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Wild North Land, The Story of a Winter Journey with Dogs across Northern North America

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</h2></div> <div class="blockquot inhead long"> Alexander Mackenzie.—The first sign of Spring.—Spanker the suspicious.—Cerf-vola contemplates cutlets.—An Indian hunter.—“Encumbrances.”—Furs and finery.—A “dead fall.”—The fur trade at both ends.—An old fort.—A night attack.—Wife-lifting.—Cerf-vola in difficulties and boots.—The Rocky Mountains at last. </div> About eighty years ago a solitary canoe floated on the waters of the Peace River. Eight sturdy Iroquois or Canadians moved it with dexterous paddle; in the centre sat the figure of a European, busy with field-book and compass. He was a daring Scotchman from the isles, by name Alexander Mackenzie. He was pushing his way slowly to the West; before him all was vague conjecture. There was a mighty range of mountains the Indians said—a range through which the river flowed in a profound chasm—beyond that all was mystery; but other wild men, who dwelt westward of the chasm in a land of mountains, had told them tales of another big river flowing toward the mid-day sun into the lake that had no shore. 192 This daring explorer built himself a house not far below the spot where my recreant crew had found a paradise in the wilderness; here he passed the winter. Early in the following spring he continued his ascent of the river. He was the first Englishman that ever passed the Rocky Mountains. He was the first man who crossed the Northern Continent. His footsteps were quickly followed by men almost as resolute. Findlay, Frazer, and Thompson soon carried the fortunes of the North-West Company through the defiles of the Peace River; and long before Jacob Astor had dreamt his dream of Columbian fur trade, these men had planted on the wild shores of New Caledonia and Oregon the first germs of English domination; little dreaming, doubtless, as they did so, that in after-time, between dulness upon one side and duplicity on the other, the fruits of their labour and their sufferings would pass to hostile hands. From its earliest days, the fur trade of the North had been carried on from bases which moved northward with the tide of exploration. The first French adventurers had made Tadousac, at the mouth of the rock-shadowed Saguenay, the base of their operations; later on, Montreal had been their point of distribution; then Mackenaw, between Lakes Michigan and Huron. With the193 fall of French dominion in 1762 the trade passed to English hands, and Fort William on Lake Superior, and Fort Chipewyan on Lake Athabasca, became in time centres of fur trade. It was from the latter place that Mackenzie and his successors pushed their explorations to the distant shores of Arctic and Pacific Oceans. Among the earlier posts which these men established in the Great Wilderness was this fort, called Dunvegan, on the Peace River. A McLeod, of Skye, founded the post, and named it after the wild, storm-swept fortalice which the chief of his race in bygone times had reared upon the Atlantic verge. As Dunvegan was then, so it is to-day; half a dozen little houses roofed with pine-bark; in front, the broad river in its deep-cut gorge; behind, an abrupt ridge 700 feet in height, at the top of which a rolling table-land spreads out into endless distance. Unlike the prairies of the Saskatchewan, this plateau is thickly interspersed with woods and thickets of pine and poplar. Its many lakes are free from alkali, and the varied growth of willows which they sustain, yield ample sustenance to the herds of moose which still roam the land. The deep trough through which the river flows increases with singular regularity as the traveller ascends the stream. Thus at Vermilion the banks194 are scarcely thirty feet above low-water level; 200 miles higher up they rise to 350 feet; at Dunvegan they are 720; and 100 miles still further west they attain an elevation of 900 and 1000 feet. Once upon the summit, however, no indication of ruggedness meets the eye. The country spreads into a succession of prairies, lakes, and copses, through which the traveller can ride with ease, safe from the badger-holes which form such an objectionable feature in more southern prairies. At times the river-bed fills up the entire bottom of the deep valley through which it runs; but more frequently a wooded terrace lies between the foot of the ridge and the brink of the water, or the land rises to the upper level in a series of rounded and less abrupt ascents. The soil is a dark sandy loam, the rocks are chiefly lime and sandstone, and the numerous slides and huge landslips along the lofty shores, render visible strata upon strata of many-coloured earths and layers of rock and shingle, lignite and banded clays in rich succession. A black, bituminous earth in many places forces its