Y."s guide is Sousi King Beaulieu (for pedigree, see Warburton Pike); he knows all this country well and gave us much information about the route. He says that this year the Caribou cows went north as usual, but the bulls did not. The season was so late they did not think it worth while; they are abundant yet at Artillery Lake.
He recognised me as the medicine man, and took an early opportunity of telling me what a pain he had. Just where, he was not sure, but it was hard to bear; he would like some sort of a pain-killer.
Evidently he craved a general exhilarator. Next morning we got away at 7 A. M. after the usual painful scene about getting up in the middle of the night, which was absurd, as there was no night.
Next afternoon we pa.s.sed the Great White Fall at the mouth of h.o.a.r Frost River; the Indians call it Dezza Kya. If this is the Beverly Falls of Back, his ill.u.s.trator was without information; the published picture bears not the slightest resemblance to it.
At three in the afternoon of July 27th, the twelfth day after we had set out on the "three or four day run" from Resolution, this exasperating and seemingly interminable voyage really did end, and we thankfully beached our York boat at the famous lobstick that marks the landing of Pike"s Portage.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE LYNX AT BAY
One of the few rewarding episodes of this voyage took place on the last morning, July 27. We were half a mile from Charleston Harbour when one of the Indians said "Cheesay" (Lynx) and pointed to the south sh.o.r.e. There, on a bare point a quarter mile away, we saw a large Lynx walking quietly along. Every oar was dropped and every rifle seized, of course, to repeat the same old scene; probably it would have made no difference to the Lynx, but I called out: "Hold on there! I"m going after that Cheesay."
Calling my two reliables, Preble and Billy, we set out in the canoe, armed, respectively, with a shotgun, a club, and a camera.
When we landed the Lynx was gone. We hastily made a skirmishing line in the wood where the point joined the mainland, but saw no sign of him, so concluded that he must be hiding on the point. Billy took the right sh.o.r.e, Preble the left, I kept the middle. Then we marched toward the point but saw nothing. There were no bushes except a low thicket of spruce, some 20 feet across and 3 or 4 feet high. This was too dense to penetrate standing, so I lay down on my breast and proceeded to crawl in under the low boughs. I had not gone six feet before a savage growl warned me back, and there, just ahead, crouched the Lynx. He glared angrily, then rose up, and I saw, with a little shock, that he had been crouching on the body of another Lynx, eating it. Photography was impossible there, so I took a stick and poked at him; he growled, struck at the stick, but went out, then dashed across the open for the woods. As he went I got photograph No. 1. Now I saw the incredible wonder I had heard of--a good runner can outrun a Lynx. Preble was a sprinter, and before the timber 200 yards off was reached that Lynx was headed and turned; and Preble and Billy were driving him back into my studio. He made several dashes to escape, but was out-manoeuvred and driven onto the far point, where he was really between the devils and the deep sea. Here he faced about at bay, growling furiously, thumping his little bobtail from side to side, and pretending he was going to spring on us. I took photo No. 2 at 25 yards. He certainly did look very fierce, but I thought I knew the creature, as well as the men who were backing me. I retired, put a new film in place, and said:
"Now, Preble, I"m going to walk up to that Lynx and get a close photo. If he jumps for me, and he may, there is nothing can save my beauty but you and that gun."
Preble with characteristic loquacity says, "Go ahead."
Then I stopped and began slowly approaching the desperate creature we held at bay. His eyes were glaring green, his ears were back, his small bobtail kept twitching from side to side, and his growls grew harder and hissier, as I neared him. At 15 feet he gathered his legs under him as for a spring, and I pressed the b.u.t.ton getting, No. 3.
Then did the demon of ambition enter into my heart and lead me into peril. That Lynx at bay was starving and desperate. He might spring at me, but I believed that if he did he never would reach me alive. I knew my man--this nerved me--and I said to him: "I"m not satisfied; I want him to fill the finder. Are you ready?"
"Yep."
So I crouched lower and came still nearer, and at 12 feet made No.
4. For some strange reason, now the Lynx seemed less angry than he had been.
"He didn"t fill the finder; I"ll try again," was my next. Then on my knees I crawled up, watching the finder till it was full of Lynx. I glanced at the beast; he was but 8 feet away. I focused and fired.
And now, oh, wonder! that Lynx no longer seemed annoyed; he had ceased growling and simply looked bored.
Seeing it was over, Preble says, "Now where does he go? To the Museum?"
