The Arctic Prairies Part 18

Many an island is wiped out and many a one made in these annual floods. Again and again we saw the evidence of some island, continued long enough to raise a spruce forest, suddenly receive a 6-foot contribution from its erratic mother; so the trees were buried to the arm-pits. Many times I saw where some frightful jam of ice had planed off all the trees; then a deep overwhelming layer of mud had buried the stumps and grown in time a new spruce forest. Now the mighty erratic river was tearing all this work away again, exposing all its history.

In the delta of the Slave, near Fort Resolution, we saw the plan of delta work. Millions of tons of mud poured into the deep translucent lake have filled it for miles, so that it is scarcely deep enough to float a canoe; thousands of huge trees, stolen from the upper forest, are here stranded as wing-dams that check the current and hold more mud. Rushes grow on this and catch more mud. Then the willows bind it more, and the sawing down of the outlet into the Mackenzie results in all this mud being left dry land.

This is the process that has made all the lowlands at the mouth of Great Slave and Athabaska Rivers. And the lines of tree trunks to-day, preparing for the next constructive annexation of the lake, are so regular that one's first thought is that this is the work of man. But these are things that my sketches and photographs will show better than words.

When later we got onto the treeless Barrens or Tundra, the process was equally evident, though at this time dormant, and the chief agent was not running water, but the giant Jack Frost.

CHAPTER XXIX

PIKE'S PORTAGE

Part of my plan was to leave a provision cache every hundred miles, with enough food to carry us 200 miles, and thus cover the possibility of considerable loss. I had left supplies at Chipewyan, Smith, and Resolution, but these were settlements; now we were pushing off into the absolute wilderness, where it was unlikely we should see any human beings but ourselves. Now, indeed, we were facing all primitive conditions. Other travellers have made similar plans for food stores, but there are three deadly enemies to a cache--weather, ravens, and wolverines., I was prepared for all three. Water-proof leatheroid cases were to turn the storm, dancing tins and lines will scare the ravens, and each cache tree was made unclimbable to Wolverines by the addition of a necklace of charms in the form of large fish-hooks, all nailed on with points downward. This idea, borrowed from, Tyrrell, has always proved a success; and not one of our caches was touched or injured.

Tyrrell has done much for this region; his name will ever be linked with its geography and history. His map of the portage was a G.o.dsend, for now we found that our guide had been here only once, and that when he was a child, with many resultant lapses of memory and doubts about the trail. My only wonder was that he remembered as much as he did.

Here we had a sudden and unexpected onset of black flies; they appeared for the first time in numbers, and attacked us with a ferocity that made the mosquitoes seem like a lot of baby b.u.t.terflies in comparison. However, much as we may dislike the latter, they at least do not poison us or convey disease (as yet), and are repelled by thick clothing. The black flies attack us like some awful pestilence walking in darkness, crawling in and forcing themselves under our clothing, stinging and poisoning as they go. They are, of course, worst near the openings in our armour, that is necks, wrists, and ankles. Soon each of us had a neck like an old fighting bull walrus; enormously swollen, corrugated with bloats and wrinkles, blotched, b.u.mpy, and b.l.o.o.d.y, as disgusting as it was painful. All too closely it simulated the ravages of some frightful disease, and for a night or two the torture of this itching fire kept me from sleeping. Three days, fortunately, ended the black fly reign, and left us with a deeper sympathy for the poor Egyptians who on account of their own or some other bodies' sins were the victims of "plagues of flies."

But there was something in the camp that amply offset these annoyances; this was a spirit of kindness and confidence. Old Weeso was smiling and happy, ready at all times to do his best; his blundering about the way was not surprising, all things considered, but his mistakes did not matter, since I had Tyrrell's admirable maps. Billy, st.u.r.dy, strong, reliable, never needed to be called twice in the morning.

No matter what the hour, he was up at once and cooking the breakfast in the best of style, for an A 1 cook he was. And when it came to the portages he would shoulder his 200 or 250 pounds each time.

