For Ostersund--Lake Lulu--Giant Rocks and Pigmy Mortals--The Island
Garden--Heaven's Artillery--Strange Casualty at the Ravine--My Luggage
nearly blown up--The Driver's Presence of Mind--How to carry a
Canoe--Darlington Bay--An Invisible Lake--Lord and Lady Dufferin--A
Paddle to the Lakes--The Captain's Tug--Monopoly of
Water-carriage--Indian Legends--The Abode of Snakes.
The 27th of August dawned sultry and oppressive, but having decided to
leave Inver for a long-promised visit to Ostersund on that day, and
feeling that if I did not get the parting with the children over at once
I should never succeed in going away at all, I determined to carry out my
intention, although by doing so I was obliged to forego the pleasure of
visiting Kalmar, which I regretted very much.
Mr. K---- and Mr. F---- came for me about two o'clock, and sending the
man on with my travelling-bag, I prepared to enjoy the first long walk I
had taken since I left Ontario. From the top of the east rock I took my
last look at the spot where I had spent nearly sixteen months, on which I
shall always look back with kindly memories. Clinging to the rough
railing, and walking quickly over the floating logs, we were soon across
the boom in Lake Deception, and over the first short portage to Lake
Beau-Beau--or "Champagne Charlie" Lake--a beautiful sheet of water, with
several pretty islands, along whose southern shore the Canada Pacific
Railway line runs.
Catching sight of a boat, which probably belonged to a gang of men who
were at work with pulleys, removing great fragments of rock from a
cutting near, Mr. F---- took possession of it, and we rowed across,
ignoring the fatigue of the poor navvies, who, after a hard day's work,
would have to walk round the lake to recover their property.
On the opposite shore part of the trail lay through a long, narrow
valley, where it became such a mere path that two could not walk abreast;
then it passed over such lofty hills, and into such sudden dips of valley
land, that one could not help speculating as to the immense cost of
filling up and levelling to bring the line to the proper grade. We
skirted the shores of Lake Lulu, whose blue waters glistened in the
afternoon sun, as we caught a momentary glimpse through the trees of the
tiny hill, where a clear fresh spring tempted us to sit on the gnarled
trunk of a fallen tree and refresh ourselves. How small we felt by
involuntary comparison with the gigantic rock towering above our heads,
or even with the huge fragments thrown out and scattered at its base! I
wonder if future ages will look upon these blocks of stone as we do upon
Stonehenge, and conjecture with what powerful weapons we ancients could
have moved them, or what convulsion of nature had dislodged them from
their bed, and thrown them headlong into the lovely dell.
I should like to linger over the delightful three weeks I spent at
Ostersund, and describe in detail the tranquil pleasures of every day.
How we sat working with the children, through long, quiet mornings, on
the small space cleared in front of the house, or wandered through the
woods in search of mosses and ferns; how we went for long paddles on Lake
Lulu, either in the bright afternoon, when we took the children with us
over to the island garden, returning with supplies of ripe red tomatoes,
or in the clear, silent evenings, when we pushed out the canoe in any
direction--for all were charming--watching the glowing sunset die beyond
the hills, and the Indian camp fires wake to life along the shores.
One of the strangest thunderstorms I ever saw raged while I was at
Ostersund. The whole day had been warm, and as night fell the air became
sultry, and the sky assumed a leaden hue. Directly west of us, the only
bit of horizon we could see was across the line of railway; on either
side of this, high wooded rocks, some few hundred feet from the line,
dropped to a much lower level than that on which the house stood, and
beyond the brow of this declivity the sky had the appearance of a huge
fire, whose bright-red flames shot up into great clouds of rolling,
whirling smoke, their inky hue gradually expanding until the whole sky
became covered. Still the flames raged on in a weird stillness broken
only by the sound of rushing wind, the crackling and swaying of branches,
or a low, distant moan that warned us the storm was on its way. For more
than half an hour we watched the horizon, scarcely believing that its
strange hue was not really the reflection of a fire in the woods, till,
with a report as of a thousand cannon crashing on all sides, and the
fierce blast of a tornado, the storm was upon us. It spent itself,
however, in that one blast; the red light gradually paled and died, stars
peeped through the riven clouds, and the muttering thunder rolled away to
the south.
A culvert was being built close to the house, and we took the greatest
interest in the proceedings of all concerned--from the oxen, with their
tinkling bells, labouring up the steep with the heavy timbers in tow, to
the sad-faced contractor and his jovial, good-looking partner. As I
stood one morning watching the latter go up with a springing step to the
top, to superintend the placing of a beam, I saw the chain below snap,
and at the same instant the huge beam swung round, striking the
contractor, who, with a groan, fell headlong to the bottom of the
ravine--a distance of twenty feet. Instantly half a dozen men sprang down
and pulled him up, while another ran for Mr. K----, who telegraphed for
the doctor. Most fortunately, a cross stick against which the poor man
struck had broken his fall, and except for a few bruises and the shock he
was unhurt, and back at work again in a few days.
