WE LOSE THE TRAIL
Saturday morning, August fifth, broke with a radiance and a glory
seldom equaled even in that land of glorious sunrises and sunsets. A
flame of red and orange in the east ushered in the rising sun, not a
cloud marred the azure of the heavens, the moss was white with frost,
and the crisp, clear atmosphere sweet with the scent of the new day.
Labrador was in her most amiable mood, displaying to the best advantage
her peculiar charms and beauties.
While we ate a hurried breakfast of corn-meal mush, boiled fat pork and
tea, and broke camp, Michikamau was the subject of our conversation,
for now it was ho for the big lake! A rapid advance was expected upon
the river, and the trail above, where it left the Nascaupee to avoid
the rapids which the Indians had told us about, would probably be found
without trouble. So this new stage of our journey was begun with
something of the enthusiasm that we had felt the day we left Tom
Blake's cabin and started up Grand Lake.
We had gone but a mile when Pete drew his paddle from the water and
pointed with it at a narrow, sandy beach ahead, above which rose a
steep bank. Almost at the same instant I saw the object of his
interests--a buck caribou asleep on the sand. The wind was blowing
toward the river, and maintaining absolute silence, we landed below a
bend that hid us from the caribou. Fresh meat was in sight and we must
have it, for we were hungry now for venison. To cover the retreat of
the animal should it take alarm, Pete was to go on the top of the bank
above it, Easton to take a stand opposite it and I a little below it.
We crawled to our positions with the greatest care; but the caribou was
alert. The shore breeze carried to it the scent of danger, and almost
before we knew, that we were discovered it was on its feet and away.
For a fraction of a second I had one glimpse of the animal through the
brush. Pete did not see it when it started, but heard it running up
the shore, and away be started in that direction, running and leaping
recklessly over the fallen tree trunks. Presently the caribou turned
from the river and showed itself on the burned plateau above, two
hundred yards from Pete. The Indian halted for a moment and
fired--then fired again. I hastened up and came upon Pete standing by
the prostrate caribou and grinning from ear to ear.
The carcass was quickly skinned and the meat stripped from the bones
and carried to the canoe. Here on the shore we made a fire, broiled
some thick luscious steaks, roasted some marrow bones and made tea. All
the bones except the marrow bones of the legs were abandoned as an
unnecessary weight. Pete broke a hole through one of the shoulder
blades and stuck it on a limb of a tree above the reach of animals.
That, you know, insures further good luck in hunting. It is a sort of
offering to the Manitou. We took the skin with us. "Maybe we need him
for something," said Pete. "Clean and smoke him nice, me; maybe mend
clothes with him."
The larger pieces of our venison were to be roasted when we halted in
the evening. We could not dally now, and I chose this method of
preserving the meat, rather than "jerk" it (that is, dry it in the open
air over a smoky fire), which would have necessitated a halt of three
or four days.
Within three hours after we had first seen the caribou we were on our
way again. The river up which we were passing was from two to four
hundred yards in width, and with the exception of an occasional rock,
had a gravelly bottom, and the banks were generally low and gravelly. A
little distance back ridges of low hills paralleled the stream, and on
the south side behind the lower ridge was a higher one of rough hills;
but none of them with an elevation above the valley of more than three
hundred feet. The country had been burned on both sides of the river
and there was little new growth to hide the dead trees.
Twenty-five miles above Seal Lake we encountered a rapid which
necessitated a mile and a half portage around it. Where we landed to
make the portage I noticed along the edge of the sandy beach a black
band about two feet in width. I thought at first that the water had
discolored the sand, but upon a closer examination discovered that it
was nothing more nor less than myriads of our black fly pests that had
lost their lives in the water and been washed ashore.
We had much rain and progress was slow and difficult in the face of a
strong wind and current. Seven or eight miles above the rapid around
which we had portaged we passed into a large expansion of the river
which the Indians at Northwest River Post had told us to look for, and
which they called Wuchusknipi (Big Muskrat) Lake.