Preble combined the mental force of the educated white man with the brawn of the savage, and although not supposed to do it, he took the same sort of loads as Billy did. Mine, for the best of reasons, were small, and consisted chiefly of the guns, cameras, and breakables, or occasionally, while they were transporting the heavy stuff, I acted as cook. But all were literally and figuratively in the same boat, all paddled all day, ate the same food worked the same hours, and imbued with the same spirit were eager to reach the same far goal. From this on the trip was ideal.

We were 3 1/2 days covering the 8 small lakes and 9 portages (30 miles) that lie between the two great highways, Great Slave Lake and Artillery Lake; and camped on the sh.o.r.e of the latter on the night of July 31.

Two of these 9 lakes had not been named by the original explorers.

I therefore exercised my privilege and named them, respectively, "Lout.i.t" and "Weeso," in honour of my men.

The country here is cut up on every side with caribou trails; deep worn like the buffalo trails on the plains, with occasional horns and bones; these, however, are not so plentiful as were the relics of the Buffalo. This, it proved, was because the Caribou go far north at horn-dropping time, and they have practically no bones that the Wolves cannot crush with their teeth.

Although old tracks were myriad-many, there were no new ones. Weeso said, however, "In about four days the sh.o.r.es of this lake will be alive with Caribou." It will show the erratic nature of these animals when I say that the old man was all wrong; they did not appear there in numbers until many weeks later, probably not for two months.

Here, at the foot of Artillery Lake, we were near the last of the timber, and, strange to say, we found some trees of remarkably large growth. One, a tamarac, was the largest and last seen; the other, a spruce--Pike's Lobstick--was 55 inches in girth, 1 foot from the ground.

At this camp Weeso complained that he was feeling very sick; had pains in his back. I could not make out what was the matter with him, but Billy said sagaciously, "I think if you give him any kind of a pill he will be all right. It doesn't matter what, so long as it's a pill."

Of course "cathartic" is good blind play in case of doubt. He got a big, fierce rhubarb, and all went well.

CHAPTER x.x.x

CARIBOU-LAND AT LAST

On the morning of August 1 we launched on Artillery Lake, feeling, for the tenth time, that now we really were on the crowning stretch of our journey, that at last we were entering the land of the Caribou.

Over the deep, tranquil waters of the lake we went, scanning the painted sh.o.r.es with their dwindling remnants of forest. There is something inspiring about the profundity of transparency in these lakes, where they are 15 feet deep their bottoms are no more obscured than in an ordinary eastern brook at 6 inches. On looking down into the far-below world, one gets the sensation of flight as one skims overhead in the swift canoe. And how swift that elegant canoe was in a clear run I was only now finding out. All my previous estimates had been too low. Here I had the absolute gauge of Tyrrell's maps and found that we four paddling could send her, not 3 1/2, but 4 1/2 or 5 miles an hour, with a possibility of 6 when we made an effort. As we spun along the south-east coast of the lake, the country grew less rugged; the continuous steep granite hills were replaced by lower b.u.t.tes with long gra.s.sy plains between; and as I took them in, I marvelled at their name--the Barrens; bare of trees, yes, but the plains were covered with rich, rank gra.s.s, more like New England meadows. There were stretches where the herbage was rank as on the Indiana prairies, and the average pasture of the bleaker parts was better than the best of central Wyoming. A cattleman of the West would think himself made if he could be sure of such pastures on his range, yet these are the Barren Grounds.

At 3 we pa.s.sed the splendid landmark of Beaver Lodge Mountain. Its rosy-red granite cliffs contrast wonderfully with its emerald cap of verdant gra.s.s and mosses, that cover it in tropical luxuriance, and the rippling lake about it was of Mediterranean hues.

We covered the last 9 miles in 1 hour and 53 minutes, pa.s.sed the deserted Indian village, and landed at Last Woods by 8.30 P. M.

The edge of the timber is the dividing line between the Hudsonian and the Arctic zones, It is the beginning of the country we had come to see; we were now in the land of the Caribou.

