THE FIRST WOODS
How shall I set forth the feelings it stirred? None but the shipwrecked
sailor, long drifting on the open sea, but come at last to land,
can fully know the thrill it gave us. We were like starving Indians
suddenly surrounded by Caribou. Wood--timber--fuel--galore! It was
hard to realise--but there it was, all about us, and in the morning
we were awakened by the sweet, sweet, home-like song of the Robins
in the trees, singing their "Cheerup, cheerily," just as they do
it in Ontario and Connecticut. Our cache was all right; so, our
stock of luxuries was replenished. We now had unlimited food as well
as unlimited firewood; what more could any one ask? Yet there was
more. The weather was lovely; perfect summer days, and the mosquitoes
were gone, yes, now actually nets and flybars were discarded for
good. On every side was animal life in abundance; the shimmering
lake with its Loons and islands would fit exactly the Indian's dream
of the heavenly hunting-grounds. These were the happy halcyon days
of the trip, and we stayed a week to rest and revel in the joys
about us.
In the morning I took a long walk over the familiar hills; the
various skeletons we had left were picked bare, evidently by Gulls
and Ravens, as no bones were broken and even the sinews were left.
There were many fresh tracks of single Caribou going here and
there, but no trails of large bands. I sent Weeso off to the Indian
village, two miles south. He returned to say that it was deserted
and that, therefore, the folk had gone after the Caribou, which
doubtless were now in the woods south of Artillery Lake. Again the
old man was wholly astray in his Caribou forecast.
That night there was a sharp frost; the first we had had. It
made nearly half an inch of ice in all kettles. Why is ice always
thickest on the kettles? No doubt because they hold a small body
of very still water surrounded by highly conductive metal.
Billy went "to market" yesterday, killing a nice, fat little Caribou.
This morning on returning to bring in the rest of the meat we found
that a Wolverine had been there and lugged the most of it away.
The tracks show that it was an old one accompanied by one or maybe
two young ones. We followed them some distance but lost all trace
in a long range of rocks.
The Wolverine is one of the typical animals of the far North. It
has an unenviable reputation for being the greatest plague that
the hunter knows. Its habit of following to destroy all traps for
the sake of the bait is the prime cause of man's hatred, and its
cleverness in eluding his efforts at retaliation give it still more
importance.
It is, above all, the dreaded enemy of a cache, and as already
seen, we took the extra precaution of putting our caches up trees
that were protected by a necklace of fishhooks. Most Northern
travellers have regaled us with tales of this animal's diabolical
cleverness and wickedness. It is fair to say that the malice, at
least, is not proven; and there is a good side to Wolverine character
that should be emphasized; that is, its nearly ideal family life,
coupled with the heroic bravery of the mother. I say "nearly" ideal,
for so far as I can learn, the father does not assist in rearing
the young. But all observers agree that the mother is absolutely
fearless and devoted. More than one of the hunters have assured me
that it is safer to molest a mother Bear than a mother Wolverine
when accompanied by the cubs.
Bellalise, a half-breed of Chipewyan, told me that twice he had
found Wolverine dens, and been seriously endangered by the mother.
The first was in mid-May, 1904, near Fond du Lac, north side of
Lake Athabaska. He went out with an Indian to bring in a skiff left
some miles off on the shore. He had no gun, and was surprised by
coming on an old Wolverine in a slight hollow under the boughs of
a green spruce. She rushed at him, showing all her teeth, her eyes
shining blue, and uttering sounds like those of a Bear. The Indian
boy hit her once with a stick, then swung himself out of danger up
a tree. Bellalise ran off after getting sight of the young ones;
they were four in number, about the size of a Muskrat, and pure
white. Their eyes were open. The nest was just such as a dog might
make, only six inches deep and lined with a little dry grass.
Scattered around were bones and fur, chiefly of Rabbits.
The second occasion was in 1905, within three miles of Chipewyan,
and, as before, about the middle of May. The nest was much like
the first one; the mother saw him coming, and charged furiously,
uttering a sort of coughing. He shot her dead; then captured the
young and examined the nest; there were three young this time. They
were white like the others.
Not far from this camp, we found a remarkable midden-yard of Lemmings.
It was about 10 feet by 40 feet, the ground within the limits was
thickly strewn with pellets, at the rate of 14 to the square inch,
but nowhere were they piled up. At this reckoning, there were over
800,000, but there were also many outside, which probably raised
the number to 1,000,000. Each pellet was long, brown, dry, and
curved, i.e., the winter type. The place, a high, dry, very sheltered
hollow, was evidently the winter range of a colony of Lemmings that
in summer went elsewhere, I suppose to lower, damper grounds.
After sunset, September 5, a bunch of three or four Caribou trotted
past the tents between us and the Lake, 200 yards from us; Billy
went after them, as, thanks to the Wolverine, we were out of meat,
and at one shot secured a fine young buck.
His last winter's coat was all shed now, his ears were turning
white and the white areas were expanding on feet and buttocks; his
belly was pure white.
On his back and rump, chiefly the latter, were the scars of 121
bots. I could not see that they affected the skin or, hair in the
least.
Although all of these Caribou seem to have the normal foot-click,
Preble and I worked in vain with the feet of this, dead one to make
the sound; we could not by any combination of movement, or weight
or simulation of natural conditions, produce anything like a "click."
That same day, as we sat on a hill, a cow Caribou came curiously
toward us. At 100 yards she circled slowly, gazing till she got
the wind 150 yards to one side, then up went her tail and off she
trotted a quarter of a mile, but again drew nearer, then circled
as before till a second time the wind warned her to flee. This she
did three or four times before trotting away; the habit is often
seen.
Next afternoon, Billy and I saw a very large buck; his neck was
much swollen, his beard flowing and nearly white. He sighted us
afar, and worked north-west away from us, in no great alarm. I got
out of sight, ran a mile and a half, headed him off, then came on
him from the north, but in spite of all I could do by running and
yelling, he and his band (3 cows with 3 calves) rushed galloping
between me and the lake, 75 yards away. He was too foxy to be driven
back into that suspicious neighbourhood.
Thus we had fine opportunities for studying wild life. In all
these days there was only one unfulfilled desire: I had not seen
the great herd of Caribou returning to the woods that are their
winter range.
This herd is said to rival in numbers the Buffalo herds of story,
to reach farther than the eye can see, and to be days in passing
a given point; but it is utterly erratic. It might arrive in early
September. It was not sure to arrive until late October, when the
winter had begun. This year all the indications were that it would
be late. If we were to wait for it, it would mean going out on the
ice. For this we were wholly unprepared. There were no means of
getting the necessary dogs, sleds, and fur garments; my business
was calling me back to the East. It was useless to discuss the
matter, decision was forced on me. Therefore, without having seen
that great sight, one of the world's tremendous zoological spectacles
the march in one body of millions of Caribou--I reluctantly gave
the order to start. On September 8 we launched the Ann Seton on
her homeward voyage of 1,200 upstream miles.