"No, indeed!" was the reply. "He surely has earned his keep; turn him loose. It"s back to the woods for him." We stood aside; he saw his chance and dashed for the tall timber. As he went I fired the last film, getting No. 6; and so far as I know that Lynx is alive and well and going yet.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LAST OF THAT INDIAN CREW
Carved on the lobstick of the Landing were many names famous in the annals of this region, Pike, Maltern, McKinley, Munn, Tyrrel among them. All about were evidences of an ancient and modern camp--lodge poles ready for the covers, relics and wrecks of all sorts, fragments of canoes and sleds, and the inevitable stray Indian dog.
First we made a meal, of course; then I explained to the crew that I wanted all the stuff carried over the portage, 31 miles, to the first lake. At once there was a row; I was used to that. There had been a row every morning over getting up, and one or two each day about other details. Now the evil face of Beaulieu showed that his tongue was at work again. But I knew my lesson.
"You were brought to man the boat and bring my stuff over this portage. So do it and start right now."
They started 3 1/4 miles with heavy loads, very heavy labour I must admit, back then in four hours to make another meal, and camp.
Next morning another row before they would get up and take each another load. But canoe and everything were over by noon. And then came the final scene.
In all the quarrels and mutinies, old Weeso had been faithful to me. Freesay had said little or nothing, and had always worked well and cheerfully. Weeso was old and weak, Freesay young and strong, and therefore he was the one for our canoe. I decided it would pay to subsidise Weeso to resign in favour of the younger man. But, to be sure, first asked Freesay if he would like to come with me to the land of the Musk-ox. His answer was short and final, "Yes,"
but he could not, as his uncle had told him not to go beyond this portage. That settled it. The childlike obedience to their elders is admirable, but embarra.s.sing at times.
So Weeso went after all, and we got very well acquainted on that long trip. He was a nice old chap. He always meant well; grinned so happily, when he was praised, and looked so glum when he was scolded. There was little of the latter to do; so far as he knew, he did his best, and it is a pleasure now to conjure up his face and ways. His cheery voice, at my tent door every morning, was the signal that Billy had the breakfast within ten minutes of ready.
"Okimow, To" (Chief, here is water), he would say as he set down the water for my bath and wondered what in the name of common sense should make the Okimow need washing every morning. He himself was of a cleaner kind, having needed no bath during the whole term of our acquaintance.
There were two peculiarities of the old man that should make him a good guide for the next party going northward. First, he never forgot a place once he had been there, and could afterward go to it direct from any other place. Second, he had the most wonderful nose for firewood; no keen-eyed raven or starving wolf could go more surely to a marrow-bone in cache, than could Weeso to the little sticks in far away hollows or granite clefts. Again and again, when we landed on the level or rocky sh.o.r.e and all hands set out to pick up the few pencil-thick stems of creeping birch, roots of annual plants, or wisps of gra.s.s to boil the kettle, old Weeso would wander off by himself and in five minutes return with an armful of the most amazingly acceptable firewood conjured out of the absolutely timberless, unpromising waste. I never yet saw the camp where he could not find wood. So he proved good stuff; I was glad we had brought him along.
And I was equally glad now to say good-bye to the rest of the crew.
I gave them provisions for a week, added a boiling of beans, and finally the wonderful paper in which I stated the days they had worked for me, and the kind of service they had rendered, commended Freesay, and told the truth about Beaulieu.
"Dat paper tell about me," said that worthy suspiciously.
"Yes," I said, "and about the others; and it tells Harding to pay you as agreed."
We all shook hands and parted. I have not seen them since, nor do I wish to meet any of them again, except Freesay.
My advice to the next traveller would be: get white men for the trip and one Indian for guide. When alone they are manageable, and some of them, as seen already, are quite satisfactory, but the more of them the worse. They combine, as Pike says, the meanest qualities of a savage and an unscrupulous moneylender. The worst one in the crowd seems most readily followed by the others.
CHAPTER XXVIII
GEOLOGICAL FORCES AT WORK
It seems to me that never before have I seen the geological forces of nature so obviously at work. Elsewhere I have seen great valleys, cliffs, islands, etc., held on good evidence to be the results of such and such powers formerly very active; but here on the Athabaska I saw daily evidence of these powers in full blast, ripping, tearing reconstructing, while we looked on.
All the way down the river we saw the process of undermining the bank, tearing down the trees to whirl them again on distant northern sh.o.r.es, thus widening the river channel until too wide for its normal flood, which in time, drops into a deeper restricted channel, in the wide summer waste of gravel and sand.
Ten thousand landslides take place every spring, contributing their tons of mud to the millions that the river is deporting to the broad catch basins called the Athabaska and Great Slave Lakes.
Many a tree has happened to stand on the very crack that is the upmost limit of the slide and has in consequence been ripped in two.