way through rock or shingle, and runs in long, dark streaks down the steep descent. Such is the present aspect of the Peace River, as lonely and silent it holds its long course, deep furrowed below the unmeasured wilderness. April had come; already the sun shone warmly195 in the mid-day hours; already the streams were beginning to furrow the grey overhanging hills, from whose southern sides the snow had vanished, save where in ravine or hollow it lay deep, drifted by the winter winds; but the river was not to be thus easily roused from the sleep into which the Arctic cold had cast it. Solid under its weight of ice, four feet in thickness, it would yet lie for days in motionless torpor. Snow might fly from sky and hill-top, prairie and forest might yield to the soft coming spring; but like a skilful general grim winter only drew off his forces from outlying points to make his last stand in the intrenchments of the frozen river. From the summit of the steep hill, whose scarped front looks down upon the little huts of Dunvegan, the eye travels over many a mile of wilderness, but no hill top darkens the far horizon; and the traveller, whose steps for months have followed the western sun, feels half inclined to doubt the reality of the mountain barrier he has so long looked in vain for. So it seemed to me, as I scanned one evening the long line of the western sky from this lofty ridge. Nineteen hundred miles behind me lay that Musk Rat Creek, by whose banks on that now distant day in October, I had bidden civilization a long good-bye. 196 Prairie and lakelet, broad river, vast forest, dim spreading lake, silent ridge and waste of wilderness—all lay deep sunken again in that slumber from which my lonely passage had for a moment roused them. Different faces had at times accompanied me; various dogs had toiled and tugged at the oaken sled, or lain at night around the wintry camp-fires; and yet, still remote lay that giant range, for whose defiles my steps had so long been bound. But amid all changes of time and place and persons, two companions still remained with me. Cerf-vola the Untiring, Spanker the Suspicious, still trotted as briskly as when they had quitted their Dakotan home. If I should feel inclined to doubt their strength and vigour, I had only to look down the hill-side to read a reassurance—a couple of hundred feet beneath where I stood. There Spanker the suspicious might have been observed in company with two other savages, doing his utmost to terminate the career of a yearling calf, which early spring had tempted to the hill-top. It was consolatory to notice that Cerf-vola the untiring took no part in this nefarious transaction. He stood apart, watching it with a countenance expressive of emotions which might be read, either in the light of condemnation of cruelty, or commendation of coming veal cutlets. 197 About midnight on the 3rd of April I quitted Dunvegan, and turned once more along the frozen river. The moon, verging to its first quarter, shone above the southern shore, lighting half the river, while the remainder lay wrapped in darkness. A half-breed named Kalder accompanied me—my former servitor having elected to remain at Dunvegan. He had probably heard strange stories of life beyond the mountains. “Miners were fond of shooting; to keep their hand and eye in practice they would shoot him as soon as they caught sight of him,” so it would perhaps be wiser to stay on the eastern slope. He remained behind, and William Kalder, a Scotch half-breed, who spoke French in addition to his Indian tongue, reigned in his stead. Above Dunvegan, the Peace is a rapid river. We decided to travel by moonlight only, and in the morning, as many places had already become unsound; a great quantity of water lay on the surface of the ice, and wet mocassins and heavy snow-shoes became our constant companions. By daybreak, however, all water would be frozen solid, and except for the effect of the sharp ice on the dogs’ feet, the travelling was excellent at that hour. At daybreak on the fourth we heard ahead a noise of barking, and presently from the wooded shore a moose broke forth upon the river. The198 crusted snow broke beneath his weight, and he turned at bay near the southern shore. We were yet a long way off, and we hurried on as fast as dogs could run. When we had reached within a couple of hundred yards of where he stood butting the dogs, a shot rang sharply from the woods; the unshapely animal still kept his head lowered to his enemies, but the shot had struck, for as we came panting up, he rolled heavily amidst his baying enemies, who closed around him while the blood bubbled fast over the pure frosted snow. Above, on the wooded banks, under a giant pine, sat a young Indian quietly regarding his quarry. Not a move of limb or countenance betokened excitement; his face was flushed by a long quick chase down the rugged hill-side; but now, though his game lay stretched beneath him, he made no outward sign of satisfaction. He sat unmoved on the rock above, his long gun balanced above his knee—the fitting background to a picture of wild sport in the wilderness. It was now the time when the Indians leave their winter hunting-grounds, and make a journey to the forts with the produce of their season’s toil. They come, a motley throng; men, women and children; dogs, sleds and hand-tobogans, bearing the precious freight of fur to the trading-post, bringing in the harvest of marten-skins from the vast field of the desert wilds. 