Again the answer was "no."

Then did that Indian offer the lodge and everything he had in it, including his wife. But the trader was obdurate.

"Why didn't you take it," said the friend whom he told of the affair; "the stuff would have netted five hundred dollars, and all for one flask of whiskey."

"Not much," said the trader, "it was my last flask I wouldn't 'a' had a drop for myself. But it just shows, how fond these Indians are of whiskey."

While some of the Chipewyans show fine physique, and many do great feats of strength and endurance, they seem on the whole inferior to whites.

Thus the strongest portager on the river is said to be Billy Loutit's brother George. At Athabaska Landing I was shown a house on a hill, half a mile away, to which he had carried on his back 450 pounds of flour without stopping. Some said it was only 350 pounds, but none made it less. As George is only three-quarters white, this is perhaps not a case in point. But during our stay at Fort Smith we had several athletic meets of Indians and whites, the latter represented by Preble and the police boys, and no matter whether in running, walking, high jumping, broad jumping, wrestling, or boxing, the whites were ahead.

As rifle-shots, also, the natives seem far inferior. In the matter of moose-hunting only, as already noted, the red-man was master. This, of course, is a matter of life-long training. A white man brought up to it would probably do as well as an Indian even in this very Indian department.

These tribes are still in the hunting and fishing stage; they make no pretence of agriculture or stockraising. Except that they wear white man's clothes and are most of them nominally Roman Catholics, they live as their fathers did 100 years ago. But there is one remarkable circumstance that impressed me more and more—practically every Chipewyan reads and writes his own language.

This miracle was inborn on me slowly. On the first Buffalo hunt we had found a smoothened pole stuck in the ground by the trail. It was inscribed as herewith.

"What is that Sousi?" "It's a notice from Chief William that Swiggert wants men on the portage," and he translated it literally: "The fat white man 5 scows, small white man 2 scows, gone down, men wanted for Rapids, Johnnie Bolette this letter for you. (Signed) Chief William."

Each of our guides in succession had shown a similar familiarity with the script of his people, and many times we found spideresque characters on tree or stone that supplied valuable information. They could, however tell me nothing of its age or origin, simply "We all do it; it is easy."

At Fort Resolution I met the Jesuit fathers and got the desired chance of learning about the Chipewyan script.

First, it is not a true alphabet, but a syllabic; not letters, but syllables, are indicated by each character; 73 characters are all that are needed to express the whole language. It is so simple and stenographic that the fathers often use it as a rapid way of writing French. It has, however, the disadvantage of ambiguity at times. Any Indian boy can learn it in a week or two; practically all the Indians use it. What a commentary on our own cumbrous and illogical spelling, which takes even a bright child two or three years to learn!

Now, I already knew something of the Cree syllabic invented by the Rev. James Evans, Methodist missionary on Lake Winnipeg in the '40s, but Cree is a much less complex language; only 36 characters are needed, and these are so simple that an intelligent Cree can learn to write his own language in one day.

In support, of this astounding statement I give, first, the 36 characters which cover every fundamental sound in their language and then a sample of application. While crude and inconcise, it was so logical and simple that in a few years the missionary had taught practically the whole Cree nation to read and write. And Lord Dufferin, when the matter came before him during his north-west tour, said enthusiastically: "There have been men buried in Westminster Abbey with national honours whose claims to fame were far less than those of this devoted missionary, the man who taught a whole nation to read and write."

These things I knew, and now followed up my Jesuit source of information.

"Who invented this?"

"I don't know for sure. It is in general use."

"Was it a native idea?"

"Oh, no; some white man made it."

"Where? Here or in the south?"

"It came originally from the Crees, as near as we can tell."

"Was it a Cree or a missionary that first thought of it?"

"I believe it was a missionary."

"Frankly, now, wasn't it invented in 1840 by Rev. James Evans, Methodist missionary to the Crees on Lake Winnipeg?"

Oh, how he hated to admit it, but he was too honest to deny it.

"Yes, it seems to me it was some name like that. 'Je ne sais pas.'"