At this point we were prepared to spend several days, leave a cache, gather a bundle of choice firewood, then enter on the treeless plains.

That night it stormed; all were tired; there was no reason to bestir ourselves; it was 10 when we arose. Half an hour later Billy came to my tent and said, "Mr. Seton, here's some deer." I rushed to the door, and there, with my own eyes, I saw on a ridge a mile away four great, Caribou standing against the sky.

We made for a near hill and met Preble returning; he also had seen them. From a higher view-point the 4 proved part of a band of 120.

Then other bands came in view, 16, 61, 3, 200, and so on; each valley had a scattering few, all travelling slowly southward or standing to enjoy the cool breeze that ended the torment of the flies. About 1,000 were in sight. These were my first Caribou, the first fruits of 3,000 miles of travel.

Weeso got greatly excited; these were the forerunners of the vast herd. He said, "Plenty Caribou now," and grinned like a happy child.

I went in one direction, taking only my camera. At least 20 Caribou trotted within 50 feet of me.

Billy and Weeso took their rifles intent on venison, but the Caribou avoided them and 6 or 8 shots were heard before they got a young buck.

All that day I revelled in Caribou, no enormous herds but always a few in sight.

The next day Weeso and I went to the top ridge eastward. He with rifle, I with camera. He has a vague idea of the camera's use, but told Billy privately that "the rifle was much better for Caribou."

He could not understand why I should restrain him from blazing away as long as the ammunition held out. "Didn't we come to shoot?" But he was amenable to discipline, and did as I wished when he understood.

Now on the top of that windy ridge I sat with this copper-coloured child of the spruce woods, to watch these cattle of the plains.

The Caribou is a travelsome beast, always in a hurry, going against the wind. When the wind is west, all travel west; when it veers, they veer. Now the wind was northerly, and all were going north, not walking, not galloping--the Caribou rarely gallops, and then only for a moment or two; his fast gait is a steady trot a 10-mile gait, making with stops about 6 miles an hour. But they are ever on the move; when you see a Caribou that does not move, you know at once it is not a Caribou; it's a rock.

We sat down on the hill at 3. In a few minutes a cow Caribou came trotting from the south, caught the wind at 50 yards, and dashed away.

In 5 minutes another, in 20 minutes a young buck, in 20 minutes more a big buck, in 10 minutes a great herd of about 500 appeared in the south. They came along at full trot, lined to pa.s.s us on the southeast. At half a mile they struck our scent and all recoiled as though we were among them. They scattered in alarm, rushed south again, then, gathered in solid body, came on as before, again to spring back and scatter as they caught the taint of man. After much and various running, scattering, and ma.s.sing, they once more charged the fearsome odour and went right through it. Now they pa.s.sed at 500 yards and gave the chance for a far camera shot.

The sound of their trampling was heard a long way off--half a mile--but at 300 yards I could not distinguish the clicking of the feet, whereas this clicking was very plainly to be heard from the band that pa.s.sed within 50 yards of me in the morning.

They snort a good deal and grunt a little, and, notwithstanding their continual haste, I noticed that from time to time one or two would lie down, but at once jump up and rush on when they found they were being left behind. Many more single deer came that day, but no more large herds.

About 4.30 a fawn of this year (2 1/2 or 3 months) came rushing up from the north, all alone. It charged up a hill for 200 yards, then changed its mind and charged down again, then raced to a bunch of tempting herbage, cropped it hastily, dashed to a knoll, left at an angle, darted toward us till within 40 yards, then dropped into a thick bed of gra.s.s, where it lay as though it had unlimited time.

I took one photograph, and as I crawled to get one nearer, a shot pa.s.sed over my head, and the merry cackle told me that Weeso had yielded to temptation and had 'collected' that fawn.

A young buck now came trotting and grunting toward us till within 16 paces, which proved too much for Weeso, who then and there, in spite of repeated recent orders, started him on the first step toward my museum collection.

I scolded him angrily, and he looked glum and unhappy, like a naughty little boy caught in some indiscretion which he cannot understand.