.
A few minutes after we had, as one of us phrased it, “gone to ground,” on
looking out under the flapping sheet, which every moment threatened to
carry away in the gale, I saw a doe and her fawn shaking the rain from
their coats on the other side of the valley. After staring across at our
camp for a minute, they dashed away westward and were blotted out in the
storm and mist. Whether or no we could have killed one of them, had it
been needful, it is hard to say; but I think it very doubtful, as they
were not nearer than two hundred and fifty yards, and it would have been
a lucky shot indeed that could score a hit through the veiling rain at
such a distance.
As these were the last deer we were destined to see, I will now write
a few words about the game-supply of Labrador. Our experiences in this
matter were, I think, essentially typical of the part of the country we
wandered over. In outfitting for our march to the George we took a bare
ration, trusting to supplement it by game and fish. As I have mentioned
more than once in this book, the only other expedition that, to my
knowledge, has entered Labrador on a similar theory was that of Leonidas
Hubbard in 1903. The disastrous result of that expedition is well known.
Some critics have rancorously attacked Hubbard’s plans, calling them rash
and fool-hardy; but only those who have travelled in Labrador can realise
how savage was the ill-fortune which dogged that expedition almost from
start to finish. When calm weather was essential for their progress it
blew remorselessly for days; at the time when they most needed food, then
it became most scarce, even in its smaller forms; when a choice had to be
made blindly, the most difficult way invariably appeared the best and was
chosen. These things were pure misfortune.
[Illustration: Ration for Three.]
[Illustration: Our _Chef_.]
As we journeyed through Labrador, more and more did we come to admire
Hubbard, Wallace, and Elson. The length of time for which the three held
out, and the pluck they showed, entitles them to more than credit. It was
a fine and a gallant record, and one without parallel in the history of
Labrador exploration.
So convinced were we that Hubbard’s disaster was due in a great degree
to ill-fortune, that we were willing to, and ultimately did, risk the
success of our trip to back that opinion. Had we been obliged to depend
entirely on the food which we packed in with us, we could not have
reached the George, spent twelve days on its shores, and returned to
Sandy Camp. But we were able to add the following items to our supply
on the way. Upon the plateau and at the George we killed five deer,
twelve _namaycush_ averaging three pounds, fifty-nine trout, eight
ptarmigan; and had it not been for the meat, which rendered more shooting
unnecessary, we could undoubtedly have made a larger bag both of deer and
of small game.
Up on the tableland ptarmigan were few and far between; and in all our
journey we saw no sign at all of porcupines, geese, or owls. It is
impossible to deny that we were exceedingly fortunate in meeting with
caribou. When packing towards and at the George, the sixty-nine deer
that we saw—all travelling south-east—were, we concluded, the stragglers
of the migration; when coming back, and while engaged in relay work, we
covered a distance altogether of over a hundred and seventy miles, and
saw only four.
Taking the above facts into consideration, it is obviously unsafe to
trust to meeting the caribou. Such meeting is largely a matter of chance,
but the traveller may fairly expect to supplement his provisions in
summer with a certain amount of fish and of small game. Allowing a ration
of half a pound of flour per day to each man (we had considerably less
than that), and a quarter of a pound of bacon, or their equivalents, much
could be done, provided always—and this is important—that the party are
willing to face cheerfully the hardships that a short ration inevitably
entails. For there is nothing that more impairs the work of most men, and
brings out the worst in them, than a spell of continued privation; and
the intending explorer will do well to pick his comrades very carefully
before undertaking a protracted trip across the barrens. Along the rivers
there is no excuse for stinting the food, as plenty can be carried in
the canoes, and, in any case, it is wise to do as we did—that is, carry
an over-generous supply of food to the farthest possible point on the
route and there _cache_ it. This begets confidence, if nothing else,
and, should unforeseen difficulties arise, makes a snatch at success
practicable.
