The Lure of the Labrador Wild
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Title: The Lure of the Labrador Wild
Author: Dillon Wallace
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4019]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD ***
Produced by Martin Schub. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD
The Story of the Exploring Expedition
Conducted by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.
by
Dillon Wallace
L.H.
Here, b'y, is the issue of our plighted troth.
Why I am the scribe and not you, God knows:
and you have his secret.
D.W.
"There's no sense in going further--it's the edge of cultivation,"
So they said, and I believed it...
Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes
On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so:
"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!"
--Kipling's "The Explorer."
PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION
Three years have passed since Hubbard and I began that fateful journey
into Labrador of which this volume is a record. A little more than a
year has elapsed since the first edition of our record made its
appearance from the press. Meanwhile I have looked behind the ranges.
Grand Lake has again borne me upon the bosom of her broad, deep waters
into the great lonely wilderness that lured Hubbard to his death.
It was a day in June last year that found me again at the point where
some inexplicable fate had led Hubbard and me to pass unexplored the
bay that here extends northward to receive the Nascaupee River, along
which lay the trail for which we were searching, and induced us to
take, instead, that other course that carried us into the dreadful
Susan Valley. How vividly I saw it all again--Hubbard resting on his
paddle, and then rising up for a better view, as he said, "Oh, that's
just a bay and it isn't worth while to take time to explore it. The
river comes in up here at the end of the lake. They all said it was at
the end of the lake." And we said, "Yes, it is at the end of the lake;
they all said so," and went on, for that was before we knew--Hubbard
never knew. A perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a
paddle would have set us right. No current was noticed, no word was
spoken, and the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder,
where Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for
us. How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then. That
July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before. I
believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment. I never felt
his loss so keenly as then. An almost irresistible impulse seized me
to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where we had left him
that stormy October day and find if he were not after all still there
and waiting for me to come back to him.
Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside. Armed with the experience
gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the
Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of the
Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred miles to
the storm-swept shores of Ungava Bay, and two thousand miles with dog
sledge over endless reaches of ice and snow.
While I struggled northward with new companions, Hubbard was always
with me to inspire and urge me on. Often and often at night as I sat,
disheartened and alone, by the camp-fire while the rain beat down and
the wind soughed drearily through the firtops, he would come and sit by
me as of old, and as of old I would hear his gentle voice and his words
of encouragement. Then I would go to my blankets with new courage,
resolved to fight the battle to the end.
One day our camp was pitched upon the shores of Lake Michikamau, and as
I looked for the first time upon the waters of the lake which Hubbard
had so longed to reach, I lived over again that day when he returned
from his climb to the summit of the great grey mountain which now bears
his name, with the joyful news that there just behind the ridge lay
Michikamau; then the weary wind-bound days that followed and the race
down the trail with all its horrors; our kiss and embrace; and my final
glimpse of the little white tent in which he lay.
And so with the remembrance of his example as an inspiration the work
was finished by me, the survivor, but to Hubbard and to his memory
belong the credit and the honour, for it was only through my training
with him and this inspiration received from him that I was able to
carry to successful completion what he had so well planned.
My publishers inform me that five editions of our story have found
their way into the hearts and homes of those who cannot visit the great
northern wilds, but who love to hear about them. I shall avail myself
of this opportunity to thank these readers for the kindly manner in
which they have received the book. This reception of it has been
especially gratifying to me because of the lack of confidence I had in
my ability to tell the story of Hubbard's life and glorious death as I
felt it should be told.
The writing of the story was a work of love. I wished not only to
fulfil my last promise to my friend to write the narrative of his
expedition, but I wished also to create a sort of memorial to him. I
wanted the world to know Hubbard as he was, his noble character, his
devotion to duty, and his faith, so strong that not even the severe
hardships he endured in the desolate north, ending only with death,
could make him for a moment forget the simple truths that he learned
from his mother on the farm in old Michigan. I wanted the young men to
know these things, for they could not fail to be the better for having
learned them; and I wanted the mothers to know what men mothers can
make of their sons.
An unknown friend writes me, "To dare and die so divinely and leave
such a record is to be transfigured on a mountain top, a master symbol
to all men of cloud-robed human victory, angel-attended by reverence
and peace...a gospel of nobleness and faith." And another, "How truly
'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.' Mr. Hubbard
went to find Lake Michikamau; he failed, but God spelled 'Success' of
'Failure,' and you brought back a message which should be an
inspiration to every soul to whom it comes. The life given up in the
wilds of Labrador was not in vain." Space will not permit me to quote
further from the many letters of this kind that have come to me from
all over the United States and Canada, but they tell me that others
have learned to know Hubbard as he was and as his friends knew him, and
that our book has not failed of its purpose.
The storms of two winters have held in their icy grasp the bleak land
in which he yielded up his life for a principle, and the flowers of two
summers have blossomed upon his grave, overlooking the Hudson. But it
was only his body that we buried there. His spirit still lives, for
his was a spirit too big and noble to be bound by the narrow confines
of a grave. His life is an example of religious faith, strong
principle, and daring bravery that will not be forgotten by the young
men of our land.
New York, June 1, 1906. D. W.
PREFACE TO ELEVENTH EDITION
As the eleventh edition of this book goes to press, the opportunity is
given for a brief prefatory description of a pilgrimage to Hubbard's
death-place in the Labrador Wilderness from which I have just returned.
For many years it had been my wish to re-visit the scene of those
tragic experiences, and to permanently and appropriately mark the spot
where Hubbard so heroically gave up his life a decade ago. Judge
William J. Malone, of Bristol, Connecticut, one of the many men who
have received inspiration from Hubbard's noble example, was my
companion, and at Northwest River we were joined by Gilbert Blake, who
was a member of the party of four trappers who rescued me in 1903. We
carried with us a beautiful bronze tablet, which was designed to be
placed upon the boulder before which Hubbard's tent was pitched when he
died. Wrapped with the tablet was a little silk flag and Hubbard's
college pennant, lovingly contributed by his sister, Mrs. Arthur C.
Williams, of Detroit, Michigan. These were to be draped upon the
tablet when erected and left with it in the wilderness. Our plan was
to ascend and explore the lower Beaver River to the point where Hubbard
discovered it, and where, in 1903, we abandoned our canoe to re-cross
to the Susan River Valley a few days before his death. Here it was our
expectation to follow the old Hubbard portage trail to Goose Creek and
thence down Goose Creek to the Susan River.
Of our journey up the Beaver River suffice it to say that we met with
many adventures, but proceeded without serious accident until one day
our canoe was submerged in heavy rapids, the lashings gave way, and to
our consternation the precious tablet, together with the flag and
pennant, was lost in the flood. After two days' vain effort to recover
the tablet and flags we continued on the river until at length further
ascent seemed unpractical. From this point, with packs on our backs,
we made a difficult foot journey of several days to the Susan River
valley.
I shall not attempt to describe my feelings when at last we came into
the valley where Hubbard died and where we had suffered so much. Man
changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world changes, but the
untrod wilderness never changes. Before us lay the same rushing river
I remembered so well, the same starved forest of spruce with its
pungent odor, and there was the clump of spruce trees in which our last
camp was pitched just as I had seen it last. Malone and Blake remained
by the river bank while I approached alone what to me was sacred
ground. Time fell away, and I believe that I expected, when I stepped
beside the boulder before which his tent was pitched when we said our
last farewell on that dismal October morning ten years ago, to hear
Hubbard's voice welcome me as of old. The charred wood of his camp
fire might, from all appearances, have but just grown cold. The
boughs, which I had broken and arranged for his couch, and upon which
he slept and died, were withered but undisturbed, and I could identify
exactly the spot where he lay. There were his worn old moccasins, and
one of the leather mittens, which, in his last entry in his diary he
said he might eat if need be. Near the dead fire were some spoons and
other small articles, as we had left them, and scattered about were
remnants of our tent.
Lovingly we put ourselves to our task. Judge Malone, with a brush
improvised from Blake's stiff hair, and with white lead intended for
canoe repairs, lettered upon the boulder this inscription:
Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.,
Intrepid Explorer
And
Practical Christian
Died Here
Oct. 18, 1903.
"Whither I go ye know,
and the way ye know."
John XIV.--4.
Then with hammer and chisel I cut the inscription deep into the rock,
and we filled the letters with white lead to counteract the effect of
the elements.
It was dark when the work was finished, and by candlelight, beneath the
stars, I read, from the same Testament I used in 1903, the fourteenth
of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians, the chapters which I
read to Hubbard on the morning of our parting. Judge Malone read the
Fiftieth Psalm. We sang some hymns and then knelt about the withered
couch of boughs, each of us three with the feeling that Hubbard was
very close to us.
In early morning we shouldered our packs again, and with a final look
at Hubbard's last camp, turned back to the valley of the Beaver and new
adventures.
DILLON WALLACE.
Beacon-on-the-Hudson, November eighteenth, 1913.
CONTENTS
I. The Object of the Expedition
II. Off at Last
III. On the Edge of the Wilderness
IV. The Plunge into the Wild
V. Still in the Awful Valley
VI. Searching for a Trail
VII. On a Real River at Last
VIII. "Michikamau or Bust!"
IX. And There was Michikamau!
X. Prisoners of the Wind
XI. We Give It Up
XII. The Beginning of the Retreat
XIII. Hubbard's Grit
XIV. Back Through the Ranges
XV. George's Dream
XVI. At the Last Camp
XVII. The Parting
XVIII. Wandering Alone
XIX. The Kindness of the Breeds
XX. How Hubbard Went to Sleep
XXI. From Out the Wild
XXII. A Strange Funeral Procession
XXIII. Over the Ice
XXIV. Hubbard's Message
Acknowledgment is due Mr. Frank Barkley Copley, a personal and
literary friend of Mr. Hubbard, for assistance rendered in the
preparation of this volume.
D. W.
New York, January, 1905.
THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD
I. THE OBJECT OF THE EXPEDITION
"How would you like to go to Labrador, Wallace?" It was a snowy night
in late November, 1901, that my friend, Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., asked me
this question. All day he and I had been tramping through the snow
among the Shawangunk Mountains in southern New York, and when the
shades of evening fell we had built a lean-to of boughs to shelter us
from the storm. Now that we had eaten our supper of bread and bacon,
washed down with tea, we lay before our roaring campfire, luxuriating
in its glow and warmth.
Hubbard's question was put to me so abruptly that it rather startled me.
"Labrador!" I exclaimed. "Now where in the world is Labrador?"
Of course I knew it was somewhere in the north-eastern part of the
continent; but so many years had passed since I laid away my old school
geography that its exact situation had escaped my memory, and the only
other knowledge I had retained of the country was a confused sense of
its being a sort of Arctic wilderness. Hubbard proceeded to enlighten
me, by tracing with his pencil, on the fly-leaf of his notebook, an
outline map of the peninsula.
"Very interesting," I commented. "But why do you wish to go there?"
"Man," he replied, "don't you realise it's about the only part of the
continent that hasn't been explored? As a matter of fact, there isn't
much more known of the interior of Labrador now than when Cabot
discovered the coast more than four hundred years ago." He jumped up to
throw more wood on the fire. "Think of it, Wallace!" he went on, "A
great unknown land right near home, as wild and primitive to-day as it
has always been! I want to see it. I want to get into a really wild
country and have some of the experiences of the old fellows who
explored and opened up the country where we are now."
Resuming his place by the blazing logs, Hubbard unfolded to me his
plan, then vague and in the rough, of exploring a part of the unknown
eastern end of the peninsula. Of trips such as this he had been
dreaming since childhood. When a mere boy on his father's farm in
Michigan, he had lain for hours out under the trees in the orchard
poring over a map of Canada and making imaginary journeys into the
unexplored. Boone and Crockett were his heroes, and sometimes he was
so affected by the tales of their adventures that he must needs himself
steal away to the woods and camp out for two or three days.
It was at this period that he resolved to head some day an exploring
expedition of his own, and this resolution he forgot neither while a
student nor while serving as a newspaper man in Detroit and New York.
At length, through a connection he made with a magazine devoted to
out-of-door life, he was able to make several long trips into the wild.
Among other places, he visited the Hudson Bay region, and once
penetrated to the winter hunting ground of the Mountaineer Indians,
north of Lake St. John, in southern Labrador. These trips, however,
failed to satisfy him; his ambition was to reach a region where no
white man had preceded him. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he believed
that his ambition was about to be realised.
"It's always the way, Wallace," he said; "when a fellow starts on a
long trail, he's never willing to quit. It'll be the same with you if
you go with me to Labrador. You'll say each trip will be the last, but
when you come home you'll hear the voice of the wilderness calling you
to return, and it will lure you away again and again. I thought my
Lake St. John trip was something, but while there I stood at the
portals of the unknown, and it brought back stronger than ever the old
longing to make discoveries, so that now the walls of the city seem to
me a prison and I simply must get away."
My friend's enthusiasm was contagious. It had never previously
occurred to me to undertake the game of exploration; but, like most
American boys, I had had youthful dreams of going into a great wild
country, even as my forefathers had gone, and Hubbard's talk brought
back the old juvenile love of adventure. That night before we lay down
to sleep I said: "Hubbard, I'll go with you." And so the thing was
settled--that was how Hubbard's expedition had its birth.
More than a year passed, however, before Hubbard was able to make
definite arrangements to get away. I believe it was in February, 1903,
that the telephone bell in my law office rang, and Hubbard's voice at
the other end of the wire conveyed to me the information that he had
"bully news."
"Is that so?" I said. "What's up?
"The Labrador trip is all fixed for this summer," was the excited
reply. "Come out to Congers to-night without fail, and we'll talk it
over."
In accordance with his invitation, I went out that evening to visit my
friend in his suburban home. I shall never forget the exuberance of
his joy. You would have thought he was a boy about to be released from
school. By this time he had become the associate editor of the
magazine for which he had been writing, but he had finally been able to
induce his employers to consent to the project upon which he had set
his heart and grant him a leave of absence.
"It will be a big thing, Wallace," he said in closing; "it ought to
make my reputation."
Into the project of penetrating the vast solitudes of desolate
Labrador, over which still brooded the fascinating twilight of the
mysterious unknown, Hubbard, with characteristic zeal, threw his whole
heart and soul. Systematically and thoroughly he went about planning,
in the minutest detail, our outfit and entire journey. Every possible
contingency received the most careful consideration.
In order to make plain just what he hoped to accomplish and the
conditions against which he had to provide, the reader's patience is
asked for a few minutes while something is told of what was known of
Labrador at the time Hubbard was making preparations for his expedition.
The interior of the peninsula of Labrador is a rolling plateau, the
land rising more or less abruptly from the coast to a height of two
thousand or more feet above the level of the sea. Scattered over this
plateau are numerous lakes and marshes. The rivers and streams
discharging the waters of the lakes into the sea flow to the four
points of the compass--into the Atlantic and its inlets on the east,
into Ungava Bay on the north, Hudson Bay and James Bay on the west, and
the Gulf of St. Lawrence on the south. Owing to the abrupt rise of the
land from the coast these rivers and streams are very swift and are
filled with a constant succession of falls and rapids; consequently,
their navigation in canoes--the only possible way, generally speaking,
to navigate them--is most difficult and dangerous. In this, to a large
extent, lies the explanation as to why only a few daring white men have
ever penetrated to the interior plateau; the condition of the rivers,
if nothing else, makes it impossible to transport sufficient food to
sustain a party for any considerable period, and it is absolutely
necessary to run the risk of obtaining supplies from a country that may
be plentiful with game one year and destitute of it the next, and in
which the vegetation is the scantiest.
The western part of the peninsula, although it, too, contains vast
tracts in which no white man has set foot, is somewhat better known
than the eastern, most of the rivers that flow into Hudson and James
Bays having been explored and correctly mapped. Hubbard's objective
was the eastern and northern part of the peninsula, and it is with this
section that we shall hereafter deal. Such parts of this territory as
might be called settled lie in the region of Hamilton Inlet and along
the coast.
Hamilton Inlet is an arm of the Atlantic extending inland about one
hundred and fifty miles in a southwesterly direction. At its entrance,
which is two hundred miles north of Cape Charles, the inlet is some
forty miles wide. Fifty miles inland from the settlement of Indian
Harbour (which is situated on one of the White Bear Islands, near the
north coast of the inlet at its entrance), is the Rigolet Post of the
Hudson's Bay Company--the "Old Company," as its agents love to call
it--and here the inlet narrows down to a mere channel; but during the
next eighty miles of its course inland it again widens, this section of
it being known as Groswater Bay or Lake Melville.
The extreme western end of the inlet is called Goose Bay. Into this
bay flows the Grand or Hamilton River, one of the largest in Labrador.
From its source among the lakes on the interior plateau, the Grand
River first sweeps down in a southeasterly direction and then bends
northeasterly to reach the end of Hamilton Inlet. The tributaries of
the lakes forming the headwaters of the Grand River connect it
indirectly with Lake Michikamau (Big Water). This, the largest lake in
eastern Labrador, is between eighty and ninety miles in length, with a
width varying from six to twenty-five miles.
The Grand River, as well as a portion of Lake Michikamau, some years
ago was explored and correctly mapped; but the other rivers that flow
to the eastward have either been mapped only from hearsay or not at
all. Of the several rivers flowing into Ungava Bay, the Koksoak alone
has been explored. This river, which is the largest of those flowing
north, rises in lakes to the westward of Lake Michikamau. Next to the
Koksoak, the George is the best known of the rivers emptying into
Ungava Bay, as well as the second largest; but while it has been
learned that its source is among the lakes to the northward of
Michikamau, it has been mapped only from hearsay.
Now if the reader will turn to the accompanying map of Labrador made by
Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey, he will see that the
body of water known as Grand Lake is represented thereon merely as the
widening out of a large river, called the Northwest, which flows from
Lake Michikamau to Groswater Bay or Hamilton Inlet, after being joined
about twenty miles above Grand Lake by a river called the Nascaupee.
Relying upon this map, Hubbard planned to reach early in the summer the
Northwest River Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, which is situated at
the mouth of the Northwest River, ascend the river to Lake Michikamau,
and then, from the northern end of that lake, beat across the country
to the George River.
The Geological Survey map is the best of Labrador extant, but its
representation as to the Northwest River (made from hearsay) proved to
be wholly incorrect, and the mistake it led us into cost us dear.
After the rescue, I thoroughly explored Grand Lake, and, as will be
seen from my map, I discovered that no less than five rivers flow into
it, which are known to the natives as the Nascaupee, the Beaver, the
Susan, the Crooked, and the Cape Corbeau. The Nascaupee is the
largest, and as the inquiries I made among the Indians satisfied me
that it is the outlet of Lake Michikamau, it is undoubtedly the river
that figures on the Geological Survey map as the Northwest, while as
for the river called on the map the Nascaupee, it is in all likelihood
non-existent. There is a stream known to the natives as Northwest
River, but it is merely the strait, one hundred yards wide and three
hundred yards long, which, as shown on my map, connects Groswater Bay
with what the natives call the Little Lake, this being the small body
of water that lies at the lower end of Grand Lake, the waters of which
it receives through a rapid.
Hubbard hoped to reach the George River in season to meet the Nenenot
or Nascaupee Indians, who, according to an old tradition, gather on its
banks in late August or early September to attack with spears the herds
of caribou that migrate at that time, passing eastward to the sea
coast. It is reported that while the caribou are swimming the river
the Indians each year kill great numbers of them, drying the flesh for
winter provisions and using the skins to make clothing and
wigwam-covering. Hubbard wished not only to get a good story of the
yearly slaughter, but to spend some little time studying the habits of
the Indians, who are the most primitive on the North American continent.
Strange as it may seem to some, the temperature in the interior of
Labrador in midsummer sometimes rises as high as 90 degrees or more,
although at sunset it almost invariably drops to near the freezing
point and frost is liable at any time. But the summer, of course, is
very short. It may be said to begin early in July, by which time the
snow and ice are all gone, and to end late in August. There is just a
hint of spring and autumn. Winter glides into summer, and summer into
winter, almost imperceptibly, and the winter is the bitter winter of
the Arctic.
