The Arctic Prairies Part 26

CHAPTER XLVI

BRIGHT AGAIN

In an hour the other men came, back. The rest of the day we put in drying the things, especially our bedding. We used the aluminum bottle, and an old meat tin for kettle; some bacon, happily saved, was fried on sticks, and when we turned in that night it was with light and thankful hearts, in spite of our manifold minor losses.

Morning dawned bright and beautiful and keen. How glorious that surging river looked in its n.o.ble canyon; but we were learning thoroughly that n.o.ble scenery means dangerous travel--and there was much n.o.ble scenery ahead; and I, at least, felt much older than before this upset.

The boys put in a couple of hours repairing the canoe, then they studied the river in hopes of recovering the guns. How well the river-men seemed to know it! Its every ripple and curl told them a story of the bottom and the flood.

"There must be a ledge there," said Billy, "just where we upset.

If the guns went down at once they are there. If they were carried at all, the bottom is smooth to the second ledge and they are there." He pointed a hundred yards away.

So they armed themselves with grappling-poles that had nails for claws. Then we lowered Rob in the canoe into the rapid and held on while he fished above the ledge.

"I tink I feel 'em," said Rob, again and again, but could not bring them up. Then Billy tried.

"Yes, they are there." But the current was too fierce and the hook too poor; he could not hold them.

Then I said: "There is only one thing to do. A man must go in at the end of the rope; maybe he can reach down. I'll never send any man into such a place, but I'll go myself."

So I stripped, padded the track-line with a towel and put it around my waist, then plunged in. Ouch! it was cold, and going seven miles an hour. The boys lowered me to the spot where I was supposed to dive or reach down. It was only five feet deep, but, struggle as I might, I could not get even my arm down. I ducked and dived, but I was held in the surface like a pennant on an air-blast. In a few minutes the icy flood had robbed me of all sensation in my limbs, and showed how impossible was the plan, so I gave the signal to haul me in; which they did, nearly cutting my body in two with the rope. And if ever there was a grovelling fire-worshipper, it was my frozen self when I landed.

Now we tried a new scheme. A tall spruce on the sh.o.r.e was leaning over the place; fifty feet out, barely showing, was the rock that wrecked us. We cut the spruce so it fell with its b.u.t.t on the sh.o.r.e, and lodged against the rock. On this, now, Rob and Billy walked out and took turns grappling. Luck was with Rob. In a few minutes he triumphantly hauled up the rifle and a little later the shotgun, none the worse.

Now, we had saved everything except the surplus provisions and my little camera, trifling matters, indeed; so it was with feelings of triumph that we went on south that day.

In the afternoon, as we were tracking up the last part of the Boiler Rapid, Billy at the bow, Rob on the sh.o.r.e, the line broke, and we were only saved from another dreadful disaster by Billy's nerve and quickness; for he fearlessly leaped overboard, had the luck to find bottom, and held the canoe's head with all his strength. The rope was mended and a safe way was found. That time I realized the force of an Indian reply to a trader who sought to sell him a cheap rope. "In the midst of a rapid one does not count the cost of the line."

At night we camped in a glorious red sunset, just above the Boiler Rapid. On the sh.o.r.e was a pile of flour in sacks, inscribed in Cree, "Gordon his flour."

Here it was, the most prized foreign product in the country, lying unprotected by the highway, and no man seemed to think the owner foolish. Whatever else, these Indians are, they are absolutely honest.

The heavenly weather of the Indian Summer was now upon us. We had left all storms and frost behind, and the next day, our final trouble, the lack of food, was ended. A great steamer hove in sight--at least it looked like a steamer--but, steadily coming on, it proved a scow with an awning and a stove on it. The boys soon recognised the man at the bow as William Gordon, trader at Fort McMurray. We hailed him to stop when he was a quarter of a mile ahead, and he responded with his six st.u.r.dy oarsmen; but such was the force of the stream that he did not reach the sh.o.r.e till a quarter-mile below us.

"h.e.l.lo, boys, what's up?" He shouted in the brotherly way that all white men seem to get when meeting another of their race in a savage land.

"Had an upset and lost all our food."

"Ho! that's easy fixed." Then did that generous man break open boxes, bales, and packages and freely gave without a stint, all the things we needed: kettles, pans, sugar, oatmeal, beans, jam, etc.

"How are you fixed for whiskey?" he asked, opening his own private, not-for-sale supply.

"We have none and we never use it," was the reply. Then I fear I fell very low in the eyes of my crew.

"Never use it! Don't want it! You must be pretty d.a.m.n lonesome in a country like this," and he seemed quite unable to grasp the idea of travellers who would not drink.

Thus the last of our troubles was ended. Thenceforth the journey was one of warm, sunny weather and pleasant travel. Each night the sun went down in red and purple fire; and each morning rose in gold on a steel-blue sky. There was only one bad side to this, that was the constant danger of forest fire. On leaving each camp--we made four every day--I put the fire out with plenty of water, many buckets. Rob thought it unnecessary to take so much trouble. But great clouds of smoke were seen at several reaches of the river, to tell how dire it was that other campers had not done the same.

CHAPTER XLVII

WHEN NATURE SMILED

It seems a law that every deep valley must be next a high mountain.

Our sorrows ended when we quit the canyon, and then, as though in compensation, nature crammed the days with the small joys that seem so little and mean so much to the naturalist.

Those last few days, unmarred of the smallest hardship, were one long pearl-string of the things I came for--the chances to see and be among wild life.

Each night the Coyote and the Fox came rustling about our camp, or the Weasel and Woodmouse scrambled over our sleeping forms. Each morning at gray dawn, gray Wiskajon and his mate--always a pair came wailing through the woods, to flirt about the camp and steal sc.r.a.ps of meat that needed not to be stolen, being theirs by right.