But to return to the narrative of our journey. After the deer had
vanished the rain continued to increase, and the wind came whistling
under the rock as if determined to tear away the tent-sheet. Owing to its
violence we were compelled to close up either side of the tent by means
of our usual device of weighting the edge with stones. Had we not done
this it would certainly have ripped away and left us shelterless. Even as
it was, we had a bitterly disagreeable night, the discomfort reaching its
climax when, about midnight, the wind suddenly shifted to the north-west,
bringing with it heavy sleet, which blew in under the canvas, so that we
had a miniature snowstorm going on inside the tent.
Shortly after dawn we crawled out of the deep snow which had fallen
inside our almost useless shelter, to find that Porter had risen before
daylight and was cooking a meal of soup in the lee of a rock, round which
the wind howled in violent gusts. After eating it we broke camp at once,
and were soon on the march. Though the thermometer was not low, the
weather was searchingly bleak and cold; the sleet seemed to whistle in
solid masses before the wind. It was a day that offered no temptation to
linger by the way, and we made excellent time over a very rough tract,
our chief trouble being the mist, which ringed us in greyness, hampering
us greatly, as it was impossible to recognise any landmark. At mid-day
the cold had affected our fingers to such an extent that it was a long
time before we could light a fire.
Towards evening the weather cleared, and, though the wind continued very
strong, the air was beautifully cold and bracing. All the conditions were
in striking contrast to those which obtained as we journeyed in. The
whole face of the country was changed. Gone was the green of summer, and
the great gale of the 27th had beaten down the grass, which now lay flat
in yellow wisps and tussocks. That storm was the herald of winter.
How brief is the summer on the highlands of Labrador! The snow does not
melt till July, then with a rush midsummer comes. Grasses and leaves grow
almost visibly, the wild cotton soon flings out its little white pennons,
millions of berries ripen on the ground, the loon cries, the ptarmigan
calls, and you may even see a butterfly balancing in the warm wind.
But then also awakens the countless army of hunchbacks, lean and grey
mosquitoes, piping blithely for blood.
So summer reigns. Then suddenly one day, in the middle of August, after
the sun has sunk behind the barren crags through a balmy warmth of
evening, one may wake up to find everything transfigured and the first
snow of another season already falling. There may, and will be, fine days
after that, but the face of the country is no longer young; winter has
laid its mark upon it—a mark that only spring can efface.
We were now eager to finish our journey and to leave the tableland before
more boisterous weather set in; and as such might be expected any day,
we travelled long and fast. Indeed, we made stages which we should never
have attempted on the way inland. We often marched, carrying our packs,
for spells of sixty or seventy minutes, then five minutes’ rest, and
on again. Nor was it necessary to delay for hunting or fishing, as we
had with us sufficient of the stag meat to last us to the Valley of the
Fraser. For the most part we met with wild and showery weather, wet days
and cold, fine nights.
As we advanced, the character of the country altered, the hills were
less high and more rounded in contour, the crop of stones not quite so
abundant. Entirely without shelter the patches of maiden birch became
more and more meagre. Here and there we cut across mighty deer roads,
but, contrary to our summer experience, saw scarcely a fresh track upon
them; all the caribou seemed to have travelled away to the south-east,
and we marched on over a region utterly destitute of game. To describe
in detail our crossing of this tract would be tedious, and it is
sufficient to say that, thanks to the sustaining stag meat, we picked
up our _caches_ of food in good order, and finally from the ridges near
Canoe Camp sighted the stupendous cliffs of the Fraser Valley. On the
next day, the 4th of September, we made our way down Bear Ravine. The
hill-sides were covered with berries and we were naturally expectant
of seeing bears, but to our surprise these animals, which had been so
numerous, seemed all to have moved away, and one set of fresh tracks was
all that we could find.
The climb down the Ravine tried my ankle severely, and it was very black
and swollen when, with much relief, I at last put down my pack at the
higher of our two _caches_.