If the season were not too far advanced when he finished studying the
Indians, Hubbard expected to cross the country to the St. Lawrence and
civilisation; otherwise to retrace his steps over his upward trail. In
the event of our failure to discover the Indian encampment, and our
finding ourselves on the George short of provisions, Hubbard planned to
run down the swift-flowing river in our canoe to the George River Post
at its mouth, and there procure passage on some fishing vessel for
Newfoundland; or, if that were impossible, to outfit for winter, and
when the ice formed and the snow came, return overland with dogs.
Hubbard knew that by ascending the Grand River he would be taking a
surer, if longer, route to Lake Michikamau; but it was a part of his
project to explore the unknown country along the river mapped as the
Northwest. I have called this country unknown. It is true that in the
winter of 1838 John McLean, then the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company
at Fort Chimo, a post situated on the Koksoak River about twenty miles
above its mouth, passed through a portion of this country in the course
of a journey he made with dogs from his post to Northwest River Post.
His route was up the Koksoak and across country to the northern end of
Lake Michikamau, which he followed for some little distance. After
leaving the lake he again travelled eastward across country until at
length he came upon the "Northwest" or Nascaupee River at a point
probably not far above Grand Lake, from which it was easy travelling
over the ice to the post. The record left by him of the journey,
however, is very incomplete, and the exact route he took is by no means
certain.
Whatever route it was, he returned over it the same winter to Fort
Chimo. His sufferings during this trip were extreme. He and his party
had to eat their dogs to save themselves from starvation, and even then
they would surely all have perished had it not been for an Indian who
left the party fifty miles out of Chimo and fortunately had strength
enough to reach the post and send back relief. Later McLean made
several summer trips with a canoe up the George River from Ungava Bay
and down the Grand River to Hamilton Inlet; but never again did he
attempt to penetrate the country lying between Lake Michikamau and
Hamilton Inlet to the north of Grand River. The fact was that he found
his Grand River trips bad enough; the record he has left of them is a
story of a continuous struggle against heartbreaking hardships and of
narrow escapes from starvation.
It is asserted that a priest once crossed with the Indians from
Northwest River Post to Ungava Bay by the Nascaupee route; but the
result of my inquiries in Labrador convinced me that the priest in
question travelled by way of the Grand River, making it certain that
previous to Hubbard's expedition no white man other than McLean had
ever crossed the wilderness between Hamilton Inlet and Lake Michikamau
by any route other than the aforesaid Grand River. As has been pointed
out, McLean made but a very incomplete record of his journey that took
him through the country north of the Grand River, so that Hubbard's
project called for his plunge into a region where no footsteps would be
found to guide him. Not only this, but the George River country, which
it was his ultimate purpose to reach, was, and still remains, terra
incognita; for although McLean made several trips up and down this
river, he neither mapped it nor left any definite descriptions
concerning it.
Here, then, was an enterprise fully worthy of an ambitious and
venturesome spirit like Hubbard. Here was a great, unknown wilderness
into which even the half-breed native trappers who lived on its
outskirts were afraid to penetrate, knowing that the wandering bands of
Indians who occasionally traversed its fastnesses themselves frequently
starved to death in that inhospitable, barren country. There was
danger to be faced and good "copy" to be obtained.
And so it was ho for the land of "bared boughs and grieving winds"!
II. OFF AT LAST
Labrador's uncertain game supply presented more than one vexed problem
for Hubbard to solve. Naturally it would be desirable to take with us
sufficient provisions to guard against all contingencies; but such were
the conditions of the country for which we were bound, that if the
expedition were at all heavily loaded it would be impossible for it to
make any headway. Hubbard, therefore, decided to travel light. Then
arose the question as to how many men to take with us. If the party
were large--that is, up to a certain limit--more food might possibly be
carried for each member than if the party were small; but if game
proved plentiful, there would be no danger from starvation whether the
party were large or small; for then short stops could be made to kill
animals, dry the flesh and make caches, after the manner of the
Indians, as supply bases to fall back upon should we be overtaken by an
early winter. And if the game should prove scarce, a small party could
kill, on a forced march, nearly, if not quite, as much as a large
party; and requiring a proportionately smaller amount of food to
maintain it, would consequently have a better chance of success. Taking
all things into consideration, Hubbard decided that the party should be
small.
To guard against possible disappointment in the way of getting men,
Hubbard wrote to the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Rigolet,
asking whether any could be obtained for a trip into the interior
either at that post or at Northwest River. The agent replied that such
a thing was highly improbable, as the visits of the Indians to these
posts had become infrequent and the other natives were afraid to
venture far inland. Hubbard then engaged through the kind offices of
Mr. S. A. King, who was in charge of the Hudson's Bay Company Post at
Missanabie, Ontario, the services of a Cree Indian named Jerry, that we
might have at least one man upon whom we could depend. Jerry was to
have come on to New York City to meet us. At next to the last moment,
however, a letter from Mr. King informed us that Jerry had backed down.
The Indian was not afraid of Labrador, it appeared, but he had heard of
the dangers and pitfalls of New York, and when he learned that he
should have to pass through that city, his courage failed him; he
positively refused to come, saying he did not "want to die so soon."
We never had occasion to regret Jerry's faint-heartedness. Mr. King
engaged for us another man who, he wrote, was an expert canoeman and
woodsman and a good cook. The man proved to be all that he was
represented to be--and more. I do not believe that in all the north
country we could have found a better woodsman. But he was something
more than a woodsman--he was a hero. Under the most trying
circumstances he was calm, cheerful, companionable, faithful. Not only
did he turn out to be a man of intelligence, quick of perception and
resourceful, but he turned out to be a man of character, and I am proud
to introduce him to the reader as my friend George Elson, a half-breed
Cree Indian from down on James Bay.
The first instance of George's resourcefulness that we noted occurred
upon his arrival in New York. Hubbard and I were to have taken him in
charge at the Grand Central Station, but we were detained and George
found no one to meet him. Despite the fact that he had never been in a
city before, and all was new to him, his quick eye discovered that the
long line of cabs in front of the station were there to hire. He
promptly engaged one, was driven to Hubbard's office and awaited his
employer's arrival as calm and unruffled as though his surroundings
were perfectly familiar.
Our canoe and our entire outfit were purchased in New York, with the
exception of a gill net, which, alas! we decided to defer selecting
until we reached Labrador. Our preparations for the expedition were
made with a view of sailing from St. Johns, Newfoundland, for Rigolet,
when the steamer Virginia Lake, which regularly plies during the summer
between the former port and points on the Labrador coast, should make
her first trip north of the year. A letter from the Reid-Newfoundland
Company, which operates the steamer, informed us that she would
probably make her first trip to Labrador in the last week in June, and
in order to connect with her, we made arrangements to sail from New
York to St. Johns on June 20th, 1903, on the Red Cross Line steamer
Silvia. On the 19th Hubbard personally superintended the placing of
our outfit on board ship, that nothing might be overlooked.
As the Silvia slowly got under way at ten o'clock the next morning, we
waved a last farewell to the little knot of friends who had gathered on
the Brooklyn pier to see us off. We were all very light-hearted and
gay that morning; it was a relief to be off at last and have the worry
of the preparation over. Mrs. Hubbard was a member of the party; she
was to accompany her husband as far as Battle Harbour, the first point
on the Labrador coast touched by the Virginia Lake.
June 24th was my birthday, and early that morning, before we sailed
from Halifax, at which port we lay over for a day, Hubbard came into my
stateroom with a pair of camp blankets that he had been commissioned by
my sisters to present to me. He had told me he had enough blankets in
his outfit and to take none with me. How strangely things sometimes
turn out! Those blankets which Hubbard had withheld in order that I
might be agreeably surprised, were destined to fulfil an office, up
there in the wilds for which we were bound, such as we little
suspected. We reached St. Johns on the morning of Friday, the 26th,
and promptly upon our arrival were introduced to the mysterious ways of
the Reid-Newfoundland Company. The Virginia Lake, we were told, already
had gone north to Labrador, was overdue on her return trip and might
not be in for several days. Hubbard, however, set immediately to work
purchasing the provisions for his expedition and supervising their
packing. The following day, on the advice of the general passenger
agent of the Reid-Newfoundland Company, we took the evening train on
their little narrow-gauge railroad to Whitbourne, en route to Broad
Cove, where we were informed we should find excellent trout fishing and
could pleasantly pass the time while awaiting the steamer.
The Reid-Newfoundland Company failed to carry out its agreement as to
our transportation to Broad Cove, and we had considerable trouble in
reaching there, but we found that no misrepresentation had been made as
to the fishing; during the two days we were at Broad Cove we caught all
the trout we cared for. Having received word that the Virginia Lake
had returned to St. Johns, and would again sail north on Tuesday, June
30th, Hubbard and Mrs. Hubbard on the morning of that day took the
train to St. Johns, to board the steamer there and see that nothing of
our outfit was left behind. George and I broke camp in time to take the
evening train on the branch road to Harbour Grace, where, it was
agreed, we should rejoin the others, the steamer being scheduled to put
in there on its way north.
When I had our camp baggage transferred next morning to the wharf, and
George and I had arrived there ourselves, we found also waiting for the
steamer several prospectors who were going to "The Labrador," as the
country is known to the Newfoundlanders, to look for gold, copper, and
mica. All of them apparently were dreaming of fabulous wealth. None,
I was told, was going farther than the lower coast; they did not
attempt to disguise the fact that they feared to venture far into the
interior.
Around the wharves little boats were unloading caplin, a small fish
about the size of a smelt. I was informed that these fish sold for ten
cents a barrel, and were used for bait and fertiliser. My astonishment
may be imagined, therefore, when I discovered that on the Virginia Lake
they charged thirty-five cents for three of these little fish fried.
At ten o'clock our boat came in, and a little after noon we steamed out
of the harbour, Hubbard and I feeling that now we were fairly on our
way to the scene of our work. Soon after rejoining Hubbard, I learned
something more of the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company.
The company's general passenger agent, avowing deep interest in our
enterprise, had presented Hubbard with passes to Rigolet for his party.
Hubbard accepted them gratefully, but upon boarding the steamer he was
informed that the passes did not include meals. Now such were the
prices charged for the wretchedly-cooked food served on the Virginia
Lake that a moderately hungry man could scarcely have his appetite
killed at a less expense than six dollars a day. So Hubbard returned
the passes to the general passenger agent with thanks, and purchased
tickets, which did include meals, and which reduced the cost
considerably.
The Virginia Lake is a steamer of some seven hundred tons burden. She
is subsidised by the Newfoundland Government to carry the mails during
the fishing season to points on the Labrador coast as far north as
Nain. She is also one of the sealing fleet that goes to "the ice" each
tenth of March. When she brings back her cargo of seals to St. Johns,
she takes up her summer work of carrying mail, passengers, and freight
to The Labrador--always a welcome visitor to the exiled fishermen in
that lonely land, the one link that binds them to home and the outside
world. She has on board a physician to set broken bones and deal out
drugs to the sick, and a customs officer to see that not a dime's worth
of merchandise of any kind or nature is landed until a good round
percentage of duty is paid to him as the representative of the
Newfoundland Government, which holds dominion over all the east coast
of Labrador. This customs officer is also a magistrate, a secret
service officer, a constable, and what not I do not know--pretty much
the whole Labrador Government, I imagine.
The accommodations on the Virginia Lake were quite inadequate for the
number of passengers she carried. The stuffy little saloon was so
crowded that comfort was out of the question. I had to use some rather
impressive language to the steward to induce him to assign to me a
stateroom. Finally, he surrendered his own room. The ventilation was
poor and the atmosphere vile, but we managed to pull through. Our
fellow-passengers were all either prospectors or owners of fishing
schooners.
There was much ice to be seen when the heavy veil of grey fog lifted
sufficiently for us to see anything, and until we had crossed the
Strait of Belle Isle our passage was a rough one. It was on the Fourth
of July that we saw for the first time the bleak, rock-bound coast of
Labrador. In all the earth there is no coast so barren, so desolate,
so brutally inhospitable as the Labrador coast from Cape Charles, at
the Strait of Belle Isle on the south, to Cape Chidley on the north.
Along these eight hundred miles it is a constant succession of bare
rocks scoured clean and smooth by the ice and storms of centuries, with
not a green thing to be seen, save now and then a bunch of stunted
shrubs that have found a foothold in some sheltered nook in the rocks,
and perchance, on some distant hill, a glimpse of struggling spruce or
fir trees. It is a fog-ridden, dangerous coast, with never a
lighthouse or signal of any kind at any point in its entire length to
warn or guide the mariner.
The evening was well upon us when we saw the rocks off Cape Charles
rising from the water, dismal, and dark, and forbidding. All day the
rain had been falling, and all day the wind had been blowing a gale,
lashing the sea into a fury. Our little ship was tossed about like a
cork, with the seas constantly breaking over her decks. Decidedly our
introduction to Labrador was not auspicious. Battle Harbour, twelve
miles north of Cape Charles, was to have been our first stop; but there
are treacherous hidden reefs at the entrance, and with that sea the
captain did not care to trust his ship near them. So he ran on to
Spear Harbour, just beyond, where we lay to for the night. The next
day I made the following entry in my diary:
"Early this morning we moved down to Battle Harbour, where Mrs. Hubbard
left us to return home. It was a most dismal time and place for her to
part from her husband, but she was very brave. It was not yet six
o'clock, and we had had no breakfast, when she stepped into the small
boat to go ashore. A cold, drizzling rain was falling, and the place
was in appearance particularly dreary; no foliage nor green thing to be
seen--nothing but rocks, cold and high and bleak, with here and there
patches of snow. They pointed out to us a little house clinging to the
rocks high up. There she is to stay until the steamer comes to take
her home, to spend a summer of doubts and hopes and misgivings. Poor
little woman! It is so hard for those we leave behind. I stood aside
with a big lump in my throat as they said their farewell." Up there in
the dark wilderness for which we were bound Hubbard talked with me
frequently of that parting.
On July 6th, the day after we left Battle Harbour, the captain informed
us for the first time that the boat would not go to Rigolet on the way
up, and gave us the option of getting off at Indian Harbour at the
entrance to Hamilton Inlet or going on to Nain with him and getting off
at Rigolet on the way back. Hubbard chose the former alternative,
hearing which the customs officer came to us and hinted that nothing
could be landed until we had had an interview with him. The result of
the interview was that Hubbard paid duty on our entire outfit.
The next morning, Tuesday, July 7th, we reached Indian Harbour. Amid a
chorus of "Good-bye, boys, and good luck!" we went ashore, to set foot
for the first time on Labrador soil, where we were destined to
encounter a series of misadventures that should call for the exercise
of all our fortitude and manhood.
III. ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS
The island of the White Bear group upon which is situated the
settlement of Indian Harbour is rocky and barren. The settlement
consists of a trader's hut and a few fishermen's huts built of frame
plastered over with earth or moss, and the buildings of the Royal
National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, a non-sectarian institution
that maintains two stations on the Labrador coast and one at St.
Anthony in Newfoundland, each with a hospital attached. The work of the
mission is under the general supervision of Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell,
who, in summer, patrols the coast from Newfoundland to Cape Chidley in
the little floating hospital, the steamer Strathcona, and during the
winter months, by dog team, visits the people of these inhospitable
shores. The main station in Labrador is at Battle Harbour, and at this
time Dr. Cluny Macpherson was the resident physician.
Dr. Simpson, a young English physician and lay missionary, was in
charge of the station at Indian Harbour. This station, being
maintained primarily for the benefit of the summer fishermen from
Newfoundland, is closed from October until July. Dr. Simpson had a
little steamer, the Julia Sheridan, which carried him on his visits to
his patients among the coast folk. We were told by the captain of the
Virginia Lake that the Julia Sheridan would arrive at Indian Harbour on
the afternoon of the day we reached there; that she would immediately
steam to Rigolet and Northwest River with the mails, and that we
undoubtedly could arrange for a passage on her. This was the reason
that Hubbard elected to get off at Indian Harbour.
The trained nurse, the cook, and the maid-of-all-work connected with
the Indian Harbour hospital ("sisters," they call them, although they
do not belong to any order) boarded the Virginia Lake at Battle Harbour
and went ashore with me in the ship's boat, when I landed with the
baggage. Hubbard and George went ashore in our canoe. A line of
Newfoundlanders and "livyeres" stood ready to greet us upon our
arrival. "Livyeres" is a contraction of live-heres, and is applied to
the people who live permanently on the coast. The coast people who
occasionally trade in a small way are known as "planters." In Hamilton
Inlet, west of Rigolet, all of the trappers and fishermen are called
planters. There the word livyere is never heard, it having originated
with with the Newfoundland fishermen, who do not go far into the inlet.
The "sisters" who landed with us had difficulty in opening their
hospital, as the locks had become so rusted and corroded that the keys
would not turn. We offered our assistance, and after removing the
boards that had been nailed over the windows to protect them from the
winter storms, we found it necessary to take out a pane of glass in
order that Hubbard might unlatch a window, crawl through and take the
lock off the door. The sisters then told us that Dr. Simpson might not
arrive with the Julia Sheridan until the following day, and extended to
us the hospitality of the station, which we thankfully accepted, taking
up our temporary abode in one of the vacant wards of the hospital.
Our first afternoon on Labrador soil we spent in assorting and packing
our outfit, while the Newfoundlanders and livyeres stood around and
admired our things, particularly the canoe, guns, and sheath-knives.
Their curiosity was insatiable; they inquired the cost of every
conceivable thing.
The next afternoon (Wednesday) Dr. Simpson arrived on his steamer, and,
to our great disappointment, we learned that the Julia would not start
on the trip down the inlet until after the return of the Virginia Lake
from the north, which would probably be on Friday or Saturday. The
Labrador summer being woefully short, Hubbard felt that every hour was
precious, and he chafed under our enforced detention. We were
necessarily going into the interior wholly unprepared for winter
travel, and hence must complete our work and make our way out of the
wilderness before the rivers and lakes froze and canoe travel became
impossible. Hubbard felt the responsibility he had assumed, and could
imagine the difficulties that awaited us should his plans miscarry.
Accordingly, he began to look around immediately among the fishermen
and livyeres for someone with a small boat willing to take us down the
fifty miles to Rigolet. Finally, after much persuasion and an offer of
fifteen dollars, he induced a young livyere, Steve Newell by name, to
undertake the task.
Steve was a characteristic livyere, shiftless and ambitionless. He
lived a few miles down the inlet with his widowed mother and his
younger brothers and sisters. For a week he would work hard and
conscientiously to support the family, and then take a month's rest.
We had happened upon him in one of his resting periods, but as soon as
Hubbard had pinned him down to an agreement he put in an immediate plea
for money.
"I'se huntin' grub, sir," he begged. "I has t' hunt grub all th' time,
sir. Could 'un spare a dollar t' buy grub, sir?"
Hubbard gave him the dollar, and he forthwith proceeded to the trader's
hut to purchase flour and molasses, which, with fat salt pork, are the
great staples of the Labrador natives, although the coast livyeres
seldom can afford the latter dainty. While we were preparing to start,
Hubbard asked Steve what he generally did for a living.
"I hunts in winter an' fishes in summer, sir," was the reply.
"What do you hunt?
"Fur an' partridges, sir. I trades the fur for flour and molasses,
sir, an' us eats th' partridges."
"What kind of fur do you find here?"
"Foxes is about all, sir, an' them's scarce; only a chance one, sir."
"Do you catch enough fur to keep you in flour and molasses?"
"Not always, sir. Sometimes us has only partridges t' eat, sir."
We started at five o'clock in the evening in Steve's boat, the
Mayflower, a leaky little craft that kept one man pretty busy bailing
out the water. She carried one ragged sail, and Steve sculled and
steered with a rough oar about eighteen feet long. An hour after we
got under way a blanket of grey fog, thick and damp, enveloped us; but
so long are the Labrador summer days that there still was light to
guide us when at eleven o'clock Steve said:
"Us better land yere, sir. I lives yere, an' 'tis a good spot t' stop
for th' night, sir."
