Clear Water Bay transformed--Cahill's Farewell--Ptarmigan Bay--A Night
under Canvas--"No more Collars or Neckties!"--Companions in
Misfortune--Cedar Lake--"Lop-sticks"--An Indian Village--Shashegheesh's
Two Wives--Buying Potatoes--_Seniores Priores_--Excellent
Carrots!--Frank's Flirtations with the Squaws--The Dogs eat Carrière's
Toboggan.
Towards noon we turned westward into Clear Water Bay, and were soon at
the landing. How changed from the night when we landed here nearly a year
and a half before! Then it was only a forest traversed by a narrow path;
now the scene is crowded with a log storehouse and well-used roads,
several shanties, piles of glycerine cans, a barge waiting the arrival of
the tug, swarms of boats and canoes, and groups of navvies standing round
the storehouse, whence we hear the twang of a rudely played, but not
unmusical, violin: Indians and squaws, beside their wigwams, complete the
picture. Here we met our old friend Cahill, who came on board to say
good-bye. He had been away haymaking when I left Lake Deception, and I
regretted not seeing him. He had made up his mind to leave the country
and return to Ontario. In despair because he had not his two trunks with
him, so that he could accompany us, he implored us to wait until he went
and fetched them, and when we tried to explain that we should have no
means of conveying his trunks he drew himself up and informed us with
dignity that he could afford to pay his way like any other honest man.
But at last, understanding that our mode of travelling would preclude any
such weighty baggage as trunks, he bade us farewell and a hearty
God-speed, muttering as he walked away that he would not be long after us
in "this God-forsaken counthry, that all the gintlefolks were lavin'."
I have never heard if he carried out his threat, but wherever he may end
his days, I am sure his kind Irish heart will be unchanged.
Taking the barge in tow and our Indians--Carrière, who was to act as
guide, and a merry Iroquois named Frank Saddler--coming on board, we
steamed out of Clear Water Bay, and in the fast-falling rain reached our
landing-place, a large rock on a sandy, wooded shore, whence we were to
make our first portage into Ptarmigan Bay. The captain let the tug run
close up to this rock, and with little difficulty we disembarked on a
spot that seemed to lead nowhere. Bidding us a cordial good-bye, good
luck, and speedy return all round, the jolly old skipper left us, and we
watched the little tug with the barge hugged close alongside to keep it
off the sunken rocks, disappear in the rain.
We decided that it was too wet and late to make any further progress that
night, so Carrière and Frank went in search of a camping-ground; and soon
the merry ring of their axes, the crash of falling timber, and the
crackling of fires, which sent ruddy gleams through the trees, raised our
drooping spirits and dried our damp clothes, and no merrier party ever
clustered round the welcome blaze. We enjoyed our pan of fried pork and
cold roast beef, accompanied by tin pannikins of tea, more thoroughly
than the most _recherché_ repast served in the most perfectly
appointed dining-room. Spreading the waterproof sheets and robes on the
ground in the tent, Mr. F---- made the bed over its entire width, then
rolled the ends up, leaving us space to dress. We had a huge fire across
the doorway of our tent, and about ten or twelve feet off blazed another
fire, behind which rose the tent of the gentlemen.
"Now we're in camp, away with the frivolities of civilized life," cried
Mr. F----, as he took off his collar and necktie and tossed them into his
wife's lap. "I'm not going to put those on again until I get to Winnipeg,
and fashion demands the sacrifice; nor coat either--unless," he
prudently added, "I'm caught in the rain;" and he looked up at the still
weeping clouds.
No ribbons, no bows, no extra adornments, were to be allowed, and next
morning, when I appeared with some, I was voted a rebel by the assembled
travellers, and in mock politeness offered a stump to sit on, and a
knife, fork, and spoon all to myself. Rising at seven, we made our
toilets on the shore of the small bay where we had landed the night
before, and it required some little practice to wash our faces, standing
or kneeling on the slippery stones, without getting our skirts wet or
letting the water run up our sleeves. After breakfast we packed up, and
the men having taken over the canoes, we all followed, each carrying what
we could, through a narrow belt of woods; then the path rounded a grassy
swamp to a long, rocky point. Mr. M---- was some distance in front, with
the frying-pan in one hand, and a basket containing the knives, forks,
etc., in the other, while my load was the lantern, whisky-keg, and a
small tin pail of pork. Just as I reached the rock, Mr. M----, who was
feeling his way along the top, and warning me to be careful, slipped,
turned, and, vainly trying to grasp the rock, went down on all fours with
a run and splash into the lake. Away went Frank after him, shouting with
a laugh, "I'll save the frying-pan!"