Their small cousins, the Chicadees, came, too, at breakfast time, and in our daily travelling, Ruffed Grouse, Ravens, Pine Grosbeaks, Bohemian Chatterers, Hairy Woodp.e.c.k.e.rs, Shrikes, Tree-sparrows, Linnets, and s...o...b..rds enlivened the radiant sunlit scene.

One afternoon I heard a peculiar note, at first like the "cheepy-teet-teet" of the Pine Grosbeak, only louder and more broken, changing to the jingling of Blackbirds in spring, mixed with some Bluejay "jay-jays," and a Robin-like whistle; then I saw that it came from a Northern Shrike on the bushes just ahead of us. It flew off much after the manner of the Summer Shrike, with flight not truly undulatory nor yet straight, but flapping half a dozen times--then a pause and repeat. He would dive along down near the ground, then up with a fine display of wings and tail to the next perch selected, there to repeat with fresh variations and shrieks, the same strange song, and often indeed sang it on the wing, until at last he crossed the river.

Sometimes we rode in the canoe, sometimes tramped along the easy sh.o.r.e. Once I came across a Great Homed Owl in the gra.s.s by the water. He had a fish over a foot long, and flew with difficulty when be bore it off. Another time I saw a Horned Owl mobbed by two Wiskajons. Spruce Partridge as well as the Ruffed species became common: one morning some of the former marched into camp at breakfast time. Rob called them "Chickens"; farther south they are called "Fool Hens," which is descriptive and helps to distinguish them from their neighbours--the "Sage Hens." Frequently now we heard the toy-trumpeting and the clack of the Pileated Woodp.e.c.k.e.r or c.o.c.k-of-the-Pines, a Canadian rather than a Hudsonian species.

One day, at our three o'clock meal, a great splendid fellow of the kind gave us a thrill. "Clack-clack-clack," we heard him coming, and he bounded through the air into the trees over our camp. Still uttering his loud "Clack-clack-clack," he swung from tree to tree in one long festoon of flight, spread out on the up-swoop like an enormous black b.u.t.terfly with white-starred wings. "Clack-clack-clack,"

he stirred the echoes from the other sh.o.r.e, and ignored us as he swooped and clanged. There was much in his song of the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r tang; it was very nearly the springtime "cluck-cluck" of a magnified Flicker in black; and I gazed with open mouth until he thought fit to bound through the air to another woods. This was my first close meeting with the King of the Woodp.e.c.k.e.rs; I long to know him better. Mammals, too, abounded, but we saw their signs rather than themselves, for most are nocturnal. The Redsquirrels, so scarce last spring, were quite plentiful, and the beach at all soft places showed abundant trace Of Weasels, Chipmunks, Foxes, Coyotes, Lynx, Wolves, Moose, Caribou, Deer. One Wolf track was of special interest. It was 5 1/2 inches, long and travelling with it was the track of a small Wolf; it vividly brought back the days of Lobo and Blanca, and I doubt not was another case of mates; we were evidently in the range of a giant Wolf who was travelling around with his wife. Another large Wolf track was lacking the two inner toes of the inner hind foot, and the bind foot pads were so faint as to be lost at times, although the toes were deeply impressed in the mud. This probably meant that he, had been in a trap and was starved to a skeleton.

We did not see any of these, but we did see the post-graduate evidences of their diet, and were somewhat surprised to learn that it included much fruit, especially of the uva-ursi. We also saw proof that they had eaten part of a Moose; probably they had killed it.

Coyote abounded now, and these we saw from time to time. Once I tramped up within thirty feet of a big fellow who was pursuing some studies behind a log. But again the incontrovertible-postmortem-evidence of their food habits was a surprise--the bulk of their sustenance now was berries, in one case this was mixed with the tail hairs--but no body hairs--of a Chipmunk. I suppose that Chipmunk escaped minus his tail. There was much evidence that all those creatures that can eat fruit were in good condition, but that flesh in its most accessible form--rabbits--was unknown, and even next best thing--the mice--were too scarce to count; this weighed with especial force on the Lynxes; they alone seemed unable to eke out with fruit. The few we saw were starving and at our camp of the 28th we found the wretched body of one that was dead of hunger.

On that, same night we had a curious adventure with a Weasel.

All were sitting around the camp-fire at bed-time, when I heard a distinct patter on the leaves. "Something coming," I whispered.

All held still, then out of the gloom came bounding a snow-white Weasel. Preble was lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and the Weasel fearlessly jumped on my colleague's broad chest, and stood peering about.

In a flash Preble's right elbow was down and held the Weasel prisoner, his left hand coming to a.s.sist. Now, it is pretty well known that if you and a Weasel grab each other at the same time he has choice of holds.

"I have got him," said Preble, then added feelingly, "but he got me first. Suffering Moses! the little cuss is grinding his teeth in deeper."

The m.u.f.fled screaming of the small demon died away as Preble's strong left hand crushed out his life, but as long as there was a spark of it remaining, those desperate jaws were grinding deeper into his thumb. It seemed a remarkably long affair to us, and from time to time, as Preble let off some fierce e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, one of us would ask, "h.e.l.lo! Are you two still at it," or, "How are you and your friend these times, Preble?"

In a few minutes it was over, but that creature in his fury seemed to have inspired himself with lock-jaw, for his teeth were so driven in and double-locked, that I had to pry the jaws apart before the hand was free.

The Weasel may now be seen in the American Museum, and Preble in the Agricultural Department at Washington, the latter none the worse.

So wore away the month, the last night came, a night of fireside joy at home (for was it not Hallowe'en?), and our celebration took the form of washing, shaving, mending clothes, in preparation for our landing in the morning.