199 On this morning, ere we reached our camping place, a long cavalcade passed us. A couple of braves in front, too proud and lazy to carry anything but their guns; then old women and young ones, bending under their loads, or driving dogs, or hauling hand-sleds laden with meat, furs, mooseskins, and infants. The puppy-dog and the infant never fail in cabin or cortége. Sometimes one may see the two packed together on the back of a woman, who carries besides a load of meat or skins. I believe the term “encumbrance” has sometimes been applied to the human portion of such a load, in circles so elevated that even the humanity of maternity would appear to have been successfully eliminated by civilization. If ever the term carried truth with it, it is here in this wild northern land, where yon wretched woman bears man’s burthen of toil as well as her own. Here the child is veritably an encumbrance; yet in some instincts the savage mother might teach her civilized sister a lesson of womanity. Perhaps here, while this motley cavalcade passes along, we may step aside a moment from the track, and tell the story of a marten. A couple of cotton kerchiefs, which my lady’s-maid would disdain to be the owner of, and a couple of ten-pound bank-notes from my lady’s purse, mark the two extremes between which200 lies the history of a marten. We will endeavour to bring together these widely-severed ends. When the winter is at its coldest, but when the days are beginning to lengthen out a little over the dim pine-woods of the North, the Indian builds a small circular fence of wood, some fourteen inches high. Upon one side this circle is left open, but across the aperture a thick limb or thin trunk of tree is laid with one end resting on the ground. Inside the circle a forked stick holds a small bit of fish or meat as a bait. This forked stick is set so as to support another small piece of wood, upon which in turn rests the half-uplifted log. Pull the baited stick, and you let slip the small supporting one, which in turn lets fall the large horizontal log. Thus runs the sequence. It is a guillotine, with a tree instead of a sharp knife; it is called a “dead fall.” Numbers of them are erected in the woods, where martens’ tracks are plentiful in the snow. Well, then, the line of “dead falls” being made and set, the Indian departs, and silence reigns in the forest. But once a week he starts forth to visit this line of “dead falls,” which may be ten or fifteen miles in length. Every now and again he finds one of his guillotines down, and underneath it lies a small, thick-furred animal, in size something larger than a ferret, something smaller than a cat. It is needless201 to describe the colour of the animal; from childhood upwards it is familiar to us. Most persons can recall the figure of maiden aunt or stately visitor, muffed, cuffed, boa’d and pelissed, in all the splendour of her sables. Our little friend under the dead fall is none other than the sable—the marten of North America, the sable of Siberia. A hundred miles away from the nearest fort this marten has been captured. When the snow and ice begin to show symptoms of softening, the Indian packs his furs together, and sets out, as we have seen, for the fort. There are, perhaps, five or six families together; the squaws and dogs are heavy laden, and the march is slow and toilsome. All the household gods have to be carried along. The leather tent, the battered copper kettle, the axe, the papoose strapped in the moss bag, the two puppy-dogs, yet unable to shift for themselves, the snow-shoes for hunting, the tattered blanket, the dry meat; it makes a big load, all told; and squaw and dog toil along with difficulty under it. The brave of course goes before, deigning only to carry his gun, and not always doing even that; the wife is but as a dog to him. Well, day by day the party moves along till the fort is reached. Then comes the trade. The fifty or a hundred marten-skins are handed over:202 the debt of the past year is cancelled, partly or wholly; and advances are taken for the coming season. The wild man’s first thought is for the little one,—a child’s white capôte, strouds or blanketing for tiny backs, a gaudy handkerchief for some toddling papoose. After that the shot and powder, the flints and ball for his own use; and lastly, the poor wife