OLD FORT RELIANCE TO FORT RESOLUTION
All night the storm of rain and snow raged around our camp on
the south shore of Artillery Lake, but we were up and away in the
morning in spite of it. That day, we covered five portages (they
took two days in coming out). Next day we crossed Lake Harry and
camped three-quarters of a mile farther on the long portage. Next
day, September 11, we camped (still in storm) at the Lobstick Landing
of Great Slave Lake. How tropically rich all this vegetation looked
after the "Land of little sticks." Rain we could face, but high
winds on the big water were dangerous, so we were storm-bound until
September 14, when we put off, and in two hours were at old Fort
Reliance, the winter quarters of Sir George Back in 1833-4. In the
Far North the word "old" means "abandoned" and the fort, abandoned
long ago, had disappeared, except the great stone chimneys. Around
one of these that intrepid explorer and hunter-Buffalo Jones-had
built a shanty in 1897. There it stood in fairly good condition,
a welcome shelter from the storm which now set in with redoubled
fury. We soon had the big fireplace aglow and, sitting there in
comfort that we owed to him, and surrounded by the skeletons of
the Wolves that he had killed about the door in that fierce winter
time, we drank in hot and copious tea the toast: Long life and
prosperity to our host so far away, the brave old hunter, "Buffalo
Jones."
The woods were beautiful and abounded with life, and the three
days we spent there were profitably devoted to collecting, but on
September 17 we crossed the bay, made the short portage, and at
night camped 32 miles away, on the home track.
Next morning we found a camp of Indians down to the last of their
food. We supplied them with flour and tobacco. They said that
no Caribou had come to the Lake, showing how erratic is the great
migration.
In the afternoon we came across another band in still harder luck.
They had nothing whatever but the precarious catch of the nets,
and this was the off-season. Again we supplied them, and these were
among the unexpected emergencies for which our carefully guarded
supplies came in.
In spite of choppy seas we made from 30 to 35 miles a day, and
camped on Tal-thel-lay the evening of September 20. That night as
I sat by the fire the moon rose in a clear sky and as I gazed on
her calm bright disc something seemed to tell me that at that moment
the dear ones far away were also looking on that radiant face.
On the 21st we were storm-bound at Et-then Island, but utilised
the time collecting. I gathered a lot of roots of Pulsatilla and
Calypso. Here Billy amused us by catching Wiskajons in an old-fashioned
springle that dated from the days when guns were unknown; but the
captured birds came back fearlessly each time after being released.
All that day we had to lie about camp, keeping under cover on account
of the rain. It was dreary work listening to the surf ceaselessly
pounding the shore and realising that all these precious hours
were needed to bring us to Fort Resolution, where the steamer was
to meet us on the 25th.
On the 23d it was calmer and we got away in the gray dawn at 5.45.
We were now in Weeso's country, and yet he ran us into a singular
pocket that I have called Weeso's Trap--a straight glacial groove
a mile long that came to a sudden end and we had to go back that
mile.
The old man was much mortified over his blunder, but he did not
feel half so badly about it as I did, for every hour was precious
now.
What a delight it was to feel our canoe skimming along under the
four paddles. Three times as fast we travelled now as when we came
out with the bigger boat; 5 1/2 miles an hour was frequently our
rate and when we camped that night we had covered 47 miles since
dawn.
On Kahdinouay we camped and again a storm arose to pound and bluster
all night. In spite of a choppy sea next day we reached the small
island before the final crossing; and here, perforce, we stayed
to await a calmer sea. Later we heard that during this very storm
a canoe-load of Indians attempted the crossing and upset; none were
swimmers, all were drowned.
We were not the only migrants hurrying southward. Here for the
first time in my life I saw Wild Swans, six in a flock. They were
heading southward and flew not in very orderly array, but ever
changing, occasionally forming the triangle after the manner of
Geese. They differ from Geese in flapping more slowly, from White
Cranes in flapping faster, and seemed to vibrate only the tips of
the wings. This was on the 23d. Next day we saw another flock of
seven; I suppose that in each case it was the old one and young of
the year.
As they flew they uttered three different notes: a deep horn-like
"too" or "coo," a higher pitched "coo," and a warble-like
"tootle-tootle," or sometimes simply "tee-tee." Maybe the last did
not come from the Swans, but no other birds were near; I suppose
that these three styles of notes came from male, female, and young.
Next morning 7 flocks of Swans flew overhead toward the south-west.
They totalled 46; 12 were the most in one flock. In this large flock
I saw a quarrel No. 2 turned back and struck No. 3, his long neck
bent and curled like a snake, both dropped downward several feet
then 3, 4 and 5 left that flock. I suspect they were of another
family.
But, later, as we entered the river mouth we had a thrilling glimpse
of Swan life. Flock after flock came in view as we rounded the rush
beds; 12 flocks in all we saw, none had less than 5 in it, nearly
100 Swans in sight, at once, and all rose together with a mighty
flapping of strong, white wings, and the chorus of the insignificant
"too-too-tees" sailed farther southward, probably to make the great
Swan tryst on Hay River.
No doubt these were the same 12 flocks as those observed on the
previous days, but still it rejoiced my heart to see even that
many. I had feared that the species was far gone on the trail of
the Passenger Pigeon.
But this is anticipating. We were camped still on the island north
of the traverse, waiting for possible water. All day we watched In
vain, all night the surf kept booming, but at three in the morning
the wind dropped, at four it was obviously calmer. I called the
boys and we got away before six; dashing straight south in spite
of rolling seas we crossed the 15-mile stretch in 3 3/4 hours, and
turning westward reached Stony Island by noon. Thence southward
through ever calmer water our gallant boat went spinning, reeling
off the level miles up the river channel, and down again on its
south-west branch, in a glorious red sunset, covering in one day
the journeys of four during our outgoing, in the supposedly far
speedier York boat. Faster and faster we seemed to fly, for we had
the grand incentive that we must catch the steamer at any price
that night. Weeso now, for the first time, showed up strong; knowing
every yard of the way he took advantage of every swirl of the river;
in and out among the larger islands we darted, and when we should
have stopped for the night no man said "Stop", but harder we
paddled. We could smell the steamer smoke, we thought, and pictured
her captain eagerly scanning the offing for our flying canoe; it
was most inspiring and the Ann Seton jumped up to 6 miles an hour
for a time. So we went; the night came down, but far away were the
glittering lights of Fort Resolution, and the steamer that should
end our toil. How cheering. The skilly pilot and the lusty paddler
slacked not--40 miles we had come that day--and when at last some
49, nearly 50, paddled miles brought us stiff and weary to the
landing it was only to learn that the steamer, notwithstanding
bargain set and agreed on, had gone south two days before.