I wondered what sort of an establishment Steve maintained, and drawing
an inference from his personal appearance, I had misgivings as to its
cleanliness. However, anything seemed better than chilling fog, and
land we did--in a shallow cove where we bumped over a partly submerged
rock and manoeuvred with difficulty among others, that raised their
heads ominously above the water. As we approached, we made out through
the fog the dim outlines, close to the shore, of a hut partially
covered with sod. Our welcome was tumultuous--a combination of the
barking of dogs and the shrill screams of women demanding to know who
we were and what we wanted. There were two women, tall, scrawny, brown,
with hair flying at random. The younger one had a baby in her arms.
She was Steve's married sister. The other woman was his mother. Each
was loosely clad in a dirty calico gown. Behind them clustered a group
of dirty, half-clad children.
Steve ushered us into the hut, which proved to have two rooms, the
larger about eight by ten feet. The roof was so low that none of us
could stand erect except in the centre, where it came to a peak. In the
outer room were two rough wooden benches, and on a rickety table a
dirty kerosene lamp without a chimney shed gloom rather than light. An
old stove, the sides of which were bolstered up with rocks, filled the
hut with smoke to the point of suffocation when a fire was started.
The floor and everything else in the room were innocent of soap and
water.
George made coffee, which he passed around with hardtack to everybody.
Then all but Steve and our party retired to the inner room, one of the
women standing a loose door against the aperture. Steve curled up in an
old quilt on one of the benches, while Hubbard, George and I spread a
tarpaulin on the floor and rolled in our blankets upon it.
We were up betimes the next morning after a fair night's sleep on the
floor. We again served hardtack and coffee to all, and at five o'clock
were once more on our way. A thick mantle of mist obscured the shore,
and Hubbard offered Steve a chart and compass. "Ain't got no learnin',
sir; I can't read, sir," said the young livyere. So Hubbard directed
the course in the mist while Steve steered. Later in the day the wind
freshened and blew the mist away, and at length developed into a gale.
Finally the sea rose so high that Steve thought it well to seek the
protection of a harbour, and we landed in a sheltered cove on one of
the numerous islands that strew Hamilton Inlet, where we then were--Big
Black Island, it is called.
George had arisen that morning with a lame back, and when we reached
the island he could scarcely move. The place was so barren of timber
we could not find a stick long enough to act as a centre pole for our
tent, and it was useless to try to pitch it. However, the moss, being
thick and soft, made a comfortable bed, and after we had put a mustard
plaster on George's back to relieve his lumbago, we rolled him in two
of our blankets under the lee of a bush and let him sleep. Then, as
evening came on, Hubbard and I started for a stroll along the shore.
The sun was still high in the heavens, and the temperature mildly cool.
A walk of a mile or so brought us to the cabin of one Joe Lloyd, a
livyere. Lloyd proved to be an intelligent old Englishman who had gone
to Labrador as a sailor lad on a fishing schooner to serve a
three-years' apprenticeship. He did not go home with his ship, and
year after year postponed his return, until at last he married an
Eskimo and bound himself fast to the cold rocks of Labrador, where he
will spend the remainder of his life, eking out a miserable existence,
a lonely exile from his native England.
After he had greeted us, Lloyd asked: "Is all the world at peace, sir?"
He had heard of the Boer war, and was pleased when we told him that it
had ended in a victory for the British arms. His hunger for news
touched us deeply, and we told him all that we could recall of recent
affairs of public interest. I have said that his hunger for news
touched us. As a matter of fact, few things have impressed me as being
more pathetic than that old man's life up there on that isolated and
desolate island, where he spends most of his time wistfully longing to
hear something of the great world, and painfully recalling the pleasant
memories of his childhood's home and friends, and the green fields and
spring blossoms he never will know again. And Lloyd's story is the
story of perhaps the majority of the settlers on The Labrador.
The old man had a fresh-caught salmon, and we bought it from him. We
then sat for a few minutes in his cabin. This was a miserable affair,
not exceeding eight by ten feet, and, like Steve's home, so low we
could not stand erect in it. The floor was paved with large, flat
stones, and the only vent for the smoke from the wretched fireplace was
a hole in the roof. Midway between the fire and the hole hung a trout
drying. In this room Lloyd and his Eskimo wife live out their life.
During our visit the wife sat there without uttering a word. Her
silence was characteristic; for, somewhat unlike our women, the women
of Labrador talk but little.
When we had bidden Lloyd farewell, we carried the salmon we had
obtained from him back to camp, where Hubbard tried to plank it on a
bit of wreckage picked up on the shore. It fell into the fire, and
there was great excitement until, by our united efforts, we had rescued
it, and had seen part of it safely reposing in the frying pan, while
Steve set to work boiling the remainder in our kettle with slices of
bacon. As the gale continued to blow, it was decided that we should
remain in camp until early morning. Hubbard directed Steve to pull the
boat around to a place where it would be near the water at low tide.
He and I then threw down the tent, lay on it, pulled a blanket over us
and prepared for sleep. It was about eleven o'clock, and darkness was
just beginning to fall. Out in the bay a whale was blowing, and in the
distance big gulls were screaming. It was our first night out in the
open in Labrador, and all was new and entrancing; and as slumber
gradually enwrapped us, it seemed to us that we had fallen upon
pleasant times.
At one o'clock (Friday morning) we awoke. By the light of the
brilliant moon we made coffee, called George and Steve and ate our
breakfast of cold salmon and hardtack. George's lumbago was very bad,
and he was unable to do any work. The rest of us portaged the outfit
two hundred yards to the boat, which, owing to Steve's miscalculations
as to the tide, we found high and dry on the rocks. Working in the
shallow water, with a cloud of mosquitoes around our heads, it took us
until 4.30 o'clock to launch her, by which time daylight long since had
returned.
Once more afloat, we found that the wind had entirely died away, and
Steve's sculling pushed the boat along but slowly. Grampuses raised
their big backs everywhere, and seals, upon which they prey, were
numerous. The water was alive with schools of caplin. At eleven
o'clock we made Pompey Island, a mossy island of Laurentian rock about
thirty-five miles from Indian Harbour. Here we stopped for luncheon,
and after much looking around, succeeded in finding enough sticks to
build a little fire. I made flapjacks, and Hubbard melted sugar for
syrup.
While we were eating, I discovered in the far distance the smoke of a
steamer. We supposed it to be the Julia Sheridan. Rushing our things
into the boat, we put off as quickly as possible to intercept her. We
fired three or four shots from our rifle, but got only a salute in
recognition. Then Hubbard and I scramble into the canoe, which we had
in tow, and began to paddle with might and main to head her off. As we
neared her, we fired again. At that she came about--it was the
Virginia Lake. They took us on board, bag, baggage, and canoe, and
Steve was dismissed.
In an hour we were in sight of Rigolet, and I saw a Hudson's Bay
Company Post for the first time in my life. As our steamer approached,
a flag was run up in salute to the top of a tall staff, and when it had
been caught by the breeze, the Company's initials, H. B. C., were
revealed. The Company's agents say these letters have another
significance, namely, "Here Before Christ," for the flag travels ahead
of the missionaries.
The reservation of Rigolet is situated upon a projection of land, with
a little bay on one side and the channel into which Hamilton Inlet
narrows at this point on the other. Long rows of whitewashed
buildings, some of frame and some of log, extend along the water front,
coming together at the point of the projection so as to form two sides
of an irregular triangle. A little back of the row on the bay side,
and upon slightly higher ground, stands the residence of the agent, or
factor as he is officially called, this building being two stories high
and otherwise the most pretentious of the group. It is commonly called
the "Big House," and near it is the tall flagstaff. Between the rows
of buildings and the shore is a broad board walk, which leads down near
the apex of the triangle to a small wharf of logs. It was at this
wharf that our little party landed.
Hubbard presented his letter of introduction from Commissioner Chipman
of the Hudson's Bay Company to Mr. James Fraser, the factor, and we
received a most cordial welcome, being made at home at the Big House.
We found the surroundings and people unique and interesting. There
were lumbermen, trappers, and fishermen--a motley gathering of
Newfoundlanders, Nova Scotians, Eskimos and "breeds," the latter being
a comprehensive name for persons whose origin is a mixture in various
combinations and proportions of Eskimo, Indian, and European. All were
friendly and talkative, and hungry for news of the outside world.
Lying around everywhere, or skulking about the reservation, were big
Eskimo dogs that looked for all the world like wolves in subjection.
We were warned not to attempt to play with them, as they were extremely
treacherous. Only a few days before a little Eskimo boy who stumbled
and fell was set upon by a pack and all but killed before the brutes
were driven off. The night we arrived at Rigolet the pack killed one
of their own number and ate him, only a little piece of fur remaining
in the morning to tell the tale.
Within an hour after we reached the post, Dr. Simpson arrived on the
Julia Sheridan; but as he had neglected to bring the mail for Northwest
River Post that the Virginia Lake had left at Indian Harbour, he had to
return at once. Dr. Simpson not being permitted by his principles to
run his boat on Sunday, unless in a case of great necessity, we were
told not to expect the Julia Sheridan back from Indian Harbour until
Monday noon; and so we were compelled to possess our souls in patience
and enjoy the hospitality of Mr. Fraser. I must confess that while I
was anxious to get on, I was at the same time not so greatly
disappointed at our enforced delay; it gave me an opportunity to see
something of the novel life of the post.
While at Rigolet we of course tried to get all the information possible
about the country to which we were going. No Indians had been to the
post for months, and the white men and Eskimos knew absolutely nothing
about it. At length Hubbard was referred to "Skipper" Tom Blake, a
breed, who had trapped at the upper or western end of Grand Lake. From
Blake he learned that Grand Lake was forty miles long, and that canoe
travel on it was good to its upper end, where the Nascaupee River
flowed into it. Blake believed we could paddle up the Nascaupee some
eighteen or twenty miles, where we should find the Red River, a wide,
shallow, rapid stream that flowed into the Nascaupee from the south.
Above this point he had no personal knowledge of the country, and
advised us to see his son Donald, whom he expected to arrive that day
from his trapping grounds on Seal Lake. Donald, he said, had been
farther inland and knew more about the country than anyone else on the
coast.
Donald did arrive a little later, and upon questioning him Hubbard
learned that Seal Lake, which, he said, was an expansion of the
Nascaupee River, had been the limit of his travels inland. Donald
reiterated what his father had told us of Grand Lake and the lower
waters of the Nascaupee, adding that for many miles above the point
where the Nascaupee was joined by the Red we should find canoe travel
impossible, as the Nascaupee "tumbled right down off the mountains."
Up the Nascaupee as far as the Red River he had sailed his boat. He
had heard from the Indians that the Nascaupee came from Lake
Michikamau, and he believed it to be a fact. This convinced us that
the Nascaupee was the river A. P. Low, of the Geological Survey, had
mapped as the Northwest. The Red River Donald had crossed in winter
some twenty miles above its mouth, and while it was wide, it was so
shallow and swift that he was sure it would not admit of canoeing. He
could not tell its source, and was sure the Indians had never travelled
on it. In answer to Hubbard's inquiries as to the probability of our
getting fish and game, Donald said there were bears along the
Nascaupee, but few other animals. He had never fished the waters above
Grand Lake, but believed plenty of fish were there. On Seal Lake there
was a "chance" seal, and he had taken an occasional shot at them, but
they were very wild and he had never been able to kill any.
Strange as it may seem, none of the men with whom we talked mentioned
that more than one river flowed into Grand Lake, although they
unquestionably knew that such was the case. Their silence about this
important particular was probably due to the fact, that while the
Labrador people are friendly to strangers, they are somewhat shy and
rarely volunteer information, contenting themselves, for the most part,
with simple answers to direct questions. Furthermore, they are seldom
able to adopt a point of view different from their own, and thus are
unable to realise the amount of guidance a stranger in their country
needs. In fact I discovered later that Skipper Blake and his son, who
have spent all their lives in the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet, never
dreamed anyone could miss the mouth of the Nascaupee River, as they
themselves knew so well how to find it.
We were sitting in the office of the post on Sunday, comfortably away
from the fog that lay thick outside, when we were startled by a
steamship whistle. Out we all ran, and there, in the act of dropping
her anchor, was the Pelican, the company's ship from England. In the
heavy fog she had stolen in and whistled before the flag was raised,
which feat Captain Grey, who commands the Pelican, regarded as a great
joke on the post. Once a year the Pelican arrives from England, and
the day of her appearance is the Big Day for all the Labrador posts, as
she brings the year's supplies together with boxes and letters from
home for the agents and the clerks. From Rigolet she goes to Ungava,
then returns to Rigolet for the furs there and once more steams for
England.
We found Captain Grey to be a jolly, cranky old seadog of the old
school. He has been with the Hudson's Bay Company for thirty years,
and has sailed the northern seas for fifty. He shook his head
pessimistically when he heard about our expedition. "You'll never get
back," he said. "But if you happen to be at Ungava when I get there,
I'll bring you back." "Sandy" Calder, the owner of lumber mills on
Sandwich Bay and the Grand River, who came from Cartwright Post on
Sandwich Bay with Captain Grey on the Pelican, also predicted the
failure of our enterprise. But Hubbard said to me that he had heard
such prophecies before; that they made the work seem all the bigger,
and that he could do it and would.
At noon on Monday Dr. Simpson came with the Julia Sheridan, and we said
good-bye to Rigolet. The voyage down the inlet to Northwest River Post
was without incident, except that the good doctor was much concerned as
to the outcome of our venture, saying: "Don't leave your bones up there
to whiten, boys, if you can possibly help it." We reached Northwest
River at two o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, and found the post to be
much the same as Rigolet, except that its whitewashed buildings were
all strung out in one long row. The welcome we received from Mr.
Thomas Mackenzie, the agent there in charge, was most gratifying in its
heartiness. Mr. Mackenzie is a bachelor, tall, lean, high-spirited,
and the soul hospitality. Hubbard promptly dubbed him a "bully
fellow." Probably this was partly due to the fact that he was the first
man in Labrador to give us any encouragement. We had not been there an
hour when he became infected with Hubbard's enthusiasm and said he
would pack up that night and be ready to start with us in the morning,
if he only were free to do so.
To our great disappointment and chagrin, we found that Mackenzie had no
fish nets to sell. We had been unable to obtain any at Rigolet, and
now we were told that none was to be had anywhere in that part of
Labrador. Hubbard realised fully the importance of a gill net as a
part of our equipment and had originally intended to purchase one
before leaving New York; but he was advised by Mr. A. P. Low of the
Canadian Geological Survey that it would be better to defer its
purchase until we reached Rigolet Post or Northwest River, where he
said we could get a net such as would be best adapted to the country.
Hubbard had no reason to doubt the accuracy of this information, as Mr.
Low had previously spent several months at these posts when engaged in
the work of mapping out the peninsula. Conditions, however, had
changed, unfortunately for us, since Mr. Low's visit to Labrador.
Seeing the quandary we were in, Mackenzie got out an old three-inch
gill net that had been lying in a corner of one of his buildings. He
said he was afraid it was worn out, but if we could make any use of it,
we might take it. We, too, had our doubts as to its utility; but, as
it was the best obtainable, Hubbard accepted it thankfully and
Mackenzie had two of his men unravel it and patch it up.
During the afternoon we got our outfit in shape, ready for the start in
the morning. Following is a summary of the outfit taken from an
inventory made at Indian Harbour: Our canoe was 18 feet long, canvas
covered, and weighed about 80 pounds. The tent was of the type known
as miner's, 6 1/2 x 7 feet, made of balloon silk and waterproofed. We
had three pairs of blankets and one single blanket; two tarpaulins;
five duck waterproof bags; one dozen small waterproof bags of balloon
silk for note books; two .45-70 Winchester rifles; two 10-inch barrel
.22-calibre pistols for shooting grouse and other small game; 200
rounds of .45-70 and 1,000 rounds of .22-calibre cartridges; 3 1/4 x 4
1/4 pocket folding kodak with Turner-Reich Verastigmat lens; thirty
rolls of films of one dozen exposures each, in tin cans, waterproofed
with electricians' tape; a sextant and artificial horizon; two
compasses and our cooking utensils and clothing.
At Indian Harbour we had four 45-pound sacks of flour, but Hubbard gave
one sack to the pilot of the Julia Sheridan, and out of another sack he
had given the cook on the Julia sufficient flour for one baking of
bread, and we had also used some of this bag on our way from Indian
Harbour to Rigolet. This left two 45-pound bags and about thirty
pounds in the third bag, or 120 pounds in all. There were, perhaps, 25
pounds of bacon, 13 pounds lard, 20 pounds flavoured pea meal, 9 pounds
plain pea flour in tins, 10 pounds tea, 5 pounds coffee, 8 pounds
hardtack, 10 pounds milk powder, 10 pounds rice, 8 pounds dried apples,
7 pounds salt, 7 or 8 pounds tobacco and 30 pounds sugar.
This outfit, it will be remembered, was designed for three men. Hubbard
tried to hire some of the native to accompany us a few miles into the
interior and carry additional provisions that we might cache, but
failed; they were all "too busy."
Mackenzie treated us royally during the evening we spent at his post,
and we enjoyed his hospitality to the utmost, knowing that it was to be
our last night under shelter for weeks to come. Now we were on the
very edge of the wilderness. To-morrow we should enter the unknown.
IV. THE PLUNGE INTO THE WILD
It was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, July 15, that we made the
start. Our canoe, laden deep with our outfit, was drawn up with its
prow resting snugly on the sandy bottom of the little strait that is
locally known as the Northwest River. Mackenzie and a group of swarthy
natives gathered on the shore to see us off. All but the high-spirited
agent were grave and sceptical, and shook their heads at our
persistency in going into a country we had been so frequently warned
against.
The atmosphere was crisp, pure, and exhilarating. The fir trees and
shrubs gave out a delicious perfume, and their waving tops seemed to
beckon us on. The sky was deep blue, with here and there a feathery
cloud gliding lazily over its surface. The bright sunlight made our
hearts bound and filled our bodies with vigour, and as we stood there
on the edge of the unknown and silent world we had come so far to see,
our hopes were high, and one and all we were eager for the battle with
the wild.
"I wish I were going with you; good-bye and Godspeed!" shouted
Mackenzie, as we pushed the canoe into deep water and dipped our
paddles into the current. In a moment he and the grave men that stood
with him were lost to view. Up through the strait into the Little Lake
we paddled, thence to the rapid where the waters of Grand Lake pour
out. With one end of a tracking line, Hubbard sprang into the shallow
water near the shore below the swift-running stream, and with the other
end fastened to the bow of the canoe, pulled it through the rapid. A
"planter's" family in a cabin near by watched us wonderingly.
Then we were in Grand Lake. Hubbard remarked that it looked like Lake
George, save that the hills were lower. For a few miles above its
outlet the shores on both sides of the lake are low. Then on the south
come bluffs that rise, stern and grand in their nudity, almost
perpendicularly from the deep, clear water, while on the north come
lower hills, the most part wooded, that retreat more gently from the
rocky shore. Heading for the extreme upper of the lake, where Low's
map and the natives had led us to expect we should find the Northwest
or Nascaupee River, we paddled along the north shore to a point where
we stopped among the rocks for a luncheon of flapjacks and syrup.
We were away without waste of time, paddling diagonally across the lake
to the south shore. The fleecy clouds had now thickened, and a few
drops of rain had fallen. In our course across the lake we passed Cape
Corbeau (Raven), but were so far out that the mouth of the river of
that name, which is just east of it, escaped our attention. Cape
Corbeau, it had been named by a French missionary, because the ravens
build their nests on its rocky top, and, perched high up, croak at you
warningly from afar. Always the ravens are there. Involuntarily, as
one croaked above our heads, "Nevermore" echoed through my mind. "And
my soul from out that shadow shall be lifted nevermore." There were
dark shadows ahead of us among the rocks and the forests, and--But in a
moment the thought was drowned and forgotten in the beauties of the
scenery. Beauties?--yes; for bleak and desolate Labrador has a beauty
and a charm all its own.