gets something for her share. She has managed to keep a couple of deer-skins for her own perquisite, and with these she derives a little pin-money. It would be too long to follow the marten-skin through its many vicissitudes—how it changes from hand to hand, each time more than doubling its price, until at length some stately dowager spends more guineas upon it than its original captor realized pence for it. Many a time have I met these long processions, sometimes when I have been alone on the march, and at others when my followers were around me; each time there was the inevitable hand-shaking, the good-humoured laughing, the magic word “thé;” a few matches, and a plug or two of tobacco given, and we separated. How easily they were made happy! And now and again among them would be seen a poor crippled Indian, maimed by fall from horse or shot from gun,203 hobbling along with the women in the rear of the straggling cortége, looking for all the world like a wild bird with a broken wing. The spring was now rapidly approaching, and each day made some change in the state of the ice. The northern bank was quite clear of snow; the water on the river grew daily deeper, and at night the ice cracked and groaned as we walked upon it, as though the sleeping giant had begun to stir and stretch himself previous to his final waking. On the morning of the 7th of April we passed the site of an old fort on the northern shore. I turned aside to examine it. Rank weeds and grass covered a few mounds, and faint traces of a fireplace could be still discerned. Moose-tracks were numerous around. Just fifty years earlier, this old spot had been the scene of a murderous attack. In the grey of the morning, a small band of Beaver Indians approached the fort, and shot its master and four men; a few others escaped in a canoe, leaving Fort St. John’s to its fate. It was immediately burned down, and the forest has long since claimed it as its own. In the phraseology of the period, this attack was said to have been made by the Indians in revenge for a series of “wife-lifting” which had been carried on204 against them by the denizens of the fort. History saith no more, but it is more than probable that this dangerous method of levying “black female” was thereafter discontinued by the Highland fur-traders. We camped not far from the ruined fort, and next night drew near our destination. It was full time. The ice was rapidly going, and already in places dark, treacherous holes showed grimly through to the rushing water beneath. The dogs were all lame, and Cerf-vola had to be regularly put in boots previous to starting. Still, lame or sound, he always travelled just the same. When his feet were very sore, he would look around now and again for assistance; but if none was forthcoming he bent himself resolutely to the task, and with down-bent head toiled at his collar. Others might tire, others might give out, but he might truly say,— <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="poetry"> <div class="stanza"> <div class="verse indentq">“Dogs may come, and dogs may go,</div> <div class="verse indent2">But I go on for ever,</div> <div class="verse indent0">Ever, ever, I go on for ever.”</div> </div></div> </div> Before daybreak on the 8th we stopped for the usual cup of tea and bite of pemmican. The night was dark and overcast. Beside us a huge pile of driftwood lay heaped above the ice. We fired it in many places before starting, and then set out for our last dog-march. The flames rose high205 through the dry timber, and a long line of light glowed and quivered upon the ice. We were soon far away from it. Day broke; a thick rain began to fall; dogs and men sunk deep in the slushy snow. “Go on, good old Cerf-vola! A little more, and your weary journey will be over; a little more, and the last mile of this 1400 will have been run; a little more, and the collar will be taken from your worn shoulders for the last long time!” At the bend of the Peace River, where a lofty ridge runs out from the southern side, and the hills along the northern shore rise to nearly 1000 feet above the water, stands the little fort of St. John. It is a remote spot, in a land which is itself remote. From out the plain to the west, forty or fifty miles away, great snowy peaks rise up against the sky. To the north and south and east all is endless wilderness—wilderness of pine and prairie, of lake and stream—of all the vast inanity of that moaning waste which sleeps between the Bay of Hudson and the Rocky Mountains. So far have we journeyed through that land; here we shall rest awhile. The time of winter travel has drawn to its close; the ice-road has done its work; the dogs may lie down and rest; for those great snowy peaks are the Rocky Mountains. <hr /> <div id="toclink_206" class="chapter"> 206 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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