THE STORM CAMP
They had gone about a mile when Ganawa put down the moose-hide and his
blanket at the foot of a high granite cliff in the lee of a dense
spruce forest that sloped down to one of those innumerable small
streams that wind their way through every valley and ravine of the Lake
Superior region, little streams that are destined to feed the Big Lake
as long as the northern forest shades their pools and ripples. The
trees of the north: pine, spruce, balsam, birch, poplar, and alder;
they are indeed the keepers, the preservers of the small brooks in
whose pools the wild violets are mirrored in June; and if the forests
are ever destroyed, the music of the little brooks will die away.
“Here we must camp till the storm has passed,” said Ganawa. “We must
lean our tepee-poles against the cliff.”
The lads understood at once what was wanted. Bruce swung his big ax,
and with one or two blows a pole came down. As Bruce felled the poles,
the other two hunters trimmed them and leaned them against the cliff.
“We must make a long tepee,” the Chippewa told his white sons, “long
enough for two beds.”
In a surprisingly short time the frame of the long tepee stood
complete, and now Ganawa again displayed to the lads the
resourcefulness of the Indian in the wilderness. He first tied the
moose-hide to the lower part of the poles, with the hair side in. “It
will soon freeze hard,” he said, “and will not slip.” Then he tied
several slender poles crosswise to the upper half of the leaning
tepee-poles, and with the aid of a supply of rawhide strings, he
fastened a thatch of spruce and balsam boughs to the upper part of the
long tepee.
The most difficult part of the work was making a bed for the boys.
There was a fairly level sleeping-place for Ganawa, but the rest of the
tepee floor was a jumble of angular rocks, and over these the lads had
to build a pole platform. However, as young spruces and poplars grew in
abundance close by, even this was finished in a short time. When in
addition to all this an abundant supply of spruce and balsam boughs had
been cut and spread on the two beds, the camp itself was ready for the
night, but more work had to be done before it would be a safe place for
the hunters during the coming storm. Such severe weather would require
a good shelter.
Bruce now set to work cutting firewood: green spruce and birch, with
some dry stuff mixed in for giving the fire a good start or for making
it come to quickly when it was low. While Bruce was cutting wood,
Ganawa first made the beds and then carried the heavy billets to the
camp, where he piled them up, some inside and others just outside the
entrance. Ray also had work to do. He brought a kettleful of water from
the stream, washed the moose tripe in the brook, started a fire under
the slanting granite wall and began preparations for the feast.
The tongue, the kidneys, and a piece of tripe he set boiling in the
kettle. On a grill of green sticks, as soon as he had enough live
coals, he broiled some choice steak, while he fried other pieces of
steak and liver in a panful of melted suet.
Daylight was just beginning to fade outside when the three hunters were
ready for the feast. Ganawa, who was the last one in, closed the
opening with a piece of buckskin and the boys could not help wondering
at the shelter they had contrived to put up in this lonely uninhabited
wilderness. The fire burnt freely in front of the red granite and the
smoke drew off perfectly through an opening between two poplar poles.
The hot bed of coals and the heated rock spread a gentle warmth through
the camp which, for the time, made this makeshift shelter as
comfortable as a log-house with a fireplace.
“My sons, you must not eat too fast,” said Ganawa, “because we have now
much time to eat and to sleep and to talk.”
The broiled and the fried steak was soon disposed of, and the boys
agreed it was the best meat they had ever eaten. The young moose had
been in good condition and the meat was tender and well-flavored.
Within an hour the meat in the kettle was done; and with his
hunting-knife every one fished out what he liked, using a piece of bark
for a plate. The white boys ate their meat and drank the hot broth with
a little salt, but Ganawa ate his meat and drank his broth without any
salt.
“I can’t eat any more,” Ray admitted, after he had sampled every kind
of meat and had emptied his second cup of soup, “and I’m as warm as I
ever was at home in Vermont.”
To both of the lads it seemed a little unreal that they should be
sitting here warm and cozy at a bright fire, inhaling the odor of fresh
spruce and balsam. The long, weary trailing after the moose seemed like
a dream of something that happened long ago.
Outside over the tops of the spruces and through the scattered pines on
the cliff above, the storm began to roar with that peculiar dull
monotone which makes one be truly grateful for a safe and warm camp.
Ray put his head out for a few seconds. “Ugh,” he exclaimed. “It is
pitch-dark, the snow is coming down fast, and it is getting awfully
cold. We should surely freeze to death if we had not put up this camp.”
As the hunters were very tired they soon stretched out on their beds of
spruce and balsam. The moose-hide kept the cold air from their beds and
both dog and men were soon sound asleep. Bruce and Ganawa each arose
once to replenish the fire. Ray had also intended to take his turn at
this work, but when he woke up, daylight was shining through the
smoke-hole, and over a fire of birchwood coals Bruce was broiling moose
meat for breakfast, while Tawny was sitting up, intently watching the
cook, in anticipation of his own breakfast.
Ray muttered as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, “I never slept as I did
in this storm camp. I tell you, Bruce, a good Indian hunter certainly
knows how to take care of himself in the woods.”