High gravelly banks, rising in terraces sometimes fully fifty feet
above the water's edge, had now become the feature of the stream. The
current increased in strength, and only for short distances above
Wuchusknipi, where the river occasionally broadened, were we able to
paddle. The tracking lines were brought into service, one man hauling
each canoe, while the others, wading in the water, or walking on the
bank with poles where the stream was too deep to wade, kept the canoes
straight in the current and clear of the shore. Once when it became
necessary to cross a wide place in the river a squall struck us, and
Richards and Stanton in the smaller canoe were nearly swamped. The
strong head wind precluded paddling, even when the current would
otherwise have permitted it.
Finally the sky cleared and the wind ceased to blow; but with the calm
came a cause for disquietude. A light smoke had settled in the valley
and the air held the odor of it, suggesting a forest fire somewhere
above. This would mean retreat, if not disaster, for when these fires
once start rivers and lakes prove small obstacles in their path. From
a view-point on the hills no dense smoke could be discovered, only the
light haze that we had seen and smelled in the valley, and we therefore
decided that the gale that had blown for several days from the
northwest may have carried it for a long distance, even from the
district far west of Michikamau, and that at any rate there was no
cause for immediate alarm.
The ridges with an increasing altitude were crowding in upon us more
closely. Once when we stopped to portage around a low fall we climbed
some of the hills that were near at hand that we might obtain a better
knowledge of the topography of the country than could be had from the
confined river valley. Away to the northwest we found the country to
be much more rugged than the district we had recently passed through.
Observations showed us that the highest of the hills we were on had an
elevation of six hundred feet above the river. We had but a single day
of fine weather and then a fog came so thick that we could not see the
opposite banks of the Nascaupee, and after it a cold rain set in which
made our work in the icy current doubly hard. One morning I slipped on
a bowlder in the river and strained my side, and for me the remainder
of the day was very trying. That evening we reached a little group of
three or four islands, where the Nascaupee was wide and shallow, but
just above the islands it narrowed down again and a low fall occurred.
Not far from the fall a small river tumbled down over the rocks a sheer
thirty feet, and emptied into the Nascaupee. Since leaving Seal Lake we
had passed two rivers flowing in from the north, and this was the
second one coming from the south, marking the point on the Indian map
where we were to look for the portage trail leading to the northward.
Therefore a halt was made and camp was pitched.
During the night the weather cleared, and Pete, Richards and Easton
were dispatched in the morning to scout the country to the northward in
search of the trail and signs of Indians. The ligaments of my side
were very stiff and sore from the strain they received the previous
day, and I remained in camp with Stanton to write up my records, take
an inventory of our food supply, and consider plans for the future.
It was August twelfth. How far we had still to go before reaching
Michikamau was uncertain, but, in view of our experiences below Seal
Lake and the difficulties met with in finding and following the old
Indian trail there, our progress would now, for a time at least, if we
traveled the portage route, be slower than on the river where we had
done fairly well. True, our outfit was much lighter than it had been
in the beginning, and we were in better shape for packing and were able
to carry heavier loads. Still we must make two trips over every
portage, and that meant, for every five miles of advance, fifteen miles
of walking and ten of those miles with packs on our backs. Had we not
better, therefore, abandon the further attempt to locate the trail and,
instead, follow the river which was beyond doubt the quicker and the
easier route? My inclinations rebelled against this course. One of
the objects of the expedition, for it was one of the things that
Hubbard had planned to do, was to locate the old trail, if possible.
To abandon the search for it now, and to follow the easier route,
seemed to me a surrender.
On the other hand, should we not find game or fish and have delays
scouting for the trail, it would be necessary to go on short rations
before reaching Michikamau, for enough food must be held back to take
us out of the country in safety.