"What's that?" cried Mrs. F----, who was behind me with a load of shawls.
"Only Mr. M---- in the lake," said I; and adding conceitedly, "Wait a
minute, Mr. M----, and I'll come and pull you out"--I stepped upon what
was apparently firm ground, and sank to my knees in soft, slimy mud, from
which I was with difficulty extricated. When the canoe loads were
divided, it was voted unanimously that Mr. M---- and I should be put in
the same boat, to sink or swim together.
The day cleared, and we reached our next portage after a three-hours'
paddle, from Ptarmigan Bay to a nameless lake, one of the most beautiful
I ever saw. The portage is about half a mile long, up a narrow path over
a hill, and the men loaded and travelled so well, that in two trips they
had carried everything over, while we, though more lightly laden, only
accomplished one. Somebody here called attention to the wisdom with which
I had chosen my load, as it got lighter at every trip, especially the
whisky, which, by the way, was contraband. Of course we gave the lake a
name--in fact, it had half a dozen before we left it, one being in honour
of the dear little baby, who, through all the discomforts of our trip,
enjoyed and bore it best among us. But the name it retained was Cedar
Lake, from a lovely passage, three or four hundred feet long, between the
mainland and an island, each high, rocky bank being covered with large
cedars, which almost met overhead.
Passing out from among the cedars, Carrière paused a moment; then,
steering the canoe in another direction, said--"This is the way, Mr. M----.
I doubted a moment, for I was only over this part of the trail once,
nearly four years ago. Four years this Christmas."
"Why, how can you tell which way to take? All the points and islands look
alike to me."
"By some landmarks. I paid an Indian a dollar to show me this road, and I
never forget. I know the dry wood yonder, and I know the portage by a big
stone I cooked my dinner on. There's an old tree fallen in the water by
the landing, which will be troublesome," he added. Ten minutes afterwards
we reached the spot, and had a great deal of difficulty in getting the
said tree out of the way, and ourselves ashore.
This portage is longer than the first, and over quite a steep hill,
where, in spite of its diminishing character, I found my load almost more
than I could carry, and gladly gave the pork to Frank. It was noon when
we reached the mouth of a creek in Shoal Lake. Sitting down comfortably
upon a quantity of mown hay on the shore, we had our lunch, the first man
over the portage having made a fire, and rested for an hour. The
unfortunate Mr. M----, reaching from a log for water, and stumbling in
again, afforded us some entertainment, but this time I did not propose to
rescue him.
Shoal Lake is about twelve miles long and five wide, and is at times the
roughest lake in the chain. Canoes are often wind-bound for days upon its
shores, and we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune in having such
a fine day to cross in. It was a long twelve miles' paddle. As we crossed
the northern end, Carrière pointed out the winter trail to the "Nor'-west
Angle," six miles from its southern shores, which could be followed for
over nine miles by the lop-sticks in view. The Indians formerly made
these lop-sticks only to commemorate some great event, but now they will
make one in return for a bag of flour or a feast. Choosing one of the
tallest trees, they cut off all the branches, except the very topmost,
and their bare stems make them distinguishable from the rest of the
forest a long way off.
There is a Hudson Bay Company's post on one of the islands on Shoal Lake,
and we could hear the trained dogs there howling dreadfully. About six
o'clock we reached Indian Bay, on the northern shore of Shoal Lake. Its
entrance is guarded by an island, and round its western point lie the low
meadow lands at the mouth of Falcon River. The Indian village on the
shore of the bay comprises but a few scattered log-houses and
untidy-looking wigwams of birch bark, most of them empty. The ground about
the lodges was planted with potatoes, and upright poles with cross sticks
stood near, to dry fish and skins upon. The Indians, with the exception
of a few half-grown boys, were all away at the Hudson Bay trading-post to
get their treaty-money, which varied in amount according to their rank in
the tribe, the chief getting the immense sum of twenty-five dollars a
year. A group of squaws turned out to greet the approach of our canoes,
which excited far more interest than ourselves. We went up a long path to
the chief's house, where an old squaw with five children, aged from
sixteen to three years, lived. Another house close by was inhabited by
Shashegheesh's youngest wife, a tall, slight, rather good-looking squaw,
wearing a merino skirt and loose cotton jacket. Mr. F---- had commissioned
Carrière to buy some potatoes of her; but before the bargain was completed,
her old rival, a puffy-cheeked, but still handsome woman, came forward,
asserting her prior right, assuring us that her potatoes were the best.