Two hours after passing Cape Corbeau the rain began to pour, and at
7.30 o'clock, when we made camp on the south shore, we were well
soaked. We resumed our journey at 5.30 in the morning. A stiff breeze
was blowing, but by keeping in the lee of the shore we made good
progress. At ten o'clock, when we found it necessary to cross to the
north shore so as to shorten the distance, there was a rising sea, and
we had to lighten the canoe and ferry the cargo over in two loads.
It was soon after one o'clock that we reached the upper end of the
lake, where we found a stream about 125 yards wide that flowed with a
swift current from out a little lake. Into this lake after luncheon we
paddled, and when we reached its upper end, there was the mouth of a
river, which we immediately hailed as the Nascaupee, the stream that
was to lead us up to Lake Michikamau. Its mouth was wide, and it
seemed to answer so well all the descriptions we had heard of the river
for which we were searching that the possibility of our being mistaken
never once entered our heads; in fact, we remained under the impression
that it was the Nascaupee until the last.
But we were mistaken. We had passed the Nascaupee five miles below,
where it empties, together with the Crooked River, into a deep bay
extending northward from Grand Lake. At its mouth the Nascaupee is
divided by an island into two streams, and this island is so thickly
covered with trees, and the streams on either side of it are so narrow,
that when we crossed along in front of the bay no break in the line of
woods at the mouth of the river was perceptible. Perhaps it will be
said we should have explored the bay. I know now myself that should
have been done, but in justice to Hubbard it must be remembered that
none of us then had any reason to suppose we should find a river at any
place other than the extreme upper end of the lake. Time and time
again Hubbard had asked the few natives who had been there if the
Nascaupee entered Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer
invariably had been: "Yes, sir; he do." Furthermore, it will have to
be taken into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear
that the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and
by the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed.
The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the
Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking
hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic
memories.
On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its
spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water. Proceeding up the
Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low ridges
covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and aspen trees.
For the most part the banks of the river were steep and high; where
they were low the river formed little pond expansions. For a mile
above its mouth we had good canoeing. Up to this point the river was
not more than thirty yards wide, and was deep, with little current.
Then it began gradually to widen and become shallow and swift, with a
boulder-strewn bottom. Soon we had to jump into the water, and with
Hubbard at the end of the tracking line, and George and I at either end
of the canoe, haul, lift, and push the heavily laden boat up the river,
while we floundered over the boulders. Sometimes we would be able to
get into the canoe and pole, but never for long. Around the worst
places we portaged the whole outfit, canoe and all. It was desperately
hard work, and when night came on and we went into camp, we were only
two miles above the little lake.
Hard as it was, we should not have minded our work in the rapids so
much had it not been for the flies. For the first time we now realised
the full form of what had been told us about the fly pest of Labrador.
We had considered them annoying at Rigolet and Northwest River, but as
soon as we began to buck the rapids they came upon us in clouds. They
got into our nostrils, into our ears, into our mouths, into our eyes
even, and our faces and hands were streaked with blood from their
bites. They were villainous, hellish. Hubbard frequently remarked
that the mosquitoes seemed friendly in contrast--and the mosquitoes
were by no means considerate of our feelings and comfort either. We
had purchased some cheesecloth at Rigolet for face nets, but the trial
we had given it during the afternoon had proved that it was too closely
woven for us to see through it and do our work, and it was useful only
as some measure of protection for our ears and necks. On our faces we
also tried some "fly dope" that we had purchased in New York, but it
kept the pests away for a few minutes only.
The ordinary Labrador fly is smaller than a pinhead. You do not feel
it until after it has had its bite, and then the sensation is like that
of a fiery itch. In addition to this kind, we had to withstand the
attacks of flies called by the natives "bulldogs." These beasts are
about the size of the top joint of one's thumb. They are well named.
When they bite, you feel it immediately beyond a doubt. We used to say
they bit out pieces of our flesh entire and flew up into the trees to
eat them, and we used frequently to beg George to try his luck at
shooting the brutes. However, it must be said to the credit of both
kinds of flies that they have one good habit--they "knock off" work at
the approach of the cool of evening, thus giving you a chance to bathe
as well as sleep.
The rain was still pouring when we pitched our tent that first night,
but we had a good supper and were reasonably cheerful. There were
flapjacks dripping with the syrup of melted sugar, and bacon, and hot
bread, and coffee.
"With this sort of work before us," said Hubbard, "we must keep well
fed."
"The river," said I, "certainly is the limit. If the Indians have to
travel on it much, I feel sorry for them."
"Well," said Hubbard, "we've surely got our work cut out. At this rate
we're going to make pretty slow progress."
"Blake told us," I ventured, "we could paddle up the river eighteen or
twenty miles, and that he had sailed his boat up that far. I'd be
willing to bet he never sailed it up this stream."
"Oh," replied Hubbard, "he was mistaken in the distance. This must be
the place where he said the river tumbled off the mountain. What do you
say, boys," he added, "to throwing away some of the outfit? We'll
never make any progress if we attempt to carry it all."
"Let's stick to it a little longer," suggested George.
However, we decided to abandon some clothing and a pail containing
about four pounds of lard; and as George, particularly, was opposed to
leaving behind us any provisions, it was decided to eat of them
lavishly and pay no attention to the hunt for the present.
All night it continued to rain, and we broke camp and started forward
on Friday morning, July 17, in a drenching downpour. George thought
this was rather hard. While Hubbard was out of hearing, he told me
that the Indians never travelled in the rain, and that he had never
been expected to do so before. The fact was that George had never
before been on an expedition where there was so much necessity for
haste.
We found the river on the second day to be even worse than our worst
fears had pictured it, and it kept growing worse as we ascended. The
water was so swift and shoal that we could take only a part of the
outfit in the canoe, which meant that we had to return at intervals for
the rest and track all the way, Hubbard pulling on the line while
George and I waded and pushed. Sometimes we were scarcely knee deep in
the water, and at other times we would sink up to our armpits.
Frequently we were swept off our feet. Once or twice we forced the
canoe and outfit through the thick willows and alders that lined the
river, and dragged them up the steep bank and attempted to portage; but
the country here had been burned and fallen trees were piled high in
every direction, so that we were compelled to return to the river and
resume our efforts in the raging torrent.
The work was awful, it was heartrending; and though we exerted
ourselves to the utmost from six o'clock in the morning until eight at
night, we advanced our camp only two miles that day. And when we
gathered around the fire at night, how we did "cuss" that river! None
of us, however, was discouraged, nor flinched at the prospect. Our
oil-tanned, cowhide moccasins and woollen trousers were beginning to
show the result of the attacks of bush, rock, and water, but our blue
flannel shirts and soft felt hats were still quite respectable. Our
coats we had left behind us as an unnecessary encumbrance.
While George was cooking breakfast on Saturday morning (July 18), a red
squirrel barked at us from a near-by tree. Drawing his pistol from its
holster, Hubbard said:
"Wallace, let's see who shall have the honour of bringing to George the
first game of the trip."
I acquiesced, and walking around the tree, caught the first glimpse of
the squirrel. At it I carefully aimed my pistol, and down it came. It
made a tiny morsel for three men, but as the "first game of the trip,"
we hugely enjoyed it when George served it in a pot of soup.
At six o'clock we broke camp and laboured on, facing the same desperate
conditions that we had met the day before. It is true that the rain
had ceased to fall, but the good weather brought out the flies in
increasing swarms. We fairly breathed flies, and we dreaded them far
more than the hard work. Since they attacked us first, we had left our
faces unwashed so as to retain the "dope," and they were streaming with
a mixture of grease, dirt, blood, and perspiration.
The return of the sun also sent the mercury soaring. At noon that
Saturday it registered 90 degrees in the shade. Always at sunset,
however, the temperature dropped with startling suddenness, and a
variation of from fifty to sixty degrees between the maximum and
minimum record for one day was not an unusual thing as long as summer
lasted.
Floundering up the boulder-strewn river that Saturday, we found the
heat so oppressive that it seemed to us we had got into the torrid zone
instead of up to within a few hundred miles of the Arctic Circle. We
resolved, however, that the obstacles interposed against our advance by
the unfeeling wild should make us fight only the harder, George and I
receiving much inspiration from Hubbard, to whom difficulties were a
blessing and whose spirit remained indomitable up to the very end. And
when we sat down to our evening meal by a cosey fire, we had the
satisfaction of knowing that we had doubled our previous day's record
and were four miles further up the river.
On our first Sunday out we remained in camp to rest. We were all
pretty tired, and enjoyed the long sleep in the morning. The day was
fine, but very warm. In the morning Hubbard caught about twenty small
trout, and after luncheon he and George went up the river on a scouting
trip. When they returned in the evening, they reported important
discoveries. First they had come upon a small, rocky stream flowing
into our river from the south, which stream Hubbard felt sure must be
the Red River the Blakes had told us about, and a mile above that a
two-mile stretch of good water. But the discovery that pleased Hubbard
the most was some old cuttings that apparently had been made by
Indians; he was of the opinion, as were all of us, that they indicated
we really were on the Mountaineer Indian trail to Michikamau, and that
we undoubtedly soon should come upon lakes and other good water that
would carry us through; and the discoveries of the scouting trip buoyed
up our spirits wonderfully.
On Monday morning (July 20) George took an axe and cut us a portage
route from our camp through a swamp a mile and a half to the foot of a
hill. This route we covered three times. It was impossible for one
man alone to carry the canoe through the swamp, and in addition to it
and the firearms we had at this period to transport about five hundred
pounds of baggage made up into packs of about seventy-five pounds each.
At first Hubbard and I found seventy-five pounds a pretty good load to
carry, and neither of us could get even that on his back without help
from George; but later on we learned to back and carry with comparative
ease a hundred pounds or more. In packing we never used either
shoulder or chest straps, relying solely upon the head strap, which
passes across the forehead.
When, after much groaning and sweating, we finally arrived with all of
our outfit at the foot of the hill, it took the combined efforts of all
three of us to get the canoe to the top, whence we followed an old
caribou trail for a mile along the summit, camping just above the
smooth water that Hubbard and George had seen on Sunday. We were all
completely exhausted when we reached camp. While staggering along with
the canoe a hundred yards from the tent, I became so weak that I
suddenly sank to the ground and the others had to come to my rescue and
bring in the canoe. But the night was cool and starry, and we sat long
by our fire and talked and drank pea soup and tea, and when it came
time for us to turn in to our soft bed of fragrant spruce boughs, our
troubles had been quite forgotten.
The good water that Hubbard and George thought was two miles long
shortened down, when we actually came to it the next morning, to less
than half a mile, affording us only a meagre opportunity to make use of
the canoe. For a little distance we again bucked the rapids, and then
left the river for a rough portage of a mile and a half over the hills
on the shore. Again at night we were exhausted, but again we had a
fine camp on a point overlooking the river. The crisp air came laden
with the perfume of spruce and balsam. On the surrounding hills the
fir trees were darkly silhouetted against the sky, radiant with its
myriads of stars. The roar of the river could be heard dying away into
a mere murmur among the hills below.
"Boys," said Hubbard, after we had made a good supper of a mess of
trout I had caught at midday, "this pays for all the hard work."
Undoubtedly Hubbard was in fine fettle that evening, and as we lay
before the fire with that delicious feeling of languor which comes from
conscientious toil, he entertained George and me with quotations from
his favourite author, Kipling, while we puffed comfortably upon our
pipes. One verse he dwelt upon, as it seemed particularly appropriate
to our position. It was:
When first under fire, if you're wishful to duck,
Don't look or take heed of the man that is struck;
Be thankful you're living and trust to your luck,
And march to your front like a soldier."
V. STILL IN THE AWFUL VALLEY
The next day (Wednesday, July 22) was by far the most disheartening of
our journey up the valley of the Susan. We portaged all day through
gullies and swamps and over rough ridges, covering in all about two
miles and a half. All of us were overcome by the hard work in the
burning sun and the poisonous bites of the flies. I was the most
susceptible to the attacks of the flies; for ten days I was fairly sick
from the poison they instilled. The faces, bands, and wrists of all of
us were badly swollen and very sore. My face was so swollen I could
scarcely see.
In the morning when we started forward the temperature was down to
thirty-three degrees, but at noon it had risen to ninety-two. Hubbard
was attacked with diarrhoea, and I with vomiting. We were all too
exhausted to eat when we stopped for luncheon, and lay on the moss for
an hour's rest, with the tent drawn over us to protect us from the
flies.
On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70
cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a
circle of stakes. That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500 rounds
of .22's. It had become strictly necessary to lighten our packs, and
we had begun to drop odds and ends every day.
In the afternoon Hubbard shot with his pistol a spruce partridge
(grouse); it was the first seen by us on the trip. Together with a
yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup. We camped
that night on a bluff, barren point, and Hubbard named it "Partridge
Point" in bonour of our first bird.
On Thursday (July 23) Hubbard lay in the tent all day sick. All he was
able to eat was some hardtack dipped in tea. At his request George and
I scouted for trails. Each of us carried a rifle and wore at his belt
a pistol and a cup in addition to the sheath knife we never were
without. In our pockets we placed a half-pound package of pea meal.
George started westward up the river, and I put for a high, barren bill
two miles to the north. As I climbed the hill I heard gulls on the
other side, which told me water lay in that direction, and when I
reached the top, there at my feet, like a silver setting in the dark
green forest, lay a beautiful little shoe-shaped lake. For miles and
miles beyond the ridge I was on, the country was flat and covered with
a thick spruce growth.
To the northeast of the lake at my feet I could see the glimmer of
other water among the trees, and I decided to go on and investigate.
In doing so, I managed to get myself lost. Descending the hill to the
lake, I made my way through the thick spruce growth in the swamp along
the shore. A splash in the water startled me, and soon I found the
fresh tracks of a caribou. As he had winded me, I knew it was useless
to try to follow him. Pressing my way on to the northeast, I came upon
another small lake and several small creeks. At midday I built a fire
and made a cup of pea meal porridge. While waiting for my meal to
cook, I read a letter that a friend had given me in New York, "to be
opened after one week's canoeing in Labrador." It was like a letter
just received from home.
In the afternoon the sun became obscured by gathering clouds, and in
the thick underbrush through which my course led me I could see
scarcely twenty yards ahead. I attempted to get my direction with the
compass, but the needle would not respond. Trusting, however, to my
ability to find my course without it, I made my way on past two more
lakes. A grouse fluttered up before me, and I brought it down with a
pistol shot. After tying it to my belt, I decided it was time to turn
back home, as we called our camp, and struck off by what I hoped would
be a short cut through the swamp. Then it was that I lost my bearings,
and at dusk, when I hoped to reach the first lake I had seen in the
morning, I found myself on the shore of a lake I had never seen before.
Too weary to cook the grouse, or even build a fire and make a cup of
porridge, I threw myself on a flat rock, pillowed my head on the trunk
of a fallen spruce tree, drew a handkerchief over my face to keep away
the clouds of mosquitoes, and slept soundly. At dawn I arose, built a
fire, repaired my compass, and ate a cup of porridge. I was not
frightened, because with my compass again in working order I knew I
should have no difficulty in finding the river, which must be somewhere
to the south and which must lead me back to camp. So to the southward
I took my course, pushing my way through thick brush and over marshes
where the ground under my feet went up and down like the waves of the
sea.
Towards noon I reached a barren hill, and from its summit saw the river
just beyond and the site of one of our old camping places that I knew
was eighteen miles below our last camp. Down to the shore of the river
I hurried, and built a fire for luncheon. The partridge at my belt had
been torn into shreds by the bushes, and again a cup of porridge had to
serve me for a meal. It was dark when I reached camp, to find Hubbard
greatly worried and George away looking for me.
There had been some good-natured arguments between Hubbard and me as to
the merits of our respective compasses, and as he now appeared to have
the better of it, he took advantage of the occasion to chaff me
unmercifully. Then when George returned they both had fun with me for
getting lost.
"That's all right," I said, "your turn, Hubbard, will come later. You
haven't been lost yet, because you haven't been out of sight of camp
alone. Anyway, I just stayed out for a quiet evening by myself."
My absence on Friday did not delay our progress any; for Hubbard was
still unable to travel. On Saturday (July 25) he had not yet fully
recovered, but he decided to push forward. A drizzling rain was
falling as we started. Each of us carried a load some four miles up
the valley and returned; and then Hubbard, with a second load, went
ahead to make camp, while George and I, with the remainder of the
baggage, endeavoured to drag the canoe upstream. Darkness came on when
we were two miles below camp. While fording the river, I was carried
off my feet by the current and nearly swept over the fall with a pack
around my neck.
Then George and I left the canoe on the bank for the night, and each
with his pack proceeded to push his way through the thick willows and
alders and over the rocks. It was so dark we could not see each other.
Falling down constantly and struggling to our feet again, we stumbled
on through the pitchy blackness and down-pouring rain, until suddenly
we discerned the glowing light of our campfire and came upon Hubbard
frying bacon. George and I were too tired to eat; we were glad to lie
down in our wet clothes on the bed of spruce boughs that was ready for
us and forget our troubles in sleep.
We rested on Sunday--and ate. A partridge I had shot the day before
was served stewed with rice and bacon for dinner, while for supper we
had twenty-two trout that Hubbard caught in the morning, served with
apple sauce and hot bread. This high living fully recompensed us for
our hard fight against nature and the elements, and once more full of
hope we lay down to sleep.
In the morning (Monday, July 27) Hubbard arose with a feeling of
depression, but fair progress during the day brightened him up. A
typical fall wind blew all day, and we were very wet and very cold when
we went into camp at night. But with the coming of evening the clouds
were driven away before the wind, affording us an occasional glimpse of
the new moon hanging low in the heavens; and this, together with the
sound of the river and the roaring campfire, soon cheered us up. No
matter how weary and discouraged we were during the day, our evening
fire invariably brought to us a feeling of indescribable happiness, a
sweet forgetfulness of everything but the moment's comfort.
Our fire that Monday night was no exception to the general rule, but
after supper, while we were luxuriantly reclining before it on a couch
of boughs, Hubbard gave expression to a strange feeling that had been
growing on him and me in the last few days. It was almost as if the
solitude were getting on our nerves. Hubbard was munching a piece of
black chocolate, which he dipped at intervals in a bit of sugar held in
the palm of his left hand, when he said:
"It's queer, but I have a feeling that is getting stronger from day to
day, that we are the only people left in the world. Have you fellows
experienced any such feeling?"
"Yes," said I; "I have. I have been feeling that we must forever be
alone, going on, and on, and on, from portage to portage, through this
desolate wilderness."
"That's it exactly," said Hubbard. "You sort of feel, that as you are
now, so you always have been and always will be; and your past life is
like a dream, and your friends like dream-folk. What a strange
sensation it is! Have you felt that way, George?"
George took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke
to join the smoke of the fire, and spat meditatively over his shoulder.
"Don't know as I have," he grunted. "I know there's mighty good
huntin' down the bay; and I've been thinkin' of Rupert's House [the
Hudson's Bay Company Post on James Bay where he was born], and what the
fellus I know there are doin' these days. I can't say they seem like
dream-folks to me; they're real enough, all right."
Hubbard and I laughed. Solitude was an old story to our friend, the
English-Indian, and our "feelings" must have seemed to him highly
artificial, if not affected.
Our progress on Tuesday and Wednesday (July 28 and 29) was the old
story of hard tracking in the river and difficult portaging. The
weather was cloudy and a chill wind blew. On Tuesday we advanced our
camp a little more than three miles, and on Wednesday a little more
than four. This continued slow work gave Hubbard serious concern, and
the condition of our larder and wardrobe was not reassuring. Our bacon
and sugar were going fast. Fish had become an absolute necessity, and
our catches had been alarmingly small. There was also a lamentable lack
of game. Far below we had heard the chatter of the last red squirrel,
and seen the last bear signs and the last tree barked by porcupines.