In my present consideration of the situation it seemed to me highly
improbable that we could reach George River Post in season to connect
with the Hudson's Bay Company's steamer _Pelican_, which touches there
to land supplies about the middle of September, and that is the only
steamer that ever visits that Post. Not to connect with the _Pelican_
would, therefore, mean imprisonment in the north for an entire year, or
a return around the coast by dog train in winter. The former of these
alternatives was out of the question; the latter would be impossible
with an encumbrance of four men, for dog teams and drivers in the early
winter are usually all away to the hunting grounds and hard to engage.
I therefore concluded that but one course was open to me. Three of the
men must be sent back and with a single companion I would push on to
Ungava. This, then, was the line of action I decided upon.
Toward evening gathering clouds augured an early renewal of the storm,
and Stanton and I had just put up the stove in the tent in anticipation
of it when Pete and Easton, the latter thoroughly fagged out, came into
camp.
"Well, Pete," I asked, "what luck?"
"Find trail all right," he answered. "Can't follow him easy. Long
carry. First lake far, maybe eleven, twelve mile. Little ponds not
much good for canoe. Trail old. Not used long time. All time go up
hill."
"Where's Richards?" I inquired, noticing his absence.
"Left us about four miles back to take a short cut to the river and
follow it down to camp," said Easton. "He thought you might want to
know how it looked above, and perhaps keep on that way instead of
tackling the portage, for the trail's going to be mighty hard. It
looks as though the river would be better."
We waited until near dark for Richards, but he did not come. Then we
ate our supper without him.
The rain grew into a downpour and darkness came, but no Richards, and
at length I became alarmed for his safety. I pushed back the tent
flaps and peered out into the pitchy darkness and pouring rain.
"He'll never get in to-night," I remarked. "No," said some one, "and
he'll have a hard time of it out there in the rain." There was nothing
to do but wait. Pete rummaged in his bag and produced a candle (we had
a dozen in our outfit), sharpened one end of a stick, split the other
end for two or three inches down, forced open the split end and set the
candle in it and stuck the sharpened end in the ground, all the while
working in the dark. Then he lit the candle.
I do not know how long we had been sitting by the candle light and
putting forth all sorts of conjectures about Richards and his
uncomfortable position in the bush without cover and the probable
reasons for his failure to return, when the tent front opened and in he
came, as wet as though he had been in the river.
"Well, Richards," I asked, when he was comfortably settled at his meal,
"what do you think of the river?"
"The river!" he paused between mouthfuls to exclaim, "that's the only
thing within twenty miles that I didn't see. I've been looking for it
for four hours, but it kept changing its location and I never found it
till I struck camp just now."
"Now, boys," said I, when all the pipes were going, "I've something to
say to you. Up to this time we've had no real hardships to meet. We've
had hard work, and it's been most trying at times, but there's been no
hardship to endure that might not be met with upon any journey in the
bush. If we go on we _shall_ have hardships, and perhaps, some pretty
severe ones. There'll soon be sleet and snow in the air, and cold days
and shivery nights, and the portages will be long and hard. On the
whole, there's been plenty to eat--not what we would have had at home,
perhaps, but good, wholesome grub--and we're all in better condition
and stronger than when we started, but flour and pork are getting low,
lentils and corn meal are nearly gone, and short rations, with hungry
days, are soon to come if we don't strike game, and you know how
uncertain that is. I cannot say what is before us, and I'm not going
to drag you fellows into trouble. I'm going to ask for one volunteer
to go on with me to Ungava with the small canoe, and let the rest
return from here with the other canoe and what grub they need to take
them out. Who wants to go home?"
It came to them like a shock. Outside, the wind howled through the
trees and dashed the rain spitefully against the tent. The water
dripped through on us, and the candle flickered and sputtered and
almost went out. In the weird light I could see the faces of the men
work with emotion. For a moment no one spoke. Finally Richards, in a
tone of reproach that made me feel sorry for the very suggestion,
asked: "Do you think there's a quitter here?"
