Few persons know how much water there is in northern Canada. Even fewer
people realize what enormous distances all animals have to swim in quest
of food or to escape from danger.
Moose and Caribou will not hesitate to cross lakes several miles wide,
and for no apparent reason but to change from one feeding ground to
another. I have often seen them swim over four miles in the bitterest
cold weather in the early spring or late in the fall when the snow was
on the ground and the temperature at freezing point.
Black Bears will swim for miles; young cubs barely four months old
keeping up with their mothers.
Lynx, although hating water like all the cat tribe, will cross the
widest river when migrating.
Small animals, such as porcupines and squirrels, are often found
swimming a mile or so from shore.
[Illustration: A moose swimming in water]
Two years ago when paddling down the Churchill River, we found a fat old
porcupine leisurely crossing the river where it was over a mile wide. He
was then about eight hundred yards from where he wanted to land and his
speed must have averaged one mile per hour. He took absolutely no notice
of us. At each stroke of his short foreleg he grunted loudly. Now and
then he would lift his quills and shake them so as to get some of the
weight of the water off his back.
Squirrels, I have noticed, always swim with the wind in their backs and
invariably carry their tails straight up in the air out of the water.
The Indians maintain that they only take to water when the wind is
favorable as they know that their tail, acting like a sail, will help
them along.
White Bears, of course, are the best swimmers of all the non-amphibious
mammals. They can swim for a whole day, resting now and then on their
backs like sleeping seals.
In 1908, we saw a White Bear yearling cub swimming towards shore at
least fifteen miles out from Cape Churchill in Hudson Bay. The nearest
ice was then forty-five miles from the spot where we found him. There
was absolutely no doubt that our bear had undertaken a sixty-mile swim
to reach land.
Tale XX: “Sunday”
The eastern hair seals roam between the coasts of Newfoundland and
Greenland. Unlike the fur seals of the Pacific, they are valuable only
for their fat and the leather of their pelts. The best oil is obtained
from the young pups which are born on the ice in February.
Young seals do not know how to swim at birth and the hardy fishermen of
Newfoundland hunt them before they have taken to the water.
Every day of the week the crew of each vessel leaves its ship and on
foot, through fog and blizzards, scours the bleak wilderness of the ice
floes. But the hunt stops on Sunday—even if the vessels happen to be in
the midst of thousands of seals. From Saturday midnight to Monday one
o’clock, all the men remain idle.
One Sunday morning in March, 1908, I was on board a sealer. I happened
to look over the side and saw a young seal sound asleep on the ice a few
hundred yards from the ship. With the idea of taking it on board so as
to photograph it on deck, I slipped over the side. Walking up to the pup
I caught it by the hind flippers, swung it over my shoulder and started
carrying it to the vessel. Although I followed my footsteps on the ice,
I suddenly broke through and found myself plunged into the bitterly cold
water. The little seal followed me in my downfall.
We both came up to the surface at the same time, with only one idea in
our heads—to get out as quickly as possible. I tried hard to climb out
on the ice. So did the pup. The hole in which we were floundering was
very small. The young seal floated like an empty bottle, his body half
out of the water. In his efforts to get a hold on the edge of the pan,
he flapped his front flippers like a pair of fans. Each flipper was
armed with five claws as hard as steel.
My face got in the way of one flipper and instantly I came to the
conclusion that I had better wait until my companion got out first.
Patiently and courteously I waited until the little pup, with a lot of
snorting and splashing, slowly but stubbornly wriggled himself out of
the water. When my turn came I was half dead with cold, and barely
managed to pull myself on the ice in safety. Leaving the seal where he
was, I tottered back to the ship.
I found the skipper very unsympathetic. The only thing he had to say
was: “Serves you right. This is Sunday.”
[Illustration: A pip seal]