There were caribou trails a-plenty, but seldom a fresh track. A
solitary rabbit had crossed our trail since we entered the valley, and
there were no more rabbit runs visible. We could only hope that as we
neared the "height of land," we should find more game--find plenty of
caribou, at least, on the moss-covered barrens. We had also noted a
change in the timber growth; neither birch nor aspen had we seen for a
week.
Our moccasins were breaking through the bottoms, and this was a serious
matter; for while George had an extra pair, Hubbard and I had only
those on our feet. Hubbard's feet were very sore. Two of his toe
nails came off on Wednesday night, and a wide crack, which must have
made walking very painful, appeared in one of his heels. The nearest
thing we had to adhesive plaster was electrician's tape, and with this
he bandaged his heel, and tied it and his toes up with pieces of cotton
rags we had brought for cleaning rifles.
It was on Thursday, July 30, that we reached the point where another
good-sized stream comes into the Susan, or where the river may be said
to divide into two branches. We found that the southerly branch came
over a low fall from the west, while the other, or northerly branch,
flowed down from the northwest. The southerly branch was fully as
large as the northerly--narrower but deeper--and not nearly so swift
and rocky.
We were very uncertain as to which branch to follow, and Hubbard sent
George on a scouting trip up the southerly stream, which we shall call
Goose Creek, while he himself climbed a knoll to get a look at the
country. A half mile or so up Goose Creek George found a blaze
crossing the stream from north to south, which he pronounced a winter
blaze made by trappers, as the cuttings were high up on the trees and
freshly made. Half a mile above the blaze George came upon the rotten
poles of an old Indian wigwam, and this discovery made Hubbard happy;
he accepted it as evidence that Goose Creek was the river mapped as the
"Northwest" and the Indian route to Michikamau. Accordingly it was
decided to follow the southerly branch, and to leave the main stream at
this point.
I was glad to leave the valley of the Susan. Our whole course up the
valley had been torturous and disheartening. We had been out fifteen
days from Northwest River Post and had covered only eighty miles.
Hubbard had been ill, and I had been ill. Always, as we pressed
onward, I dreaded the prospect of retracing our steps through the Susan
Valley. I hated the valley from end to end. I have more reason to
hate it now. To me it is the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
VI. SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL
When we portaged into Goose Creek on Friday, July 31st, Hubbard had
quite recovered from his illness, I, too, was well again, and our
appetites had returned. It is true that my legs and feet were much
swollen from the continuous work in the cold river, but the swelling
caused me no inconvenience. All of us, in fact, were in better shape
for the fight against the wild than at any time since the start.
For three or four miles up Goose Creek the rapids were almost
continuous, and we had to portage for practically the whole of the
distance. On August 1st and 2d the weather was cold, with a raw wind
and a continuous downpour of rain. At night the rain kept up a steady
drop, drop, drop through our tent. On the 2d, owing to the inclemency
of the weather, we did not travel; but the morning of the 3d brought
brilliant sunshine and with the perfume of the forest in our nostrils
we pushed on, soon reaching a flatter and a marshy country, where the
creek deepened and narrowed with a sluggish current. Here the paddling
was good, and for a little way we made rapid progress.
In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house, and
George stepped out of the canoe to examine it.
"They're livin' here," he remarked. "If we're not too far away when we
camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for 'em. They
come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's not hard to get
'em."
"What's the use of killing them?" I asked. "What could you do with a
beaver if you got him?"
"I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said George.
"They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way for a piece
of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than anything you ever
ate."
As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver meat,
expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had consumed.
However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more important
things that evening claimed our attention.
It was on this day that we reached a point where our branch creek
itself separated into two branches. Upon scouting them, we discovered
that each of these branches had for its origin a lake, the two bodies
of water from which they flowed being close together some three miles
to the westward. Apparently they were small lakes, but we hoped to
find that they belonged to a chain that would carry us into the
country, and their discovery encouraged us to push on.
This hope was strengthened by Indian wigwam poles that we found in the
vicinity. The poles, it is true, were old, indicating that the Indians
had not been there for several years; but as it had been a long time
since they had ceased to visit regularly Northwest River Post, we
thought we had reason to believe that the poles marked what had been a
permanent trail rather than the course of a hunting expedition.
Hubbard was particularly observant of these old Indian signs. He was
anxious to find them, and delighted when he did find them. "Here are
the signs," he would say, "we are on the right trail." But we were not
on the right trail. The right trail--the Nascaupee route--was miles to
the northward. We eventually did stumble upon a trail to Michikamau,
but it was another one--a very old one--and we found it only to lose it
again.
While we were following up Goose Creek the condition of our
commissariat troubled us not a little. The scarcity of game had forced
us to draw heavily upon our stores. Only a little of our lard and a
small part of our twenty-five pounds of bacon remained. "We must hustle
for grub, boys," Hubbard frequently remarked. Our diet, excepting on
particular occasions, was bread and tea, fish when we could get them,
and sometimes a little pea soup. The pea meal, plain and flavoured,
was originally intended as a sort of emergency ration, but we had drawn
on our stock of it alarmingly. Our flour, too, was going rapidly, and
the time was drawing near when we felt that the ration of bread must be
cut down.
The only thing, perhaps, that we really craved was fresh meat. For
several days after leaving the post we had experienced a decided
craving for acids, but that craving had been partially satisfied when,
on the barren hills that border the Valley of the Susan, we found a few
cranberries that had survived the winter. Every day while we were on
Goose Creek we caught a few small trout. When we halted for any
purpose, Hubbard always whipped the stream. He was a tireless as well
as an expert fisherman. He would fish long after I had become
discouraged, and catch them in pools where they positively refused to
rise for me. The trout thus obtained were relished, but a fish diet is
not strengthening, neither is it satisfying, and as we had had no fresh
meat since the day we landed at Indian Harbour a month before, our
longing for it had become importunate.
Imagine our joy, then, when on August 3d, the day we discovered the
petering out of Goose Creek, some fresh meat came our way. Most
unexpectedly was the day turned into one of feasting and thanksgiving.
As we were preparing, soon after passing the beaver house, to pack at
the foot of a rapid just below a little pond expansion, Hubbard saw
four geese swimming slowly down the stream. He and George had just
lifted their packs from the canoe, while I, some little distance off,
had mine on my back. Hubbard had his rifle in his hands. George, who
caught sight of the geese almost as soon as Hubbard, grabbed my rifle
from the canoe. "Drop!" cried Hubbard, and down we all fell behind the
little bank over which the birds had been sighted. There was fresh
meat swimming towards us, and while we lay waiting for it to come in
sight around the little head of land the excitement was intense.
Soon the leader appeared, and Hubbard and George fired almost
simultaneously. If ever there was a goose that had his goose cooked,
it was that poor, unfortunate leader. One of the bullets from the
.45-70 rifles that were aimed at him went through his neck, cutting the
bone clean and leaving his head hanging by two little bits of skin.
The other bullet bored a hole through his body, breaking both wings. I
did not blame him when he keeled over. The leader disposed of, Hubbard
and George again fired in quick succession, and two of the other geese
dropped just as they were turning back upstream and vainly trying to
rise on their wings, which were useless so soon after the moulting
season. The second shot emptied George's rifle. He threw it down,
grabbed a paddle and went after one of the birds, which, only slightly
wounded, was flopping about in the water.
Meanwhile Hubbard had fired twice at the fourth goose and missed both
times. His rifle also being empty now, he cast it aside, seized his
pistol, ran around the bank and jumped into the water in time to head
off the remaining goose as it was flopping upstream. That brought the
goose between him and George, and the bird was so bewildered that
Hubbard had time to fire at him twice with his pistol and kill him,
while George effectually disposed of the wounded goose by swatting him
over the head with the paddle. Thus all four birds were ours, and our
exultation knew no bounds. We shouted, we threw our hats in the air
and shouted again. Lifting the birds critically, we estimated that we
had on hand about fifty pounds of goose meat.
More luck came to us that same day when we halted for luncheon at the
foot of some rapid water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard, as usual,
cast a fly, and almost immediately landed a half-pound trout. Then, as
fast as I could split them and George fry them, another and another,
all big ones, fell a victim to his skill. The result was that we had
all the trout we could eat that noon, and we ate a good many.
It was late in the afternoon when we reached the point where the two
brooks joined to form Goose Creek. Our scouting was finished in less
than two hours, and we went into camp early: for, as Hubbard expressed
it, we were to have a "heap big feed," and George reminded us that it
would take a good while to roast a goose. Our camp was pitched at the
foot of a semi-barren ridge a half-mile above the junction of the
brooks. George built a big fire--much bigger than usual. At the back
he placed the largest green log he could find. Just in front of the
fire, and at each side, he fixed a forked stake, and on these rested a
cross pole. From the centre of the pole he suspended a piece of stout
twine, which reached nearly to the ground, and tied the lower end into
a noose.
Then it was that the goose, nicely prepared for cooking, was brought
forth. Through it at the wings George stuck a sharp wooden pin,
leaving the ends to protrude on each side. Through the legs he stuck a
similar pin in a similar fashion. This being done, he slipped the
noose at the end of the twine over the ends of one of the pins. And lo
and behold! the goose was suspended before the fire.
It hung low--just high enough to permit the placing of a dish under it
to catch the gravy. Now and then George gave it a twirl so that none
of its sides might have reason to complain at not receiving its share
of the heat. The lower end roasted first, seeing which, George took
the goose off, reversed it and set it twirling again. After a time he
sharpened a sliver of wood, stuck it into the goose and examined the
wound critically.
"Smells like a Christmas goose when one goes through the kitchen dead
hungry before dinner," said Hubbard.
"Um-m-n!" I commented.
In a little while George tried the sharp splinter again. Hubbard and I
watched him anxiously. White juice followed the stick. Two hours had
passed, and the goose was done!
Events now came crowding thick and fast. First, George put the
steaming brown goose in his mixing basin, and deftly and rapidly
disjointed it with his sheath knife. Meanwhile, with nervous haste,
Hubbard and I had drawn our knives, and with the tin basin of goose
before us, all three of us plumped down in a half-circle on the thick
moss in the light of the bright-blazing fire. Many of the rules of
etiquette were waived. We stood not on the order of our falling to,
but fell to at once. We eat, and we eat, at first ravenously, then
more slowly. With his mouth full of the succulent bird, George allowed
he would rather have goose than caribou. "I prefer goose to anything
else," said he, and proceeded to tell us of goose hunts "down the bay"
and of divers big Indian feasts. At length all the goose was gone but
one very small piece. "I'll eat that for a snack before I sleep," said
George, as he started to put the giblets to stew for breakfast.
The fire died down until nothing remained save a heap of glowing
embers. For a long time we sat in the darkness over an extra pot of
tea. At first, silence; and then, while George and I puffed
complacently on our pipes, Hubbard, who never smoked, entertained us
with more of Kipling. "The Feet of the Young Men" was one of his
favourites, and that night he put more than his usual feeling into the
words:
"Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose--
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied?
Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout's jumping--crazy for the fly?
He must go--go--go away from here!
On the other side the world he's overdue.
'Send your road is clear before you when the old
Spring-fret comes o'er you
And the Red Gods call for you!"
Again the silence. The northern lights flashed and swept in fantastic
shapes across the sky, illuminating the fir tops in the valley and
making the white lichens gleam on the barren hill above us. We thought
of the lake ahead with its old wigwams, and the promise it held out of
an easy trail to Michikamau made us feel sure that the worst part of
our journey was ended. Thus we sat supremely happy and content until
long past midnight, when we went to our tent and our bed of fragrant
spruce boughs, to be lulled asleep by the murmuring waters of the creek
below.
The brooks into which Goose Creek divided near our camp of course would
not permit of canoeing, and the morning after our feast (August 4) we
portaged through a swamp into the lake that fed the southerly one. We
called this small body of water Mountaineer Lake, because the
Mountaineer Indians had been there. Besides numerous cuttings and the
remains of wigwams, we found the ruins of a drying stage where they had
cured meat or fish. From Goose Camp to the lake shore George carried
the canoe, and Hubbard and I each a pack. Then while George and I
returned for the remaining packs, Hubbard waited by the lake. As he
sat there alone, a caribou waded into the water less than a hundred
feet away, stopped and looked fearlessly at him for a few moments, and
then walked leisurely off into the woods.
"It seemed as if he wanted to shake hands with me," Hubbard said when
he told us of the incident. He had to let the deer depart in peace,
because both rifles were back with the last loads at Goose Camp, and
his pistol was in his bag. Needless to say, we were bitterly
disappointed at losing the first deer we had seen, and it taught us the
lesson always to take one rifle forward with the first load on a
portage.
We spent the afternoon scouting in different directions, and discovered
that the only inlet to Mountaineer Lake ended in a bog a mile or so up.
A mile or more to the westward, however, George discovered another and
much larger lake, which in honour of him we shall call Lake Elson. An
old trail led from Mountaineer Lake to Lake Elson, which George
pronounced to be a caribou trail, but which Hubbard believed to be an
old portage, because it led from lake to lake by the most direct
course. There were no axe cuttings, however, to indicate that the
Indians had followed it.
We tried the troll in Mountaineer Lake, but caught nothing. Apparently
there was nothing there but trout, of which fish I caught eight at the
inlet. I shot with my pistol a muskrat that was swimming in the lake,
but George did not cook it, as he said the flesh would be too strong at
that season. It was raining again and the mosquitoes were out in
millions, but with three geese still on hand and a good lake ahead we
were indifferent to such troubles as that, although our clothing was
not now in a condition successfully to withstand much bad weather.
Rags, in fact, were beginning to appear upon us all. One of Hubbard's
trousers legs was ripped clear down the front, and it was continually
streaming behind in the wind and getting caught in the bushes, despite
his efforts to keep it in place with pieces of twine. At length he
patched it with a piece of white duffel, and exhibited his tailoring
feat to us with much pride.
About noon on August 5, after a two-mile portage, we reached Lake
Elson. On the way Hubbard sighted two caribou. He dropped his pack
and grabbed his rifle. They were 250 yards away and partially hidden
by the timber, and as they were approaching him, he waited, believing
he would get a better shot. But, while he was waiting, what he called
a "cussed little long-legged bird" scared them off, by giving a sharp,
shrill cry of alarm, which the deer evidently were clever enough to
construe as meaning that something out of the ordinary was happening.
Lake Elson proved to be about three and a half miles long and a half
mile wide. It lay in a basin surrounded by wooded hills. The
northerly portion was dotted with low, mound-like islands of drift,
with two or three irregular, rocky islands, all completely wooded. It
was a beautiful sheet of water, and, like all the lakes in Labrador, as
clear as crystal and very cold. On the northerly side there were
narrow straits and inlets, doubtless connecting the lake with others to
the northwest that were hidden by the growth.
The outlet was at the southern end. It flowed through a pass in a low
ridge of hills that extended for a great distance east and west, and
emptied into a small lake, the waters of which were discharged through
a creek that flowed through a pass in another low ridge that ran
parallel with the first as far as we could see. Between the two ridges
was a marsh that extended westward for many miles. The ridges and the
hills surrounding the lakes were covered with spruce and balsam.
Nowhere along our route since we left Northwest River Post, however,
had we seen any timber of commercial value; the largest trees did not
exceed eight inches in diameter, the generality being much smaller.
We were somewhat disconcerted upon finding no further signs of Indians,
and feared we had lost the trail. Neither trapper's blaze nor
trapper's cutting was to be seen; for now we were beyond their zone and
in a country that apparently no white man and no breed had ever viewed.
We selected a site for our camp near the outlet at the southern end of
the lake. In the afternoon Hubbard and George went to some bluffs that
could be seen two or three miles to the southward, to scout for a route
to Michikamau and find the Indian trail if possible. I remained behind
to make camp.
The days were now shortening rapidly; it was dark before eight o'clock.
In the grey of the twilight George returned. When he hailed me, I was
fishing in the outlet just below the camp, standing on a rock in
midstream to which I had waded.
"Come 'long up to camp," he called. Once in the wilderness, we made no
distinctions as to master and servant; we were all companions together.
Hence George's familiar manner of address.
"When I land two more trout," I shouted back.
"You've got enough; come 'long now," he pleaded. There was that in his
tone that excited my curiosity; he seemed all of a sudden to have
acquired an unusual fondness for my society. "What's the matter,
George?" I asked.
"I've been about lost," he returned. "Come on and I'll tell you."
I was astonished. I had seen George drop a pack in the bush, where
everything for miles around looked alike to me, and without marking the
spot or apparently taking note of any guiding signs, he would go
directly to it again. I was with him one pitch-dark night when he left
a pack among alders and willows in the depth of a marsh, and in the
morning he went back two miles straight to the very spot. How a man
that could do this could get lost was beyond my understanding. I
hurried up to camp.
"How did it happen, George?" I asked.
"I just got turned 'round," he replied. "I didn't have any grub, and I
didn't have a pistol, or a fishhook, or any way to get grub, and I
didn't have a compass, and I was scared."
"But don't you know how you got lost?" I persisted.
"No, I don't," said George. "I just got lost. But I found myself
pretty quick. I never got lost before."
The only way I could account for it was that he had permitted his
thoughts to wander. I asked him what he would have done if he had not
been able to find his way back.
"Gone to the highest hill I could see," he answered with a grin, "and
made the biggest smoke I could make at its top, and waited for you
fellus to find me."
While we were talking George was busily engaged in making the fire,
putting a goose to boil and preparing water for tea. The twilight
deepened, and ere we realised it darkness had come. Every moment we
expected to hear Hubbard, but he did not appear.
"Another man lost," said I, with a forced lightness that illy concealed
the anxiety George and I both felt; we knew that Hubbard not only had
nothing to eat, but no matches to make a fire.
Frequently we stopped our work and talk, to peer into the gathering
night and listen for the breaking of a twig. At length I took my rifle
and fired at intervals half a dozen shots; but the reports echoed and
died away without a reply. A damp north wind chilled the air, and the
gloom seemed particularly oppressive.
"Hubbard will have a hard night out there in the bush," said George.
"Yes," I replied; "I don't suppose we can expect him back now before
morning; and when a man is lost in this wild country it's pretty hard
to find a little tent all by itself."
I was thinking of my own experience farther back, and what might happen
should Hubbard fail to find us or we him. He was not so fortunate as I
had been, in that there was no river to guide his return. However, at
five o'clock in the morning he appeared. He had spent a miserable night
on a ridge two miles to the southward, wet and shivering, with no fire,
and tormented by mosquitoes. He reported that from the ridge he could
hear the roar of a rapid. Darkness had prevented him from going on, and
he had not seen the rapid, but he was sure it was a part of a big river.
At first he was loath to admit he had been lost, doubtless remembering
how he and George had "guyed" me when I had been out all night and my
prediction that his turn would come; but when George confessed to
having gone astray also, he made a clean breast of it, telling us he
was "lost good and plenty, and scared some, too." Now I had my
innings, and I must confess I took great delight in returning some of
the chaff they had given me.
Hubbard decreed, in consequence of these experiences--getting
lost--that thereafter each man at all times should have on his person
an emergency kit, to consist of matches, a piece of fish line, some
hooks and two or three flies, enclosed in a film box waterproofed with
electrician's tape.
We remained in our camp on Lake Elson for two days in order to scout
and dry fish. It was the best fishing place we had yet come to.
During our stay we had all the trout we could eat, and we dried and
smoked forty-five large ones. The scouting proved that Hubbard's "big
river" was an important discovery. It lay two miles to the south of
us, flowing to the southeast. Hubbard sent George to look at it, and
he reported that it certainly came from large lakes, as it was big,
deep and straight. Could it come from Lake Michikamau?
While George was away Hubbard and I took a trip in the canoe around the
lake and through some inlets. At the northeast we discovered a creek
flowing into the lake, and as there were some old Indian wigwams and
cuttings near it, indicating the possibility of its being part of a
trail, we seriously considered the advisability of following it up.
From a knoll near by we could see to the northwest other lakes into
which the creek might possibly lead us; but, after returning to camp,
we considered the situation fully in the light of George's report of
the big river, and we decided that to the big river we should go.