The loyalty and grit of the men touched my heart. Not one of them
would think of leaving me. Nothing but a positive order would have
turned them back, and I decided to postpone our parting until we
reached Michikaumau at least, if it could be postponed so long
consistently with safety.
The next day was Sunday, and it was spent in rest and in preparation
for our advance up the trail. The weather was damp and cheerless, with
rain falling intermittently throughout the day.
To cover a possible retreat a cache was made near our camp of thirty
pounds of pemmican in tin cans and forty-five pounds of flour and some
tea in a waterproof bag. A hole was dug in the ground and the
provisions were deposited in it, then covered with stones as a
pro-tection from animals.
By Monday morning the storm had gained new strength, and steadily and
pitilessly the rain fell, accompanied by a cold, northwest wind.
What narrowly escaped being a serious accident occurred when we halted
that day for dinner. Easton was cutting firewood, when suddenly he
dropped the ax he was using with the exclamation "That fixes me!" He
had given himself what looked at first like an ugly cut near the shin
bone. Fortunately, however, upon examination, it proved to be only a
flesh wound and not sufficiently severe to interfere with his
traveling. Stanton dressed the cut. Our adhesive plaster we found had
become useless by exposure and electrician's tape was substituted for
it to draw the flesh together.
On the evening of the second day after leaving the Nascaupee, our tent
was pitched upon the site of an extensive but ancient Indian camp
beside a mile-long lake, four hundred and fifty feet above the river.
Five ponds had been passed _en route_, but all of them so small it was
scarcely worth while floating the canoe in any of them.
In these two days we had covered but eleven miles, but during the whole
time the wind had driven the rain in sweeping gusts into our faces and
made it impossible for a man, single-handed, to portage a canoe. Thus,
with two men to carry each canoe we had been compelled to make three
loads of our outfit, and this meant fifty-five miles actual walking,
and thirty-three miles of this distance with packs on our backs. The
weather conditions had made the work more than hard--it was
heartrending--as we toiled over naked hills, across marshes and
moraines, or through dripping brush and timber land.
A beautiful afternoon, two days later, found us paddling down the first
lake worthy of mention since leaving the Nascaupee River. The azure
sky overhead shaded to a pearly blue at the horizon, with a fleecy
cloud or two floating lazily across its face. The atmosphere was
perfect in its purity, and only the sound of screeching gulls and the
dip of our paddles disturbed the quiet of the wilderness. Lake
Bibiquasin, as we shall call it, was five miles in length and nestled
between ridges of low, moss-covered hills. It lay in a southeasterly
and northwesterly direction, and rested upon the summit of a subsidiary
divide that we had been gradually ascending. A creek ran out of its
northwesterly end, flowing in that direction.
Until now we had found the trail with little difficulty, but here we
were baffled. A search in the afternoon failed to uncover it, and we
were forced to halt, perplexed again as to our course. Camp was
pitched in a grove of spruces at the lower end of the lake. Not far
from us was an old hunting camp which Pete said was "most hundred years
old," and he was not far wrong in his estimate, for the frames upon
which the Indians had stretched skins and the tepee poles crumbled to
pieces when we touched them.
Strange to say, not a fish of any description had been seen for several
days and not one could be induced to rise to fly or bait, and our net
was always empty now. Game, too, was scarce. There were no fresh
caribou tracks this side of the Nascaupee River, and but one duck and
one spruce partridge had been killed. The last bit of our venison was
eaten the day before. It was pretty badly spoiled and turning a little
green in color, but Pete washed it well several times and we all
avoided the lee side of the kettle while it was cooking. It was
pronounced "not so bad."
Another day was lost on Lake Bibiquasin in an ineffectual hunt for the
trail. I scouted alone all day and in my wanderings came upon the
first ptarmigans of the trip and shot one of them with my rifle. The
others flew away. They wore their mottled summer coat, as it was still
too early for them to don their pure white dress of winter.
