ON THE NYARLING
All night it rained; in the morning it was dull, foggy, and showery.
Everything was very depressing, especially in view of this second
defeat. The steady diet of Moose and tea was debilitating; my legs
trembled under me. I fear I should be a poor one to stand starvation,
if so slight a brunt should play such havoc with my strength.
We set out early to retrace the course of the Nyarling, which in
spite of associated annoyances and disappointments will ever shine
forth in my memory as the "Beautiful River."
It is hard, indeed, for words to do it justice. The charm of a
stream is always within three feet of the surface and ten feet of
the bank. The broad Slave, then, by its size wins in majesty but
must lose most all its charm; the Buffalo, being fifty feet wide,
has some waste water; but the Nyarling, half the size, has its
birthright compounded and intensified in manifold degree. The water
is clear, two or three feet deep at the edge of the grassy banks,
seven to ten feet in mid-channel, without bars or obstructions
except the two log-jambs noted, and these might easily be removed.
The current is about one mile and a half an hour, so that canoes
can readily pass up or down; the scenery varies continually and is
always beautiful. Everything that I have said of the Little Buffalo
applies to the Nyarling with fourfold force, because of its more
varied scenery and greater range of bird and other life. Sometimes,
like the larger stream, it presents a long, straight vista of a
quarter-mile through a solemn aisle in the forest of mighty spruce
trees that tower a hundred feet in height, all black with gloom,
green with health, and gray with moss.
Sometimes its channel winds in and out of open grassy meadows that
are dotted with clumps of rounded trees, as in an English park.
Now it narrows to a deep and sinuous bed, through alders so rank
and reaching that they meet overhead and form a shade of golden
green; and again it widens out into reedy lakes, the summer home
of countless Ducks, Geese, Tattlers Terns, Peetweets, Gulls, Rails,
Blackbirds, and half a hundred of the lesser tribes. Sometimes the
foreground is rounded masses of kinnikinnik in snowy flower, or
again a far-strung growth of the needle bloom, richest and reddest
of its tribe--the Athabaska rose. At times it is skirted by tall
poplar woods where the claw-marks on the trunks are witness of the
many Blackbears, or some tamarack swamp showing signs and proofs
that hereabouts a family of Moose had fed to-day, or by a broad
and broken trail that told of a Buffalo band passing weeks ago.
And while we gazed at scribbled records, blots, and marks, the loud
"slap plong" of a Beaver showed from time to time that the thrifty
ones had dived at our approach.
On the way up Jarvis had gone first in the small canoe; he saw 2
Bears, 3 Beaver, and 1 Lynx; I saw nothing but birds. On the way
down, being alone, the luck came my way.
At the first camp, after he left, we heard a loud "plong" in the
water near the boat. Bezkya glided to the spot; I followed--here
was a large Beaver swimming. The Indian fired, the Beaver plunged,
and we saw nothing more of it. He told Billy, who told me, that it
was dead, because it did not slap with its tail as it went down.
Next night another splashed by our boat.
This morning as we paddled we saw a little stream, very muddy,
trickling into the river. Bezkya said, "Beaver at work on his dam
there." Now that we were really heading for flour, our Indian showed
up well. He was a strong paddler, silent but apparently cheerful,
ready at all times to work. As a hunter and guide he was of course
first class. About 10.30 we came on a large Beaver sunning himself
on a perch built of mud just above the water. He looked like a
huge chestnut Muskrat. He plunged at once but came up again yards
farther down, took another look and dived, to be seen no more.
At noon we reached our old camp, the last where all had been
together. Here we put up a monument on a tree, and were mortified
to think we had not done so at our farthest camp.
There were numbers of Yellowlegs breeding here; we were surprised
to see them resting on trees or flying from one branch to another.
A Great Gray-owl sitting on a stump was a conspicuous feature of
our landscape view; his white choker shone like a parson's.
Early in the morning we saw a Kingbird. This was our northernmost
record for the species.
We pressed on all day, stopping only for our usual supper of Moose
and tea, and about 7 the boys were ready to go on again. They
paddled till dark at 10. Camped in the rain, but every one was
well pleased, for we had made 40 miles that day and were that much
nearer to flour.
This journey had brought us down the Nyarling and 15 miles down
the Buffalo.
It rained all night; next morning the sun came out once or twice but
gave it up, and clouds with rain sprinklings kept on. We had struck
a long spell of wet; it was very trying, and fatal to photographic
work.
After a delicious, appetising, and inspiring breakfast of straight
Moose, without even salt, and raw tea, we pushed on along the line
of least resistance, i.e., toward flour.
A flock of half a dozen Bohemian Waxwings were seen catching flies
among the tall spruce tops; probably all were males enjoying a stag
party while their wives were home tending eggs or young.
Billy shot a female Bufflehead Duck; she was so small-only 8 inches
in slack girth--that she could easily have entered an ordinary
Woodpecker hole. So that it is likely the species nest in the abandoned
holes of the Flicker. A Redtailed Hawk had its nest on a leaning
spruce above the water. It was a most striking and picturesque
object; doubtless the owner was very well pleased with it, but a
pair of Robins militant attacked him whenever he tried to go near
it.
A Beaver appeared swimming ahead; Bezkya seized his rifle and
removed the top of its head, thereby spoiling a splendid skull but
securing a pelt and a new kind of meat. Although I was now paying
his wages the Beaver did not belong to me. According to the custom
of the country it belonged to Bezkya. He owed me nothing but service
as a guide. Next meal we had Beaver tail roasted and boiled; it
was very delicious, but rather rich and heavy.
At 3.45 we reached Great Slave Lake, but found the sea so high
that it would have been very dangerous to attempt crossing to Fort
Resolution, faintly to be seen a dozen miles away.
We waited till 7, then ventured forth; it was only 11 miles across
and we could send that canoe at 5 1/2 miles an hour, but the wind
and waves against us were so strong that it took 3 1/2 hours to
make the passage. At 10.30 we landed at Resolution and pitched our
tent among 30 teepees with 200 huge dogs that barked, scratched,
howled, yelled, and fought around, in, and over the tent-ropes
all night long. Oh, how different from the tranquil woods of the
Nyarling!