We were agreeably surprised to find that the bears had not raided our
provisions. Even a bag of sugar which we had lashed in a tree remained
untouched, and at first this seemed the more remarkable as many signs
told us that a big brute had thoroughly explored the site of our old
camp. But the explanation was not far to seek. In making our _cache_ a
tin of our famous fly-dope of Stockholm tar and oil had been overlooked
and left lying at the foot of the tree. This the bear had found and
bitten through. Apparently the dainty morsel had not pleased his taste,
and judging of our commissariat by that sample he had decamped without
making any further investigations. The tar and oil had, of course, run
out, but this was not now of much consequence, as although there were
still a good many mosquitoes and black-flies about, their activities
troubled our hardened skins but little, especially as they disappeared
with the cold gloom which filled the valley when the sun sank behind the
cliffs.
On September the 5th Hardy and Porter once more, and for the last time,
climbed up Bear Ravine to _cache_ the canoe upon the uplands and to
bring down the last of our impedimenta. The state of my ankle made it
impossible for me to accompany them, so I spent the day in camp cooking,
and although I was very sparing in what I ate, the little I did take
caused me a good deal of pain. I think we were more starved than we
realised, and when I stripped to bathe in the Fraser, my anatomy seemed
unusually distinct. It was not that we had ever actually gone without
food, but we had spread out a little over so long that the cumulative
effect had certainly turned a heavy into a middleweight. Still, we never
really suffered hardship (except from the mosquitoes) though our hunger
was often disagreeably apparent, especially in the cold small hours.
The desire to eat and eat on that day while I sat over the fire baking
large brown buns full of sultanas grew greater and greater, so much so
that at last I had to give up the culinary effort and hobble off on a
squirrel hunt, which saved me from myself.
It was latish when Hardy and Porter returned. They had seen neither game
nor sign of anything alive. The canoe they had _cached_ against the
assaults of the coming winter, perhaps against those of many winters,
under the lee of a ridge. As we sat beside the great fire that we built
that night in the Fraser Valley, we wondered whose would be the hand
that would launch our canoe in some future spring. The journey down Bear
Ravine with packs was, in its way, a more dangerous experience than the
journey up; the leaping from rock to rock giving less chance of testing
the stability of one’s foothold, and more than once Hardy barely escaped
accident.
The following day was devoted to rest, boot-patching, and dismantling
the _cache_ of the first canoe. All was in good order, and as the river
had fallen some feet Porter succeeded in fishing Hardy’s rifle from the
river bottom to which it had sunk over a month before. The rifle was
unhurt, and Hardy shortly after celebrated its recovery by decapitating a
Canada-grouse and a willow-grouse lower down the valley.
It took us two days to run down the Fraser, Porter and I working the
canoe, and Hardy walking with his rifle, full of hope that he would kill
a bear. Not one, however, did he see. On the second day, Porter and I
found a fine sea-trout which had been killed in one of the falls, and on
this providential fish we lunched, reaching the “skiff” and the shores
of the long Fraser Lake an hour before sunset on the 8th. Here we set
our camp, and an examination of the sandy bed of the river showed that
the sea trout were running up in great numbers. An effort to shoot one
of these (Hardy had the rod) failed, but when my companion put in an
appearance we had great sport. No fish was above three pounds, but they
were game and fought well.
On the 9th of September the wind was too high to start early, but as it
fell towards afternoon we got aboard and sailed far on into the night,
when we landed and slept beneath a bush. In the morning a sudden squall
nearly drove the skiff upon the rocks, but this proved to be the last of
our adventures, and at about 4 o’clock we rounded the point and saw the
settlement of Nain.
The moment our boat was sighted from the wharf it was greeted with the
cries from the station, and when we went ashore the news soon spread
among the Eskimo that we had crossed to the George River. Almost
the whole population gathered on the wharf to stare at us and our
belongings. The Eskimo have, perhaps, a primitive, but certainly an
undoubted sense of humour, for our appearance, freakishly bearded and
travel-stained, with our hair as long as their own, caused them to
roar with laughter. But among the laughter several with whom we were
acquainted made very nice speeches of congratulation and welcome.
“_Aksunai! Kuviasukpogut uttileravit kanoenau!_” they said, which being
translated means: “May you be strong! We are glad you are back amongst
us, having successfully accomplished your desire.”