I lingered on at Ostersund until I heard that my heavy luggage had
arrived at Kuwatin, _via_ Clear Water Bay and the Lake of the Woods,
having had a narrow escape on its way over the portage. The horse ran
away, and dragged the cart over a number of nitro-glycerine cans. The
driver fled in terror, but returned some time afterward, and was
astonished to find an atom of either horse, cart, or luggage remaining.
The driver was not wanting in bravery either, for a few days before, the
left wheel of his cart had come in contact with a stump and turned over,
the whole weight of the horse's body falling upon the man. Knowing that
the load in the cart was too heavy for the horse to raise unassisted, and
that if he struggled he would be pounded to death, he had the presence of
mind to seize the brute by the ear and hold his head to the ground until
assistance came--an hour and a half afterwards--when the poor fellow was
too exhausted and numbed to get up.
As it was necessary that I should repack my luggage before sending it to
Winnipeg, I was obliged to tear myself away from Ostersund, hoping to see
my friends again before I left the contract altogether. This hope,
however, was not fulfilled, and it was a last farewell I took of them as
they stood on the rustic wharf, while Mr. K---- pushed off the birch-bark
canoe on which I was lounging. Paddling along the east shore, rather
close in, as the lake was rough, we soon reached the portage to Middle
Lake. Lifting the canoe well out of the water, and turning it over, Mr.
K---- raised it above his head; then, slipping the paddles on his
shoulders, and across the bars of the canoe, he carried it with ease up
the steep bank and down the hill to the other lake. In this way Indians
will carry, or, as they call it, "portage," their canoes for long
distances. Middle Lake is long, narrow, and swampy-looking, less pretty
than any we crossed on our way out. Leaving the canoe at the next portage
well drawn in under the trees, and the paddles carefully hidden in the
underbrush, lest any stray traveller should take advantage of it, we
walked the remaining two miles to Darlington Bay.
The heavy rains of the week before had made parts of the track very wet,
but by jumping from one log to another, and utilizing stones scattered
from the cuttings, we managed to cross very well. One of the most
beautiful spots is where the line crosses War Eagle Rock Lake. Until on
the very brow of the rocky, perpendicular shore, one does not suspect the
existence of a lake, and when nearly there I laughed as Mr. K---- asked
how wide a lake I thought there was between us and the trail leading
through some trees apparently close by. A moment later I paused in
astonishment. At our feet, full sixty feet below, lying between two walls
of rock, which looked as though an earthquake had rent it apart to leave
space for the sparkling water, was the lake of the romantic name. Below
the boom, which is eighty feet across, the breach widened, leaving space
for a tiny rocky island with only sufficient foliage upon it to make it
picturesque--a natural fortress to guard the opening into the broad,
beautiful sheet of water which lay beyond.
A blacksmith's forge hidden amid the trees, with the brawny smith singing
over his work, was the only object of interest we passed before reaching
Darlington, the contractor's head-quarters, where Mr. K---- was to leave
me.
The bay is an arm of the waters of the Winnipeg River, about three miles
from its outlet--a low, swampy-looking place. There is a cluster of
shanties for the men, and another serving as offices, with a remnant of
civilization in one narrow window, in the shape of a doctor's sign; which
hangs crooked, however, as if ashamed of the bad company it has got into.
Further on are two log-houses with rather more pretension to comfort
about them, where the contractor and his chief engineer lived. I remained
two days with Mrs. W----, the contractor's wife, whose kind hospitality
will never be forgotten by me, and went on to Kuwatin on Saturday
evening. Mr. F----'s house there is built on the top of the high, rocky
land which commands a view of the Lake of the Woods and the Winnipeg
River, and is close to the portage path over which Lord and Lady Dufferin
and their party crossed when on their trip through Manitoba the previous
summer, camping at night on the shores of the river.
After spending Sunday morning in packing baggage to be sent by the Dawson
route, we went for a paddle up to the rapids. When the canoe had taken us
as far as possible, we got out and clambered over the rocks into the
foam. The mouth of the Winnipeg is divided into two channels by a large
island; the lower, on which we were, is a succession of rapids each more
beautiful than the last. Skirting the shore through a pretty, wooded
path, we reached a bare hill above the highest rapid. At our feet the
water ran smooth and clear round a bend on the river below. A little
further it dashed against great rocks, sending the spray whirling in
clouds over their heads where jagged edges fretted it as it passed, or
forming clear, deep, dark pools between their smooth and solid sides.