On this, the younger squaw, without a word of remonstrance, dropped the
half-apronful she had gathered; and the old one, sending for a birch-bark
tray, sold the potatoes off her rival's domains, and pocketed the
twenty-five cents (1s. 3d.). Carrière tried hard to induce her to throw
in one or two miserable-looking carrots for the same money; but, laughing
derisively, she declined unless he would pay more. Anxious, however, to
sell them, she followed us down to the shore, carrots in hand.
We peeped into the house; it was bare of all furniture, a roll of skins
and some matting which they make themselves being the only things we
could see. Yet Shashegheesh is one of the richest chiefs in that part of
the country, and has two wives, because he can afford to build and keep
two houses. Several other houses, well built and with good mud chimneys,
were empty, but, Carrière said, only during the summer.
A tattered birch-bark wigwam near the landing was inhabited by a squaw
and half a dozen children. A papoose, laced in his birch-bark cradle, his
face covered with blood, was roaring lustily. The squaw said his face was
sore, and he had scratched it. His screams increasing at our appearance,
she seized hold of the strap the cradle is carried by, and gave it a
violent shake, making a queer guttural remark that silenced him at once.
The inside of this wigwam was more comfortable than Shashegheesh's house.
The floor was strewn with clean cedar boughs, leaving a round space in
the centre, where there were still remains of a fire. The squaw and the
girls here, too, were better dressed than the chief's family. One child
about ten had a bright pink merino dress, profusely trimmed with narrow
black velvet and small white china buttons; her hair was braided with
coloured ribbons and beads, strings of beads also encircling her wrists,
neck, and ankles. She came out and danced for our entertainment, twisting
and whirling about, snapping her fingers over her head, and tossing her
long braids about. Her friends all regarded her performance with evident
admiration.
While we looked on, a canoe, laden with cedar boughs, and paddled by two
pretty young squaws, came gliding in along the shore. Frank, who could
not understand a word of their language, sat on a log near, and soon
peals of merry laughter betrayed a lively flirtation. Close together, the
girls sidled up to him; and he, casting insinuating glances at them,
poked them in the ribs, when they ran laughing away, hiding behind the
low bushes that skirted the shore. Presently they peeped out, to find an
expression of utter indifference on Frank's face, as he idly kicked the
pebbles at his feet. When they gradually returned to the charge, Frank,
with a laughing look at us, said something in his own tongue, to which
they listened with finger on lip, looking at each other, as though
saying--
"What does it mean? Shall we remain or fly?"
Before they could decide, Frank made a feint to spring after them, at
which they turned, and fled like frightened fawns. Not being followed,
they ventured to return, coming closer and closer, until Frank, watching
his opportunity, really sprang after them, grasped the prettiest by the
elbows, and bent her lithe body back until he could look close into the
brown eyes. Then, as she struggled violently, with a laugh he let her
free. It was time to embark, and kissing his hand to the girls, he leaped
into the canoe and pushed off, we following more slowly, taking a last
look of the group on shore--the Indian wigwam, the pretty squaws, leaning
sadly against each other as they watched Frank's canoe round the point;
the stout matron, still flourishing the emaciated-looking carrots, and
shrilly vociferating their perfections to Carrière; and the dancing-girl
waving a farewell with a huge cedar bough.
Carrière told us that during the previous winter the village was full,
and when he stopped a night there, _en route_ from Winnipeg, some of
the Indians took his dog-train over to an opposite point for a fiddler
who lived there, and all spent the night in a grand "spree" of dancing
and drinking. But in the morning only the shattered remains of his
toboggan and dogs were to be found, the half-starved native animals
having devoured provisions and robes, and gnawed the toboggan to pieces,
so that he had to make the best of his way home on foot--a sadder, if not
a wiser, man.