This decision was not to prove an error of judgment; for the big river
was none other than the Beaver--an important part of an old trail of
the Indians to Lake Michikamau.
VII. ON A REAL RIVER AT LAST
We broke camp in the forenoon of August 7th, and a few hours later,
after making two trips back and forth, we arrived with our baggage on
the bank of our new river. At last we had a real river to travel on,
its average width being between 100 and 150 yards. None of us, of
course, then knew that our real river was the Beaver, and that in
taking to it we had stumbled upon an old Indian route to Lake
Michikamau. If we had known this, it would have made a great
difference in our fortunes.
Immediately below the point where we portaged into the river, wooded
ridges on either side hugged it close, forming a narrow valley. Just
above us the valley broadened, and a mile or so up a big hill reared
its barren summit above the black spruce trees at its base, standing
there like a lonely sentinel among the little hills that bordered the
widening river basin. Despite the fact that we had reached a real
river, we still had rapids to encounter, and we had to make so many
short portages that after we had ascended the river two miles it was
time to camp.
We pitched our tent on a rising plateau just below a stretch of rushing
water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard tried to fish, and while I made
camp he landed fifteen trout averaging nearly half a pound each. They
were most welcome, as the time had come when we had to live off the
country. Our bread ration was now cut down to one-third of a loaf a
day for each man. As we had no lard, it was made simply of flour,
baking powder, and water. It was baked in our frying pan, and a loaf
was about eight inches in diameter and one inch thick, so that our
daily ration was but a morsel. We also decided that from now on we
should use pea meal only on rare occasions, and to reserve our other
provisions, with the exception of a few dried apples, tea, coffee and a
little chocolate and cocoa, to give us a start should we at any time
find it necessary to make a sudden dash for the Post.
Our clothing was rapidly disintegrating. The front of Hubbard's
trouser leg was all torn open again, and once more he had to resort to
pieces of twine. We had frequent discussions at this period as to
whose appearance was the most beautiful. For a time Hubbard and I
would claim the distinction each for himself, but it usually ended by
our conceding the distinction to George. As a matter of fact, with our
unkempt hair and beards and our rags, we now formed as tough looking a
party of tramps as ever "came down the pike." That night in camp I cut
up my canvas leggings and used pieces of the canvas to rebottom my
moccasins, sewing it on with shoemaker's thread.
It was a glorious evening. A big moon rising over the bluffs beyond us
transformed the river into a silvery thread stretching far down through
the dark valley. Behind us the black spruce forest made our roaring
fire seem more cheerful in contrast. A cold east wind had driven away
the flies and the mosquitoes. Supper eaten, our cup of contentment was
full to the brim. After all, the wilderness was not so inhospitable.
Who would be anywhere else, if he could? Not one of us.
With the sensation that we were the only people in Labrador, a fancy
struck me and I suggested to my companions that we ought to organise
some sort of government.
"We'll make you, Hubbard," I said, "the head of the nation and call you
the Great Mogul. Of course you will be commander-in-chief of the army
and navy and have unlimited power. We're your subjects."
"I suspect," replied Hubbard, "you are looking for a political job.
However, I, of course, stand ready, like our politicians at home, to
serve the country when duty calls--if there's enough in it. As the
Great Mogul of Labrador, I appoint you, Wallace, Chief Justice and also
Secretary of State. George I shall appoint Admiral of the Navy."
"Where are my ships?" asked George.
"Ships!", exclaimed Hubbard. "Well, there will be only one for the
present. But she's a good staunch one--eighteen feet long, with a beam
of thirty-three and a half inches. And she carries two quick-fire
rifles."
With these and other conceits we whiled away the beautiful evening
hours. What a difference there was in the morning! We awoke--it was
Saturday, August 8--to find that the east wind had increased in force
and was accompanied by a driving, chilling rain. Reluctantly we broke
camp, and began a day of back-breaking, disheartening work. The wind
soughed dismally through the forests, and it was as though late autumn
had overtaken us in a night. The spruce boughs, watersoaked, seemed to
hang low for no other purpose than to strike us in the face at every
step, and the willows and alders along the river that now and again
obstructed our way appeared to be thicker and wetter than ever.
Under these conditions we had made six portages, the longest of which
was about three-quarters of a mile, and covered in all about four and a
half miles, when one o'clock came and we gave up the fight for the day,
to make our Sunday camp and try to get fish. We were ravenously
hungry, and ate even the heads of the dried trout we had for luncheon,
these being the last of those we caught and smoked on Lake Elson.
During the afternoon we put out for the first time the old gill net
Mackenzie had given us, and by hard work with the rod caught a few more
trout for supper.
It still poured on Sunday morning. Hubbard fished all day, and I the
greater part of the forenoon. The net product of our labor was
forty-five trout, most of them little fellows. The gill net yielded us
nothing. In the afternoon George and I took the rifles and started out
in different directions to look for caribou. Neither of us found any
fresh tracks. I returned at dusk, to find George already in camp and
our supper of boiled fish ready to be eaten. Our sugar was all gone by
this time, and our supply of salt was so low that we were using hardly
any. In spite of us the salt had been wet in the drenching rains we
had encountered all up the Susan Valley, and a large part of it had
dissolved.
While we all craved sugar and other sweets, I believe Hubbard suffered
the most from their absence. Perhaps the fact that George and I used
tobacco and he did not, was the explanation. He was continually
discussing the merits of various kinds of cake, candies, and sweet
things generally. Our conversation too often turned to New York
restaurants, and how he would visit various ones of them for particular
dishes. Bread undoubtedly was what we craved the most. "I believe
I'll never refuse bread again," Hubbard would say, "so long as there's
a bit on the table."
Monday (August 10) brought with it no abatement of the driving rain and
cold east wind. Working industriously for half an hour before
breakfast, Hubbard succeeded in landing a single small trout, which
fell to me, while he and George ate thick pea meal porridge, of which
they were very fond. We made several short portages during the
morning, and, despite the dismal weather, our spirits brightened; for
we came upon old wigwam poles and axe cuttings, which we accepted as
proof that we were now surely on the Indian trail to Michikamau.
Towards noon Hubbard said:
"Well, boys, we're on the right road, we've covered three miles this
morning, and this rain is killing, so we'll pitch camp now, and wait
for the weather to clear and try to get some fish ahead. There are fish
here, I know, and when the wind changes we'll get them."
After warming ourselves by a big fire and eating luncheon, Hubbard and
I took our rods and fished the greater part of the afternoon, catching
between us twelve or fifteen trout.
"You had better cook them all for supper, George," said Hubbard. "This
is my mother's birthday, and in honour of it we'll have an extra loaf
of bread and some of her dried apples. And I tell you what, boys, I
wish I could see her now."
On the following day (Tuesday, August 11) the weather had somewhat
moderated, but the east wind continued, and the rain still fell during
all the forenoon. We could get no fish at our camp, and at two in the
afternoon started forward, all of us hungry and steadily growing
hungrier. Hubbard whipped the water at the foot of every rapid and
tried every pool, but succeeded in getting only a very few trout.
While he fished, George and I made the portages, and thus, pushing on
as rapidly as possible, we covered about four miles.
While George and I were scouting on Sunday, we had each caught sight of
a ridge of rocky mountains extending in a northerly and southerly
direction, which we estimated to be from twenty to twenty-five miles to
the westward. Previous to Tuesday, these mountains had not been
visible from the river valley, but on that day they suddenly came into
view, and they made us stop and think, for they lay directly across our
course. However, we did not feel much uneasiness then, as we decided
that our river must flow through a pass in the mountains far to the
north, and follow them down before turning east.
Our camp on Tuesday night was rather a dreary one; but before noon on
Wednesday (August 12) the clouds broke, big patches of blue sky began
to appear, and with a bit of sunshine now and again, our hearts
lightened as we proceeded on our journey.
At the foot of a half-mile portage Hubbard caught fourteen trout, and
our luncheon was secure. Three more portages we made, covering in all
about three miles, and then we shouted for joy, for there ahead of us
lay open water. Along it for five miles we gaily canoed before
stopping for luncheon. Hungry? Yes, we were hungry even after
devouring the fourteen trout and drinking the water they were boiled
in--I could have eaten fifty like them myself--but our spirits were
high, and we made merry. For the first time since leaving Grand Lake
there was good water behind us and good water before us.
At the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out. Wide
marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and then a
low hill of drift. The north side was followed by a low ridge of
drift, well wooded. We landed for luncheon on the south bank, at the
foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an interesting discovery,
namely, the remains of an old Indian camp and the ruins of two large
birch-bark canoes. In November, at Northwest River Post, I heard the
story of those canoes.
Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had camped
there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon its canoes
and make a dash for the Post. Game was scarce, and the fish had gone
to deeper waters. The Indians pushed desperately on overland, but one
by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend, Starvation, had
claimed them all. Since that time no Indian has ever travelled that
trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we had stumbled was thereupon
abandoned. The Indians believe the trail is not only unlucky, but
haunted; that if while on it they should escape Starvation--that
terrible enemy which nearly always dogs them so closely--they are
likely to encounter the spirits of them that died so many years ago.
Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our luncheon
on the very spot where others in desperation had faced death. It was
to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason for believing we
were on the right trail, that was all. While we ate, the sun came out
brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling feeling ready for almost
anything that might happen. And something soon did happen--something
that made the day the most memorable so far of the trip.
No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled three
miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big woodland stag
caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the northern shore, two
hundred yards ahead. I seized my rifle, and, without waiting for the
canoe to stop, fired. The bullet went high. The caribou raised his
head and looked at us inquisitively. Then Hubbard fired, and with the
dying away of the report of his rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit
'im, Hubbard; you've got 'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his
knees, but struggled to his feet again. As he did so, Hubbard sent
another shot at him, but missed. Slowly the big deer turned, and began
to struggle up the bank. Again Hubbard and I fired, but both shots went
low.
We ran the canoe to shore, and while I made it fast, Hubbard and George
ran breathlessly ahead to where the caribou had disappeared. I followed
at once, and soon came upon them and the caribou, which fallen thirty
yards from the river with a bullet through his body just back of the
left shoulder. A trail of blood marked his path from the river to
where he lay. As the animal floundered there in the moss, Hubbard,
with the nervous impetuosity he frequently displayed, fired again
against George's protest, the bullet entering the caribou's neck and
passing down through his tongue the full length. Then George caught
the thrashing animal by the antlers, and while he held its head down
Hubbard cut its throat.
We made our camp right where the caribou fell. It was an ideal spot on
the high bank above the river, being flat and thickly covered with
white moss. The banks at this point were all sand drift; we could not
find a stone large enough to whet our knives. George made a stage for
drying while Hubbard and I dressed the deer. Our work finished, we all
sat down and roasted steaks on sticks and drank coffee. The knowledge
that we were now assured of a good stock of dried meat, of course,
added to the hilarity of feast. As we thought it best to hoard our
morsel of flour, it was a feast of venison and venison alone.
While waiting for our meat to dry, we had to remain in camp for three
or four days. On the next afternoon (Thursday, August 13) Hubbard and
I paddled about three miles up the river to look for fish, but we got
no bites, probably because of the cold; in the morning there had been a
fringe of ice on the river shore.
"We'll take it easy," said Hubbard while we were paddling upstream,
"and make a little picnic of it. I'm dead tired myself. How do you
feel, Wallace?"
"I feel tired, too," I said. "I have to make an extra effort to do any
work at all."
Hubbard was inclined to attribute this tired feeling to the freedom
from strain after our nerve-racking work of the last few weeks, while I
hazarded the opinion that our purely meat diet had made us lazy.
Probably it was due to both causes.
As Hubbard was anxious to obtain definite knowledge as to what effect
the high ridge of rocky mountains had upon our river, George and I,
with the object of ascertaining the river's course, left camp in the
canoe on Friday morning (August 14), taking with us, in addition to our
emergency kits, our cups, some tea, and enough caribou ribs for
luncheon. We portaged around a few short rapids, and then, about eight
miles above our camp, came upon a lake expansion of considerable size
with many inlets. On the northerly side of the lake was a high, barren
hill, which afforded us a splendid view of the surrounding country.
Winding away to the southeast was the river we had ascended. To the
west was a series of lake expansions connected by narrow straits, and
beyond them were the mountains, which we estimated rose about 2,500
feet above the country at their base. In sheltered places on their
sides, patches of ice and snow glistened in the sunshine. Barren
almost to their base, not a vestige of vegetation to be seen anywhere
on their tops or sides, they presented a scene of desolate grandeur,
standing out against the blue sky like a grim barrier placed there to
guard the land beyond. As I gazed upon them, some lines from Kipling's
"Explorer" that I had often heard Hubbard repeat were brought forcibly
to my mind:
"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!"
Let us call these ranges the Kipling Mountains.
To the north, hill after hill, with bald top rising above the stunted
trees on its sides, limited our range of vision. Far away to the south
stretched a rolling, wooded country. To the eastward the country was
flatter, with irregular ranges of low hills, all covered with a thick
growth of spruce and fir balsam. Beyond the point where the water
flowed from it southeasterly into the river we had ascended, the lake
at the foot of our hill seemed to extend directly eastward for four for
five miles; but the thick wood of the valleys and low-lying hills made
it difficult to see just where it ended, so that from where we stood it
was impossible to tell what course the river took--whether it came from
the east, bending about in the lake expansion below us, or flowed from
the west through the lake expansions beyond. Away off to the northeast
an apparently large lake could be discerned, with numerous mound-like
islands dotting its surface.
For a long time we stood and gazed about us. Far to the southeast a
tiny curl of smoke rose heavenward in the clear atmosphere. That was
Hubbard's campfire--the only sign of life to be seen in all that wide
wilderness. The scene was impressive beyond description. It gave me a
peculiar feeling of solemnity and awe that I shall never forget.
We found on our hill a few dead twigs of sub-Arctic shrubbery with
which to make a fire to broil our caribou ribs, and gathered some
mildly acid berries of a variety neither of us had ever seen before,
which we ate as a dessert. After luncheon George said he thought we
had better go to the westward to look for the river.
"But how can it come through those mountains?" I asked.
"I don't know as it can," he replied. "But," pointing to one of the
range, "I want to take a look at the country beyond from that high
mountain."
So we returned to our canoe, and paddled to the westward a few miles
through two lake expansions, which brought us to the foot of the
mountains. We landed at a place where a small creek tumbled down
through a rocky pass. George went up his mountain alone. During his
absence, with my emergency kit, I caught ten six-inch trout to be
divided between us for supper, as only two of our caribou ribs
remained. Near dark George came back. After climbing half way to the
summit of his mountain, he had encountered perpendicular walls of rock
that blocked his further progress.
We made a fire of old wigwam poles, and roasted our fish before it on a
flat stone. A quart of hot tea between us washed down our meagre
supper, and then we made a bed of boughs. But when we tried to sleep
the icy wind that blew through the pass caused us to draw closer to the
fire, before which we alternately sat and lay shivering throughout the
night. Having brought no axe with us, we could not build a fire of any
size. I do not believe either of us slept more than half an hour.
"Which would you rather have, Wallace, a piece of bread or a blanket?"
George would ask at frequent intervals.
"Bread," I always answered. At that he would chuckle. We had tasted
nothing but venison and fish since the day we killed the caribou, and
for bread we had an inexpressible craving.
"Anyway," George would say, "this cold will weaken the flies." And
with this reflection he continued to comfort us as the nights became
chillier.
In the morning we had to break the ice to get water for our tea, which
with the two remaining caribou ribs constituted our breakfast. George
then made another attempt at his mountain. Again he failed to reach the
summit, and I failed to induce any more trout to rise. In a somewhat
despondent mood we turned back, and paddled for some distance into the
lake expansions to the eastward of the point where our river flowed
out. Although we were compelled to start for "home" before obtaining
any definite knowledge of the course of the river, we were of the
opinion that it came from the east. For all we knew, however, the
river might end in those lake expansions; we could not tell, as no
current could be discerned, and having no food we could not continue
the search.
It was five o'clock in the evening when we reached camp, tired out and
as hungry as two wolves, and we astonished Hubbard with the amount of
venison we put out of sight. While George was temporarily out of
hearing, Hubbard said:
"It's bully good to see you back again, Wallace. I was disappointed
when you didn't come back last night, and I've been dead lonesome. I
got thinking of my wife and home, and the good things to eat there, and
was on the verge of homesickness."
"We were mightily disappointed, too, at not getting back," said I
between mouthfuls. "Up there on the lakes we put in the toughest night
yet, and we were thinking of the venison and warm blankets down here at
camp."
Hubbard was much discouraged and depressed at our report of the
uncertain course of the river, although he was careful to conceal his
feelings from George.
The next day (Sunday, August 16) we cut up our canvas guncases and used
some of the material to re-bottom our moccasins. What was left over we
put away carefully for future use. George cracked the caribou bones
and boiled out the marrow grease. He stripped the fat from the
entrails and tried out the tallow, preserving even the cracklings or
scraps. "We'll be glad to eat 'em yet," said he. One of the hoofs he
dressed and put with our store of meat. We preserved everything but
the head, the entrails and three of the hoofs. The tallow we found an
excellent substitute for lard.
In the afternoon Hubbard and I caught thirty trout in an hour at the
rapid a mile and a half above our camp, and a few more in the river
close by the camp. High living during the day raised all of our
spirits. For breakfast we had the caribou heart, which George thought
at first he would roast but changed his mind and served stewed. For
dinner we had the tongue, the tidbit of the animal, boiled with pieces
of other parts. Hubbard's second bullet had torn out the centre of the
tongue, but what there was of it was delicious. And at night we had
the trout caught during the afternoon, to which, as a Sunday luxury,
was added a cake of bread.
When we gathered around the fire in the evening Hubbard had entirely
recovered from his depression and took a more hopeful view of the
river. We discussed the matter thoroughly, and decided that the river
George and I had seen coming from the eastward must take a turn farther
north and break through the Kipling Mountains, and that it might prove
to be Low's Northwest River we all thought was possible.
At the same time we could not disguise the fact that it was extremely
probable we should have to portage over the mountains, and the prospect
was far from pleasing; but, ragged and almost barefooted though we
were, not a man thought of turning back, and on Monday morning, August
17th, we prepared to leave Camp Caribou and solve the problem as to
where lay the trail of Michikamau.
VIII. "MICHIKAMAU OR BUST!"
The temperature was three degrees below freezing when grey dawn at half
past four o'clock that Monday morning bid us up and on. The crisp air
and the surpassing beauty of the morning stirred within us new hope and
renewed ambition. And the bags of jerked venison and the grease gave
us faith that we should succeed in reaching our goal. Though we had
some food in stock, there was to be no cessation in our effort to get
fish; our plan was for Hubbard to try his rod at the foot of every
rapid while George and I did the portaging.
Before midday Hubbard had forty trout, one of them sixteen inches
long--the biggest we had caught yet. We stopped for luncheon on the
sandy shore of a pretty little lake expansion, and ate the whole
morning's catch, fried in caribou tallow, with unsweetened coffee to
wash it down. Then on we pushed towards the Kipling Mountains. At a
narrow strait between two lakes we left Hubbard to fish, George and I
going on two miles farther to the place where we had spent that chilly
night while scouting, and where our camp for this night was to be
pitched.
Our object in going there was to give George another chance to view the
country on the other side of the mountain range. This time he was to
try another peak. As he disappeared up the mountain side, I paddled
back to get Hubbard, who was awaiting me with a good string of big
trout. The two-mile stretch of lake from where Hubbard was fishing to
our camping ground was as smooth as a sheet of glass. The sun hanging
low over the mountains and reflecting their nude forms in the silvery
water, and the dark green forest of fir trees on the shores moved
Hubbard to exclamations of delight.
"Oh, if it could be painted just as it appears now!" he said. "Why,
Wallace, this one scene is worth all the groaning we've done to get
here. It's grand! grand!"