Then it swirled round a tiny island, beyond which a long ridge of
piled-up rocks stretched its bare sides almost across the stream, as
though to stay its impetuous course. The varied expanse of water, framed
in overhanging trees, and rocks which rose black against the glowing sky,
while the setting sun tinted every jet of spray with crimson and gold,
formed a picture I would have liked to carry away with me in more than
memory. Over many of the deep pools there were long poles with baited
lines, and there, too, the Indians catch large fish with both spear and
net.
Half a mile above the rapids, we reached the partially bored tunnel
through the island which divides the river, the rocks blasted out being
used to fill up the embankment at the crossing. A few days before, this
spot had been the scene of a narrow escape from drowning. Two gentlemen,
who attempted to cross in a birch-bark canoe too near the rapids, were
caught by the eddy round the point; the canoe was capsized, and went to
pieces over the first rapid, while the canoeists, with great difficulty,
swam to the further shore, striking it only a few feet above the
rapid--barely enough to save their lives.
Returning from the tunnel, we went into a low-roofed shanty, lately
occupied by a family of nine. Its accommodation consisted of bunks built
into the wall for beds, with some dirty hay in them, a smoky mud chimney,
a hole dug in the middle of the mud floor to let off the water that
dripped through the roof, and the door hanging loose on its dried skin
hinges. There was no window, and but for the many gaps between the logs
of the walls, the inmates must have had very little air.
On Sunday, the 29th of September, soon after seven o'clock in the
morning, loaded with wraps, satchel-bags, and baskets, our travelling
party was on the way down a muddy hill to the little tug awaiting it. Our
old friend, Captain W----, greeting us enthusiastically, and busied
himself in improvising seats for us with our bags and bale of blankets.
The little tug had been built by the captain's own hands, and he
naturally thought a great deal of it, but in our eyes it seemed the
shakiest-looking craft we had ever been afloat in. Blackened with smoke,
exposure, and hard usage, it was yet thoroughly seaworthy, and although
it rolled about until well under weigh, was not uncomfortable. The stern
was roofed, but the rain drove in at the open sides, until we stretched
some waterproofs across from one upright to another. The engine fires
underneath, where the energetic one-eyed stoker was not sparing of fuel,
made it very warm, and before long I found my way round the tiny
wheel-house to the bow, and settling myself as comfortably as I could
upon a saw-horse, enjoyed my trip over the lake in spite of the drizzling
rain.
As we passed the Hudson Bay Company's post at that portage, the man at
the wheel pointed out the channel he would take when carrying supplies
for the work on the next portion of the Canada Pacific Railway, which
would "likely be worked next year;" and the confident tone of monopoly of
the traffic on the lake with which the man spoke raised vague
speculations as to the mine of wealth this little creaky boat must be to
the four men who built and worked it, their expenditure being literally
confined to their own provisions, the oil burnt in their lanterns, and
the cost of cutting the wood for fires.
A long canoe, paddled by two grinning young squaws, shot out from the
company's post, and for a time kept alongside us. About nine we entered
the Narrows, a passage only just wide enough to allow the tug to pass,
and were quickly in the Lake of the Woods. I tried before to recall the
impression made by the beauties of this exquisite lake, when crossing it
for the first time. Its islands and shores were then clad in all the
young verdure of the spring; now they wore all the glory of the autumn,
in hues of crimson, yellow, red, and gold--dark pines blending with and
forming backgrounds to the loveliest scenes that painter ever traced or
pen described. As I sat on the old saw-horse, vainly endeavouring to
grasp all the beauty around, the man at the wheel told me the legends of
each point and island, gathered from the Ojibbeways during his life among
them. If any unwary traveller ran his canoe on yonder great dark island,
closely wooded to the shore, braving the wrath of the _Mutaha Manito_
(Bad Spirit), who claimed it as his own, storms would be sent over the
lake by the offended deity, wrecks and misery alone appeasing him. A
Pale-face once, scorning the warning of the Redskin, had landed there,
and even dared to build a fire on its shores; but before the sun
again set he found an unknown grave in the great lake. Never in the
memory of the Indians had such a terrific storm raged as after the
perpetration of the impious act.
Further on we saw, in a broad expanse of water, a long, narrow, lonely
island, its trees low and stunted, its underbrush so matted that it would
seem impenetrable, where the _Kichee Manito_ (Great Spirit),
grieving that the likeness of the _Mutaha Manito_, the
_Kennebeck_ (serpent), should trouble his children when upon the
chase, or in their homes in the good land he had given them, and yet too
merciful to destroy, sent his messengers in the silent night to gather
all the serpents together. He gave them this island to live in, bidding
his children leave them unmolested. And the poor Indian, in his
gratitude, has never disobeyed the behest. Another beautiful island is
the resting-place of the Great Spirit when he pays his rare visits to
earth, and the Indian leaves upon its shores his choicest fish of the
first catch of the season, and the first-fruits of the chase as his
oblation. Another green hilly island is the grave of the braves, where
they are laid until the spirits come to lead them to the happy hunting
grounds.