During my scouting trip I also discovered the first ripe bake-apple
berries we had seen. This is a salmon-colored berry resembling in size
and shape the raspberry, and grows on a low plant like the strawberry.
On Saturday morning, August nineteenth, the temperature was four
degrees below the freezing point, and the ground was stiff with frost.
In a further search on the north side of the lake opposite our camp we
found an old blaze and a trail leading from it along a ridge and
through marshes to a small lake. This was the only trail that we could
find anywhere, so we decided to follow it, though it did not bear all
the earmarks of the portage trail we had been tracing--it was decidedly
more ancient. We started our work with a will. It was a hard portage
and we sometimes sank knee deep into the marsh and got mired
frequently, but finally reached the lake.
Indian signs now completely disappeared. Down the lake, where a creek
flowed out, was a bare hill, and Pete and I climbed it. From its
summit we could easily locate the creek taking a turn to the north and
then to the northeast and, finally, flowing into one of a series of
lakes extending in an easterly and westerly direction. The land was
comparatively flat to the eastward and the lakes no doubt fed a river
flowing out of that end, probably one of those that we had noted as
joining the Nascaupee on its north side. To the north of these lakes
were high, rugged ridges. It was possible there was an opening in the
hills to the westward, where they seemed lower; we could not tell from
where we were, but we determined to portage along the creek into the
lakes with that hope.
Again the smoke of a forest fire hung in the valleys and over the
hills, and the air was heavy with the smell of it, which revived the
former uneasiness, but by the next day every trace of it had
disappeared.
Another day found us afloat upon the first of the lakes. Several short
carries across necks of land took us from this lake into the one which
Pete and I had seen extending back to the ridges to the westward, and
which we shall call Lake Desolation.
On the northern shore of Lake Desolation we stopped to climb a
mountain. A decided change in the features of the country had taken
place since leaving Lake Bibiquasin, and the low moss-covered hills had
given place to rough mountains of bare rock. To the northward from
where we stood nothing but higher mountains of similar formation met
our view--a great, rolling vista of bare, desolate rocks. To the
westward the country was not, perhaps, so rough, though there, too, in
the far distance could be discerned the tops of rugged hills breaking
the line of the horizon. Through a valley in that direction was
distinguishable, with a considerable interval between them, a string of
small lakes or ponds. This valley led up from the western end of Lake
Desolation, and there was no other possible place for the trail to
leave the lake. The valley was the only opening.
Our mountain climbing had consumed a good part of an afternoon, and it
was evening when finally we reached the western end of the lake and
pitched our camp near a creek flowing in. As we paddled we tried our
trolls, but were not rewarded with a single strike. When camp was made
the net was stretched across the creek's mouth and we tried our rods in
the stream for trout, but our efforts were useless. No fish were
caught.
The prospect for game had not improved, in fact was growing steadily
worse. We were now in a country that had been desolated by a forest
fire within four or five years. The moss under foot had not renewed
itself and where any of it remained at all, it was charred and black.
The trees were dead and the land harbored almost no life. It seemed to
me that even the fish had been scalded out of the water and the streams
had never restocked themselves.
A thorough search was made for Indian signs, but there were absolutely
none. There was nothing to show that any human being had ever been
here before us. Back on Lake Bibiquasin we had lost the trail and now
on Lake Desolation we were far and hopelessly astray, with only the
compass to guide us.
After supper the men sat around the camp fire, smoking and talking of
their friends at home, while I walked alone by the lake shore. It was
a wild scene that lay before me--the aurora, with its waves of changing
color flashing weirdly as they swept and lighted the sky, the dead
trees everywhere like skeletons gray and gaunt, the blazing camp fire
in the foreground, with the figures lying about it and the little white
tent in the background. Somewhere hidden in the depths of that vast
and silent wilderness to the westward lay Michikamau.
There was no mark on the face of the earth to direct us on our road. We
must blaze a new trail up that valley and over those ridges that looked
so dark and forbidding in the uncertain light of the aurora. We must
find Michikamau.