At dark George returned to camp with the report that from his peak he
could see only higher mountains looming up to the westward. In the
shadow of the grey rocks of the grim old mountains that so stubbornly
held their secret of what lay beyond, we had a good supper of trout and
were happy, though through the gulch the creek roared defiance at us,
and off in the night somewhere a loon would break out at intervals in
derisive laughter. At the base of the mountains the narrow lake
reflected a million stars, and in their kindly light the snow and ice
patches on the slopes above us gleamed white and brilliant.
With our day's work the listlessness from which we had recently
suffered had entirely disappeared, and we felt ready to undertake any
task, the more difficult the better. Hubbard suggested giving up route
hunting if our river ended where we then were, and striking right
across the mountains with our outfit on our backs, and we received the
suggestion with enthusiasm. He talked, too, a great deal about
snowshoeing in winter to St. Augustine on the St. Lawrence, cutting
across country from the Kenemish River, which flows into Groswater Bay
opposite Northwest River Post. This trip, which he held out as a
possibility in the event of our missing the last steamer out from
Rigolet, seemed to appeal to him immensely.
"I don't care if we are too late for the steamer," he said; "that
snowshoeing trip would be a great stunt."
We found a great many wigwam poles near and in the pass hard by our
camp, while by the creek we came across the remains of both summer and
winter camps, probably those of hunters. "One of the beggars was
high-toned," said George; "he had a stove." This was evidenced by the
arrangement of stones within the circle of wigwam poles, and a few
pieces of wood cut stove-size.
On Tuesday morning (August 18) we turned back and into the long, narrow
lake expansions to the eastward, and soon satisfied ourselves that this
was the right course. Our thermometer registered 28 degrees that
morning. The day dawned clear and perfect; it was a morning when one
draws in long breaths, and one's nerves tingle, and life is a joy.
Early in the forenoon we reached rapids and quickly portaged around
them; all were short, the largest being not more than half a mile. At
ten o'clock we ate luncheon at the foot of one of the rapids where we
caught, in a few minutes, fourteen large trout. Just above this rapid
the river opened into long, narrow lakes, and the canoeing was superb.
Suddenly the river took a sharp turn to the westward, and appeared to
lead directly into the mountains. At that we sent up three rousing
cheers--the river problem seemed to be solved; apparently the road to
Michikamau lay straight before us.
A little above the bend in the river we came upon an old gander and
goose and two unfeathered young. The gander with a great squawk and
flapping wings took to the bush, but we killed the old goose with a
rifle, and George "knocked over," as he expressed it, one of the young
ones with a pistol. More luck (and food) came to us a little later.
While George and I portaged around the last rapid that evening, Hubbard
caught fifty trout averaging over a pound each. They jumped greedily to
the fly, four or five rising at every cast.
Above this rapid the river again took the form of a long, narrow
lake--a lake so beautiful that we were entranced. It was evening when
we arrived, and the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the
place. Undoubtedly we were the first white men that had ever invaded
its solitude, and the first human beings of any kind to disturb its
repose for many years. On the north a barren, rocky bluff rose high
above the water; at all other places the shores were low and wooded. A
few miles to the westward could be seen the barren Kipling Mountains,
and between them and us was a ridge of low hills covered with
black-green spruce. The sun was setting in our faces as we paddled
slowly along the lake, and as it went down behind the mountains a veil
was gradually drawn over the lovely scene. Not a breath of air was
stirring, and hardly a sound broke the stillness save the ripple at the
bow of the canoe and the soft splash of the paddles. In the placid
waters two otters were swimming and diving. One was timid and remained
at a distance, but the other was bold and inquisitive and came close to
the canoe. Here and there all over the lake, its mirror-like surface
was broken by big jumping trout. Two loons laughed at us as we drew
the canoe on to the sandy beach of a low jutting point, and they
continued to laugh while we pitched our camp in the green woods near
the shore and prepared our supper of roast goose. It was a feast day.
With goose, plenty of trout and good water for paddling, it was a time
to eat, drink, and be merry.
Our high spirits still remained when we broke camp in the morning
(Wednesday, August 19), but they were destined soon to be dashed. Not
long after we started we found ourselves in good-sized lakes, with arms
extending in every direction. All day we hunted for the river, but
found only small streams emptying into the lakes. The country now was
much rougher, and much more rocky and barren, than any we had seen
since we left the coast. The trees were more stunted and gnarled, and
the streams usually had a bed-rock bottom. In the course of the day
Hubbard shot three rock ptarmigans--"rockers," George called them.
They were the first we had seen, and were still wearing their mottled
summer dress; later in the season they are a pure, spotless white.
Towards evening we made our way to a point on the northwesterly part of
the lakes where a small stream came through a mountain pass, and there
went into camp.
We were much disappointed at our failure to find the river, but not
disheartened. In order to make certain that we had not overlooked it,
we decided to paddle back the next day as far as the last rapid and
make one more careful search. Failing then to find the river, we
should portage through the mountain pass at the entrance to which we
had camped.
"Do you remember," asked Hubbard, "the slogan of the old Pike's
Peakers?--'Pike's Peak or Bust?'"
"Yes," said I; "and very often they busted."
"Well," said Hubbard, "we'll adopt it and change it to our needs.
'Michikamau or Bust,' will be our watchword now."
And sitting around the fire, we all took it up and repeated
determinedly, "Michikamau or Bust!"
The morning of the next day (Thursday, August 20) we occupied in
mending our moccasins with parts of the caribou skin. George also took
the venison from the bags and hung it over the fire to give it a little
more drying, as it had begun to mould. In the afternoon Hubbard and I,
in accordance with the plan we had adopted, paddled back over our
course and re-explored the lower lakes. We discovered nothing new.
The fact was that these lakes were the source of the Beaver River.
While we were paddling about we came upon two old and two young loons.
The old ones tried to lure us away from their young, by coming very
near the canoe. The young loons made frequent dives, but we succeeded
in catching one of them. Finally, however, we restored it to its
parents, and when the loon family was re-united there was great
rejoicing in the household. In the pool at the foot of the last rapid
we spent an hour fishing, and caught eighty-one trout, averaging,
perhaps, a half-pound each. Upon our return to camp in the evening we
dressed our catch and hung the fish to dry over a slow, smoky fire.
The river having come to an end, our only course now was to cross the
mountains, and on Friday (August 21), with "Michikamau or Bust!" for
our slogan, we began our portage along the stream that flowed through
the pass near our camp. A heavy rain was falling. During the first
part of the day, in the course of which we crossed three small ponds,
the travelling was fairly good; but during the latter part it was
exceedingly rough and difficult. We pitched our tent that night on the
divide; in other words, we had reached the place where small streams
flowed both east and west.
The cold rain continued when we broke camp the next morning (Saturday,
August 22). For a time we again encountered rough work, forcing a
passage over rocks and through thick brush and scrambling down high
banks, and then, as we neared the end of the pass, the portage became
less difficult. Before noon we came upon a lake of considerable size
and unmistakable signs that in directing our course through the pass we
had kept upon the old Indian trail. On the edge of the lake--we shall
call it Lake Hope--trees had been blazed to make plain the exact point
where the portage trail left the water, and near this place were sweat
holes where the medicine men had given baths to the sick. Much drift
wood showing axe cuttings was on the shore, and we picked up an old
canoe paddle of Indian make. All this led us to believe we were on
waters connected directly with Lake Michikamau (which was the fact),
and we thought that possibly we had reached a deep bay said to extend
from the main body of the lake some thirty miles in a southeasterly
direction.
Where we launched our canoe the mountain pass was very narrow, and on
the southerly side, rising almost perpendicularly from the water to a
height of eight or nine hundred feet, stood a hill of absolutely bare
rock. The wind was blowing the rain in sheets over its face, and,
despite the wet and chill, we paused to enjoy the grandeur of the
scene. We had travelled about six miles through the pass, and this
hill marked its end; the mountain barrier that at one time seemed so
formidable had not proved so difficult to cross after all. And in
accomplishing the pass we had reached the great interior plateau--the
land that lay hidden behind the ranges.
After we had paddled along Lake Hope a hundred yards, we struck a
sharp-pointed rock that tore a hole through the bottom of the canoe.
This accident forced us to take refuge on a near-by island where George
could repair the damage and procure gum from the spruce trees to cover
the patch.
Sunshine came with Sunday morning (August 23), and we dried our
blankets and camp outfit before starting forward, so that it was after
ten o'clock when we quit the island. Lake Hope proved to be long and
narrow, and we soon realised that it could not be Michikamau's
southeast bay; but at the western end we hoped to find a strait
connecting it with another lake, and as we approached the western end
with a feeling of uncertainty as to what lay beyond, George remarked:
"It's like goin' into a room where there's a Christmas tree."
Sure enough there was a strait, and as we turned into it, we saw beyond
big water stretching away to the westward for miles. "There's a
Christmas tree without a doubt," said Hubbard. We felt positive now
that this second lake was Michikamau's southeast bay, and we broke the
solemn stillness of the wilderness with three lusty cheers. It is
violating no confidence to say here that the second lake was not
Michikamau's southeast bay; it was simply the peculiarly-shaped body of
water that appears on my map under the name, Lost Trail Lake.
Two and a half miles up Lost Trail Lake we climbed a barren ridge,
where we found blueberries, mossberries and bake-apple berries. The
latter berry is salmon-coloured, and grows on a plant resembling that
of the strawberry. The berry itself resembles in form the raspberry,
and has a flavour like that of a baked apple, from which fact it
derives its name. It ripens after the first frost. The mossberry is
small and black, resembling in shape and size the blueberry, and is
sweet and palatable after being touched with frost. It is usually
found on the moss clinging to rocks. On the ridge it grew in
abundance, and we ate a great many. The blueberry of Labrador is
similar to the blueberry of the United States.
Some distance beyond where we got the berries we went into camp.
Trolling on the way, we caught a namaycush (lake trout), the first we
had seen on the trip. In our camp on Lost Trail Lake we were held all
of Monday (August 24) by a gale that beat the water into a fury. We
took advantage of the opportunity to try our gill net, sinking it on
the lee shore, but it was so rotten it would not hold a fish large
enough to get fast in it, and we finally threw it away as a useless
encumbrance.
In the course of the day Hubbard and climbed a hill not far away, while
I remained in camp to do some "chores." They found bake-apple berries
in abundance--the only spot we came across where they grew in any great
quantity--and had a good look at a lake we had previously sighted two
miles to the north. This lake was larger than the one we were on,
being about twenty-five miles long; it was, in fact, the largest body
of water by far that we had seen since leaving Grand Lake. Its size
impressed Hubbard with the fatal belief that it, rather than Lost Trail
Lake, was connected with Michikamau, and to it he decided to go. Our
experience there led us to call it Lake Disappointment.
We portaged into it on Tuesday morning (August 25). Our course was
over a neck of land which was mostly soft marsh partially covered with
spruce. We did not know then that in abandoning Lost Trail Lake for
Lake Disappointment we were wandering from the Indian trail to
Michikamau. Some Indians I met during the winter at Northwest River
Post told me that a river flowed out of the western end of Lost Trail
Lake into the very southeast bay of Lake Michikamau we were longing so
much to see. This was the trail. And we lost it.
We ate our luncheon on the southern shore of Lake Disappointment. That
afternoon and the next two days (August 26 and 27) we spent in paddling
about the lake in a vain search for a river. Thirty or more miles a
day we paddled, and found nothing but comparatively small creeks. One
of these we followed almost to its source, and then returned to the
lake again. We were living pretty well. While we were on these lakes
near the mountains we killed four geese and one spruce-grouse, and
caught about eighty half-pound trout, two two-pound namaycush and a
five-pound pike.
The pike we got in this unsportsmanlike manner: We were fishing for
trout in a creek that emptied into Lake Disappointment in a succession
of falls, and found that while there were some above the lower fall,
none could be induced to rise where the creek at the foot of the lower
fall made an ideal pool for them. We were lunching on a rock near this
pool when Hubbard suddenly remarked:
"There's only one reason why trout don't rise here."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Pike," he answered laconically, and left his luncheon to fasten a
trolling hook on his trout line. After he had fixed a piece of cork to
the line for a "bobber," he baited the hook with a small live trout and
dropped it into the pool. "Now we'll have a pike," said he.
Scarcely had he resumed his luncheon when the cork bobbed under, and he
grabbed his rod to find a big fish on the other end. He played it
around until it was near the shore, and as it arose to the surface I
put a pistol bullet through its head. Then Hubbard hauled in the line,
and he had our five-pound pike.
There were two occasions when we felt particularly like feasting. One
was when we were progressing with a clear course ahead and were happy,
and the other was when we were not sure of the way and were blue. That
night we were blue; so we had a feast of goose and pike. Hubbard
planked the pike, and it was excellent. All of our food was eaten now
without salt, but we were getting used to its absence.
After our feast Hubbard astonished George and me by taking out a new
pipe I had brought along to trade with the Indians, and filling it with
the red willow bark George and I had been mixing with our tobacco. We
watched him curiously as he lighted it; for, with the exception of a
puff or two on a cigarette, he had never smoked before. He finished
the pipe without flinching. I asked him how he liked it.
"Pretty good," he said. Then after a pause he added: "And I'll tell
you what; if ever I start out again on another expedition of this sort,
I am going to learn to smoke; watching you fellows makes me believe it
must be a great comfort."
George and I had been mixing red willow bark with our tobacco, because
our stock had become alarmingly low. In fact, it would have been
entirely gone had not Hubbard presented us with some black plug chewing
he had purchased at Rigolet to trade with the Indians. The plugs,
having been wet, had run together in one mass; but we dried it out
before the fire, and, mixed with the bark, it was not so bad. Later on
George and I took to drying out the tea leaves and mixing them with the
tobacco.
On Wednesday morning (August 26) when we left camp to continue the
search for a river, we decided to leave the caribou skin behind us; its
odour had become most offensive, and in spite of our efforts to keep
out the flies they had filled it with blows and it was now fairly
crawling with maggots. On Thursday when we were passing the same way,
George gave a striking example of his prescience. He was at the stern
paddle, and turned the canoe to the place where we had left the hide.
"What are you stopping for?" asked Hubbard.
"I thought I would get that caribou skin, wash it off, and take it
along," said George.
"What in the world do you expect to do with it?
"Well," answered George quietly, "we may want to eat it some day."
Hubbard and I both laughed. Nevertheless Hubbard jumped out of the
canoe with George and helped him wash the skin, and we took it along.
And, as George predicted, the day came when we were glad we did.
It was on Thursday night that, disgusted and weary, we gave up the
search for a river. Our camp was on the north shore of Lake
Disappointment, down near the western end. Hubbard now expressed the
opinion that we should have to portage north or northwest across
country. His idea was that by proceeding north we should eventually
reach the river that Low had mapped as flowing from Michikamau, the
so-called Northwest. If we reached the latitude in which the river was
supposed to be and could not find it, Hubbard's plan then called for
our turning directly west.
The situation that confronted us was serious. Hubbard had recently had
another attack of diarrhoea, and was weak. The patches we put on our
moccasins would last only a day or two, and we were practically
barefoot. Our rags were hanging in strips. Our venison was going
rapidly, and our flour was practically gone. To portage across country
meant that we should probably not have many opportunities for fishing,
as we should not have any stream to follow. Getting game had proved
uncertain. Even were we to face towards home, we had not sufficient
provisions to carry us half way to Northwest River Post.
That Thursday evening in camp we discussed the situation from all
sides. We knew that if we pressed on winter in all probability would
overtake us before we reached a post, but we decided that we should
fight our way on to Lake Michikamau and the George River. There was no
doubt about it, we were taking a long chance; nevertheless, we refused
to entertain the thought of turning back. Daring starvation, we should
on the morrow start overland and see what lay beyond the hills to the
northward. "Michikamau or Bust!" was still our slogan.
IX. AND THERE WAS MICHIKAMAU!
From the northwesterly end of Lake Disappointment we portaged on Friday
(August 28) across a neck of land to two small, shallow lakes that lay
to the northward, and in the teeth of a gale paddled to the northern
shore of the farther lake. There we went into camp for the day in
order that Hubbard might rest, as he was still weak from the effects of
his recent illness. We took advantage of the opportunity to patch up
our moccasins and clothing as best we could, and held a long
consultation, the outcome of which was, that it was decided that for
the present, at least, we should leave behind us our canoe and the bulk
of our camp equipment, including the tent, and push on with light
packs, consisting of one blanket for each man, an axe, the two pistols,
one rifle, and our stock of food.
Before us there apparently stretched miles of rough, rocky country. Our
equipment and stock of food at this time made up into four packs of
about 100 pounds each. The canoe, water-soaked and its crevices filled
with sand, must now have weighed nearly a hundred pounds. It was a
most awkward thing to carry over one's head when the wind blew, and
where there were rocks there was danger of the carrier falling and
breaking, not only the canoe, but his own bones. This meant that if
our entire outfit were taken along, practically every bit of land we
travelled would have to be covered twice. In leaving the canoe behind,
we, of course, should have to take chances on meeting intervening
lakes; but, once in the region of northern Michikamau, there seemed a
fair chance of our falling in with Indians that would take us down the
George River, and the advantages of light travel were obvious with
winter fast approaching.
The stock of food we had to carry would not weigh us down. The dried
venison had been reduced to a few pounds, so that we had to eat of it
sparingly and make our principal diet on boiled fish and the water in
which it was cooked. We had just a bit of flour, enough to serve bread
at rare intervals as a great dainty. Nothing remained of our caribou
tallow and marrow grease. It is true we held in reserve the "emergency
ration"; but this consisted only of eighteen pounds of pea meal, a pint
of rice, and a small piece of bacon. This ration we had pledged
ourselves to use only in case of the direst necessity, should we be
compelled to make a forced retreat, and we felt we must not think of it
at this time as food on hand.
In camp on Friday night I could see that Hubbard was worrying
considerably. Nervously active by habit, he found delay doubly hard.
The days we had spent on Lake Disappointment in a vain search for a
river had been particularly trying on his nerves, and had left him a
prey to many fears. The spectre of an early winter in this sub-Arctic
land began to haunt him constantly. The days were slipping away and
were becoming visibly shorter with each sunset. If we could get to the
Indians on the George, we should be safe; for they would give us warm
skins for clothing and replenish our stock of food. But should we meet
with more delays, and arrive on the George too late for the caribou
migration, and fail to find the Indians, what then? Well, then, our
fate would be sealed. Hubbard was the leader of the expedition and he
felt himself responsible, not only for his own life, but, to a large
extent, for ours. It is little wonder, therefore, that he brooded over
the possibilities of calamity, but with youth, ambition, and the ardent
spirit that never will say die, he invariably fought off his fears, and
bent himself more determinedly than ever to achieve the purpose for
which he had set out. Frequently he confided his fears to me, but was
careful to conceal all traces of them from George.
In light marching order we went out on Saturday morning (August 29),
making rapid progress to the northward, through a thick growth of small
spruce timber and over a low ridge; but scarcely had we gone a mile
when we were compelled to halt. There in front of us was a small lake
extending east and west. It was not more than an eighth of a mile
across it, but a long distance around it. Back we went for the canoe,
and at the same time brought forward the whole camp outfit. Again we
tried light marching order, and again a lake compelled us to go back
for the canoe and outfit. And thus it was all day: a stretch of a mile
or so; then a long, narrow lake to cross, until finally we were forced
to admit that our plan of proceeding with light packs and without the
canoe was impracticable.
Hubbard was feeling stronger on Saturday evening, and we had a pleasant
camp. George made a big fire of tamarack, and we lay before it on a
couch of spruce boughs and ate tough boiled venison and drank the
broth; and, feeling we had made some progress, we were happy, despite
the fact that we were in the midst of a trackless wilderness with our
way to Michikamau and the Indians as uncertain as ever.
Sunday morning (August 30) broke superbly beautiful, and the day
continued clear and mild. We made an early start; for every hour had
become precious. While we were doing this cross-country work without
any streams to guide us, it was George's custom to go ahead all the way
from half a mile to two miles and blaze a trail, so that when we were
travelling back and forth bringing up the packs and the canoe we might
not go astray. In the course of the morning we came to two small
lakes, which we paddled over.
We had believed that our goose chases were over; for these birds now
having grown their feathers, could fly, and were generally beyond the
reach of our pistols and the uncertain aim of a rifle at anything on
the wing. For two days we had heard them flying, and now and then
would see them high in the air. But while we were crossing one of the
small lakes this Sunday, five geese walked gravely down the bank and
into the water ahead of the canoe. One of them we got with a pistol
shot; the others flew away. In another lake we reached late in the day
we came upon five or six ducks. They were not far away, but dived so
frequently we were unable to shoot them with pistol or rifle. A
shotgun might have enabled us to get nearly all the geese as well as
the ducks and other game we saw on the wing and in the water on other
occasions. We often expressed the regret that we had no shotgun with
us. At one time Hubbard had intended that one should be taken, but
later decided that the ammunition would be too bulky.
A low, semi-barren ridge running east and west lay just beyond the
small blue-green lake in which we saw the ducks towards evening. About
seven miles beyond the ridge to the north was a short range of high,
barren mountains that were perhaps a trifle lower than the Kipling
Mountains. Upon ascending the ridge we heard the rushing of water on
the other side, which sound proved to come from a small fall on a
stream expanding and stretching out, to the eastward in long, narrow
lakes. Apparently these lakes were the headquarters of a small river
flowing to the southeast, and in all probability here was the source of
the Red River, which, as I have described, flows into the Nascaupee
some fifteen or eighteen miles above Grand Lake.
The whole character of the country had now changed. It was very rocky
and steadily growing more barren. Ridges and hills extended to the
mountains on the north. Great boulders were piled in confusion behind
us and in front of us. Portaging over them had been most difficult and
dangerous. A misstep might have meant a broken leg, and as it was, the
skin had been pretty nearly all knocked off of our shins from the
instep to the knee.
Below the fall we had discovered was a deep pool in which Hubbard
caught, with his emergency kit and a tamarack pole, twenty trout
averaging twelve inches in length. We camped near this pool. The hard
work of the day had brought on Hubbard another attack of his old
illness; apparently it was only by a great exertion of will-power that
he kept moving at all during the afternoon, and at night he was very
weak. Before supper he drank a cup of strong tea as a stimulant, and
was taken immediately with severe vomiting.
Watching his suffering, the thought came to me whether, disregarding
all other considerations, I should not at this point strongly insist on
the party turning back. I was aware, however, of the grim
determination of the man to get his work done, and was convinced of the
uselessness of any attempt to sway him from his purpose. Moreover, I
myself was hopeful of our ability to reach the caribou grounds; I felt
sure that Hubbard's grit would carry him through. Looking back now, I
can see I should have at least attempted to turn him back, but I am
still convinced it would have been useless. I thoroughly believe only
one thing would have turned the boy back at that time--force.
After this vomiting ceased, Hubbard said he felt better, but he ate
sparingly of the boiled fish we had for supper. George and I also felt
a bit weak, and our stomachs were continually crying out for bread or
some other grain food. As we reclined before the fire, Hubbard had
George tell us of various Indian dishes he had prepared. After he had
entered into these gastronomic details with great gusto, George
suddenly said:
"Wouldje believe it, fellus?--I once threw away a whole batch of
cookies."
"No!" we both cried.
"Fact," said George.
"For Heaven's sake," said Hubbard, "why did you do it?"
"Well," said George, "it was when I first went cookin' in a surveyor's
camp. The cookies wasn't as good as I thought they ought to be, and I
was so ashamed of 'em that I took the whole lot out and buried 'em.
Supposin'," added George, in an awed whisper, "supposin' we had 'em
now!"
"Why what in the world would you do with them?" asked Hubbard.
"Um!" grunted George. "Well, I guess we'd find a way to use 'em, all
right."
The story of the buried cookies started us all to talking of doughnuts,
and cake, and pie, and Hubbard extolled the merits of the chocolate
served at one of the New York hotels.
"Wallace," he at length asked, "do you like pig's knuckles?"
"I like," I replied, "anything that can be eaten."
"Well," confided Hubbard, "I know a place down on Park Row where they
serve the best pigs' knuckles you ever ate. I used to go there for
them when I was on the old Daily News. They cook them just right, and
serve a big plate of nice greasy cabbage or sauerkraut with them, and a
cup of pretty good coffee. We'll have to go there some time when we
get back."
And until it was time to go to sleep Hubbard continued to talk of the
good dinners he had eaten when a child and of those his wife had
recently prepared at his Congers home.
As he had decided that before proceeding farther we should know
something of the country that lay to the northward, Hubbard on Monday
morning (August 31) sent George on a scouting trip to the short range
of mountains just ahead. He and I planned to spend the day catching
and drying fish. For some reason the fish refused to rise near the
camp, and Hubbard, who was so weak he could hardly stand, returned to
lie down, while I went farther down the stream. Towards luncheon-time I
returned with only two or three small fish. Hubbard was still resting
in the tent, but soon after I had begun to repair my fishing rod by the
fire he came out and joined me.
"Oh, how glad I'll be, Wallace," he said, "to get to Michikamau and
finish my work here and get home again! I've been wondering when that
will be. I'm afraid," he added slowly, "I've been a bit homesick
to-day."
"We'll surely get there soon, old man," I said encouragingly, "and when
we do get there, we'll appreciate it more than ever. Just think how it
will be to eat good bread, and all we want of it." "Yes," he said, "and
then we'll be glad we came here, and can laugh at the recollection of
these terrible ridges, and the whole awful country, and the hard times
we've been through. I'm dead glad I had just you two fellows come with
me. If I'd had a single man that growled about the grub and work, or
wanted to quit, it would have been hell. But we haven't had a growl or
a word about quitting or turning back."
"There's no reason for quitting," said I. "And as for growling,
there's no call for it. We've done the best we could, and that's
enough to make any real man satisfied."
"That's so," said Hubbard. "Take things as they come and make the best
of them--that's good philosophy. I was thinking that here it is the
last of August, and we don't know where we are; and it bothered me some
as I lay there in the tent. But we've done our best and ought to be
satisfied."
In the afternoon I took my rod and went about three miles to the
westward, where I came upon an isolated pond with no apparent outlet.
Everywhere I could see the trout jumping, and by sundown had as long a
string of them as I could conveniently carry. It was an hour after
dark when I reached camp. George had returned, and they were beginning
to fear that I was lost.
George had climbed the mountains, and he reported a fair line of travel
to the northwest, with a "long lake that looked like a river," and,
some distance northwest of that, "big water" and a tolerably good route
for portages. What he told us led Hubbard to decide to continue on
with the canoe and our entire outfit. George brought back with him two
grouse he had shot.
The next morning (Tuesday, September 1) Hubbard was much better, and we
began September with a renewed effort. It was rough and painful
portaging over rocks and knolls. Every forty or fifty rods we came
upon deep ponds with water so clear we could see the pebbles on the
bottom. Between these ponds boulders were piled indiscriminately. In
directing our course to the northwest we avoided the mountains that had
lain just ahead. For two days we pushed on among the boulders, then
over a wide marsh and through a heavy spruce growth, which brought us,
on September 3d, to George's "lake that looked like a river." Let us
call it Mary Lake.
Along Lake Mary we paddled, in the pouring rain that began that day,
some five miles to its western end; and there, near a creek that flowed
into it, we found the remains of an old Indian camp. George looked the
camp over critically and remarked:
"The beggars killed two caribou, and they broke every bone up and
boiled out the last drop of grease."
"What was it--a summer or a winter camp?" asked Hubbard.
"A summer," said George. "And they'd been fishing, too. There's a
good fishing place--just try it!"
We did try it, and we had a fairly good catch of large trout. For
supper we had a few of the trout boiled, together with the water, with
one spoonful of flour for each man stirred in. We ate the fish entire,
entrails, head, and all, and from that time on we let no part of the
fish we caught be thrown away. Everything now in the way of food
George divided carefully into three equal parts, even the fish broth.
By this time we had not enough flour on hand to make more than half a
dozen cakes of bread, and we continued to use only a spoonful or two a
day for each man, mixing it with game or fish broth; in this way we
hoped it would satisfy to some extent our craving for grain, and last
longer.
As evening approached the sky cleared, and a big full moon tipped the
fir trees with silver and set Lake Mary to gleaming. The air was
filled with the perfume of the balsam and spruce, and it acted as a
tonic on our spirits and drove away the depression of the day's work in
the rain. Hubbard seemed to be as full of vim as ever, and all of us
were quite contented.
Sitting on the couch of boughs, George looked up at the sky and said:
"There's a fine Indian story about that moon."
Of course Hubbard and I begged that he tell it to us.
"Well," said George, "it's a long story about a boy and girl that lived
together in a wigwam by a great water. Their father and mother were
dead, and the boy had learned to be a great hunter, because he had to
hunt for them both, though he was young. One day he found a tree that
was very high, and he climbed it, and told his sister to climb it with
him; and they climbed higher and higher, and as they climbed, the tree
grew taller and taller; and after a while they reached the moon. And
then the boy laid down to sleep, and after a while he woke up with a
bright light shinin' in his face--it was the sun passin' 'long that
way. The boy said he would set a snare for the sun and catch it, and
the next night he had his snare set when the sun came 'long, and he
caught the sun, and then it was always bright on the moon.
"There's a lot more to that story," added George, after a pause, "and
I'll tell it to you some time; but it's too long and too late to tell
it to-night."
Unfortunately we never heard the continuation of the tale. George
often hinted at interesting folklore stories about the milky way and
different stars, and various other things in nature; but this was the
nearest approach to a story we ever wrung from him.
From our last camp on Lake Disappointment to our camp at the western
end of Lake Mary we had travelled about twenty-five miles. In leaving
the latter camp on September 4th we inclined our course directly west,
to reach the "big water" George had seen from his mountain. During the
next four days we encountered bad weather. As evening came on the sky
would clear and remain clear until morning, when the clouds and rain
would reappear. On the 4th there was sleet with the rain, and on the
6th we had our first snow, which soon was washed away, however, by rain.
Our progress on the 4th was along the edge of a marsh between two low,
wooded ridges, and then over the marsh and through several ponds, upon
the shore of one of which we camped early in order that George might
climb a hill, view the country and decide upon the shortest and best
route to the "big water." He reported it about three miles ahead.
It had been our rule to defer our bathing until the evening's chill had
quieted the flies, but now there was no need of that, as the colder
weather had practically killed them for the season. About this time I
noticed that Hubbard did not take his usual bath, and I remarked:
"The weather is getting pretty cold for bathing in the open, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Hubbard; "but I wouldn't let that stop me if I weren't
ashamed of my bones. To tell you the truth, Wallace, I'm like a
walking skeleton."
It was true. We were all very thin, but our lack of food told upon
Hubbard's appearance the most, as he was naturally slender.
The "big water" George thought was only three miles away proved to be
like the wisp of hay that is held before the donkey's nose to lead him
on. Day after day we floundered through swamps and marshes, over
rocky, barren hills, and through thick growths of willows and alders,
and at the end of the day's journey it would apparently be as far off
as ever. The explanation was that in the rarefied atmosphere of
interior Labrador distances are very deceptive; when George reported
that the "big water" was three miles ahead it must have been fully
fifteen.
On the 5th, while crossing the barrens we came upon some blueberries
and after eating our fill we were able to gather enough to supply each
man with a big dish of them for supper. We were working our way over
some bluffs on the afternoon of the 6th, when George, who was carrying
the canoe, became separated from Hubbard and me. The wind was blowing
hard, and he had difficulty in keeping the boat above his head.
Suddenly I heard a call, and, looking back, saw George running after
me, empty-handed. Hubbard did not hear the call, and went on. I
dropped my pack, and waited for George to come up.
"You fellus better wait for me," he panted. "I can't manage the canoe
alone in the wind, and if we get separated, I might strike the lake one
place and you somewhere else. And," added George, sententiously, "you
fellus have got the grub."
We shouted to Hubbard to wait, and when he answered, George and I
returned for the canoe. Hubbard, however, kept on, and George and I
carried the canoe ahead until we reached the thick woods into which he
had disappeared; then George went back for my pack. Presently we heard
Hubbard call from the depths of the woods, and a little later the sound
of an axe.
As we learned later, he had dropped his pack, and was blazing a trail
towards us in order that he might find it again. He was as nervous as
George had been over his narrow escape from being permanently separated
from the rest of the party, and at a time when such a happening would
have had serious consequences for us all. Under the best of
circumstances, the prospect of being left alone in the midst of that
inhospitable wilderness was enough to appal.
On the 7th we reached a creek, and launched the canoe. Hubbard went
ahead to fish below the rapids in the creek while George and I brought
down the canoe and outfit, making several short portages. That night we
camped two miles down the stream. Hubbard had caught, by hard work,
thirty small trout, half of which we ate for supper.
We were still ravenously hungry after we finished the trout, but the
bag contained only one more meal of venison and we did not dare draw on
it. This, together with the difficulty we were having in reaching the
"big water," set Hubbard to worrying again. He was especially anxious
about the sufficiency of the material he had gathered for a story,
fearing that if he failed to reach the caribou grounds there would not
be enough to satisfy his publishers. I told him I thought he already
had enough for a "bang-up" story.
"Anyway," I said, "we'll reach the caribou grounds, and see the Indians
yet. George and I will go with you to the last ditch; you can count on
us to the finish."
"All right," said Hubbard, evidently relieved. "If you boys aren't
sick of it, it's on to the caribou grounds, late or no late. But I
feel I've got you fellows in a tight place."
"We came with our eyes open," I replied, "and it's not your fault."
On the morning of September 8th, following our stream out to a shoal,
rocky bay, we reached the "big water" at last. It was the great body
of water that I have mapped out as Windbound Lake. Forty miles we had
portaged from Lake Disappointment. We were practically out of food of
any kind. Looking over the great expanse of water stretching miles
away to the westward, we wondered what our new lake had in store for us
of hope and success, of failure and, despair. Would it lead us to
Michikamau? If not, what were we to do?
On its farther shore, about twenty miles to the northwest, rose in
solemn majesty a great, grey mountain, holding its head high above all
the surrounding world. It shall be known as Mount Hubbard. To this
mountain we decided to paddle and view the country. Instinctively we
felt that Michikamau lay on the other side. We launched our canoe
after a light luncheon of trout and a small ptarmigan George had shot.
Once in the course of the afternoon we stopped paddling to climb a low
ridge near the shore and eat cranberries, which we found in abundance
on its barren top. From the ridge we could see water among the hills
in every direction. In the large lake at our feet were numerous wooded
islands.
We camped at dusk on one of these islands, and on Wednesday, September
9th, launched our canoe at daybreak, to resume our journey to Mount
Hubbard. We reached its base before ten o'clock. Blueberries grew in
abundance on the side of the mountain, which, together with the country
near it, had been burned. One of us, it was decided, should remain
behind to pick berries, while the others climbed to the summit. I
volunteered for the berrypicking, but I shall always regret it was not
possible for me to go along.
Before Hubbard and George returned, I had our mixing basin filled with
berries, and the kettle half full. The day was clear, crisp and
delightful--one of those perfect days when the atmosphere is so pure
and transparent that minute objects can be distinguished for miles. On
the earth and on the water, not a thing of life was to be seen. The
lake, relieved here and there with green island-spots; the cold rocks
of distant mountains to the northeast; the low, semi-barren ridges and
hills that we had travelled over bounding the lake to the eastward, and
a ridge of green hills west of the lake that extended southward from
behind Mount Hubbard as far as the eye could reach--all combined to
complete a scene of vast and solemn beauty; and I, alone on the
mountain side picking blueberries, felt an inexpressible sense of
loneliness--felt myself the only thing of life in all that boundless
wilderness-world.
From the moment Hubbard and George had left me, I had not seen or heard
them. But up the mountain they went through the burnt spruce forest,
up for four miles over rocks, up and up to the top; and then to the
westernmost side of the peak they went and looked--looked to the West;
and there, only a few miles away, lay Michikamau with its ninety-mile
expanse of water--the lake we so long had sought for and fought so
desperately to reach. It was there, just beyond the ridge I had seen
extending to the southward.
X. PRISONERS OF THE WIND
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun was getting low,
that I, near the base of the mountain and still industriously picking
berries, heard a shout from Hubbard and George at the canoe on the
shore of the lake below. I was anxious to hear the result of their
journey, and hurried down.
"It's there! it's there!" shouted Hubbard, as I came within talking
distance. "Michikamau is there, just behind the ridge. We saw the big
water; we saw it!"
In our great joy we fairly hugged each other, while George stood apart
with something of Indian stoicism, but with a broad grin, nevertheless,
expanding his good-natured features. We felt that Windbound Lake must
be directly connected with Michikamau, and that we were now within easy
reach of the caribou grounds and a land of plenty. It is true that
from the mountain top Hubbard and George had been unable to trace out
the connection, as Windbound Lake was so studded with islands, and had
so many narrow arms reaching out in the various directions between low,
thickly-wooded ridges, that their view of the waters between them and
Michikamau was more or less obscured; but they had no doubt that the
connection was there.
"And," added Hubbard, after I had heard all about the great discovery,
"good things never come singly. Look there!"
I looked where he pointed, and there on the rocks near George's feet
lay a pile of ptarmigans and one small rabbit. I picked them up and
counted them with nervous joy; there were nine--nine ptarmigans, and
the rabbit.
"You see," said Hubbard reverently, "God always gives us food when we
are really in great need, and He'll carry us through that way; in the
wilderness He'll send us manna." On similar occasions in the past
Hubbard had made like remarks to this, and he continued to make them on
similar occasions in the future. Invariably they were made with a
simplicity that robbed them of all cant; they came from the man's real
nature.
While George dressed three of the birds, Hubbard and I built a fire on
the rocks by the shore. Since early morning, when we had a breakfast
of thin soup made with three thin slices of bacon and three spoonfuls
of flour, we had had nothing to eat, and our hunger was such, that
while dinner was cooking, we each took the entrails of a bird, wrapped
them as George told us the Indians did, on the end of a stick, broiled
them over the fire and ate them greedily. And when the ptarmigans were
boiled what a glorious feast we had! In using a bit of bacon for soup
in the morning we had drawn for the first time on our "emergency
ration"--the situation seemed to warrant it; nevertheless, we were as
bent as ever on hoarding this precious little stock of food.
At five o'clock we paddled up the lake to the northeast, to begin our
search for the connection with Michikamau. Hubbard dropped a troll as
we proceeded, and caught two two-pound namaycush, which, when we went
into camp at dusk on a small island, George boiled entire, putting into
the pot just enough flour to give the water a milky appearance. With
this supper we had some of the blueberries stewed, and Hubbard said
they would have been the "real thing if we only had a little sugar for
them."
All day on September 10th we continued our search for the connection
with Michikamau, finally directing our course to the southwest where a
mountain seemed to offer a view of the waters in that direction. It
was dark when we reached its base, and we went into camp preparatory to
climbing to the summit in the morning. We had been somewhat delayed by
wind squalls that made canoeing dangerous, and before we made camp rain
began to fall. We caught no fish on the troll that day, but Hubbard
shot a large spruce-grouse. At our evening meal we ate the last of our
ptarmigans and rabbit.
"George," said Hubbard, after we had eaten our supper, "you have a few
more of mother's dried apples there. How would it be to stew them
to-night, and stir in a little flour to thicken them? Wouldn't they
thicken up better if you were to cook them to-night and let them stand
until morning?"
"Guess they would," replied George. "There ain't many of 'em here.
Shall I put them all to cook?
"Yes," said Hubbard, "put them all to cook, and we'll eat them for
breakfast with that small trout Wallace caught and the two ptarmigan
entrails."
In the morning (September 11th) we drew lots for the trout, and George
won. So he took the fish, and Hubbard and I each an entrail, and, with
the last of the apples before us that Hubbard's mother had dried, sat
down to breakfast.
"How well," said Hubbard, "I remember the tree on the old Michigan farm
from which these apples came! And now," he added, "I'm eating
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