Reader, take a map of North America, a large one, and mark off the vast area bounded by the Saskatchewan, the Rockies, the Hudson Bay, and the Arctic circle, and realise that in this region, as large as continental Europe outside of Russia and Spain, one simple, earnest man, inspired by the love of Him who alone is perfect love, invented and popularised a method of writing that in a few years—in less than a generation, indeed—has turned the whole native population from ignorant illiterates to a people who are proud to read and write their own language. This, I take it, is one of the greatest feats of a civiliser. The world has not yet heard, much less comprehended, the magnitude of the achievement; when it does there will be no name on the Canadian roll of fame that will stand higher or be blazoned more brightly than that of James Evans the missionary.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE DOGS OF FORT RESOLUTION



It sounds like the opening of an epic poem but it is not.

The Chipewyan calender is divided in two seasons—dog season and canoe season. What the horse is to the Arab, what the Reindeer is to the Lap and the Yak to the Thibetan, the dog is to the Chipewyan for at least one-half of the year, until it is displaced by the canoe.

During dog season the canoes are piled away somewhat carelessly or guarded only from the sun. During canoe season the dogs are treated atrociously. Let us remember, first, that these are dogs in every doggy sense, the worshipping servants of man, asking nothing but a poor living in return for abject love and tireless service, as well as the relinquishment of all family ties and natural life. In winter, because they cannot serve without good food, they are well fed on fish that is hung on scaffolds in the fall in time to be frozen before wholly spoiled. The journeys they will make and the devoted service they render at this time is none too strongly set forth in Butler's "Cerf Vola" and London's "Call of the Wild." It is, indeed, the dog alone that makes life possible during the white half-year of the boreal calender. One cannot be many days in the north without hearing tales of dog prowess, devotion, and heroism. A typical incident was related as follows by Thomas Anderson:

Over thirty years ago, Chief Factor George McTavish and his driver, Jack Harvey, were travelling from East Main to Rupert's House (65 miles) in a blizzard so thick and fierce that they could scarcely see the leading dog. He was a splendid, vigorous creature, but all at once he lay down and refused to go. The driver struck him, but the factor reproved the man, as this dog had never needed the whip. The driver then went ahead and found open water only a few feet from the dogs, though out of sight. After that they gave the leader free rein, surrendered themselves to his guidance, and in spite of the blinding blizzard they struck the flagpole of Rupert's between 11 and 12 that night, only a little behind time.

Many of the wild Wolf traits still remain with them. They commonly pair; they bury surplus food; the mothers disgorge food for the young; they rally to defend one of their own clan against a stranger; and they punish failure with death.

A thousand incidents might be adduced to show that in the north there is little possibility of winter travel without dogs and little possibility of life without winter travel.

But April comes with melting snows and May with open rivers and brown earth everywhere; then, indeed, the reign of the dog is over. The long yellow-birch canoe is taken down from the shanty roof or from a sheltered scaffold, stitched, gummed, and launched; and the dogs are turned loose to fend for themselves. Gratitude for past services or future does not enter into the owner's thoughts to secure a fair allowance of food. All their training and instinct prompts them to hang about camp, where, kicked, stoned, beaten, and starved, they steal and hunt as best they may, until the sad season of summer is worn away and merry winter with its toil and good food is back once more.

From leaving Fort MacMurray we saw daily the starving dog, and I fed them when I could. At Smith Landing the daily dog became a daily fifty. One big fellow annexed us. "I found them first," he seemed to say, and no other dog came about our camp without a fight.

Of course he fared well on our scraps, but many a time it made my heart ache and my food-store suffer to see the gaunt skeletons in the bushes, just beyond his sphere of influence, watching for a chance to rush in and secure a mouthful of—anything to stay the devastating pang. My journal of the time sets forth in full detail the diversity of their diet, not only every possible scrap of fish and meat or whatsoever smelled of fish or meat, but rawhide, leather, old boots, flour-bags, potato-peelings, soap, wooden fragments of meat-boxes, rags that have had enough animal contact to be odorous. An ancient dishcloth, succulent with active service, was considered a treat to be bolted whole; and when in due course the cloth was returned to earth, it was intact, bleached, purged, and purified as by chemic fires and ready for a new round of benevolences.

In some seasons the dogs catch Rabbits enough to keep them up. But this year the Rabbits were gone. They are very clever at robbing fish-nets at times, but these were far from the fort. Reduced to such desperate straits for food, what wonder that cannibalism should be common! Not only the dead, but the sick or disabled of their own kind are torn to pieces and devoured. I was told of one case where a brutal driver disabled one of his dogs with heavy blows; its companions did not wait till it was dead before they feasted. It is hard to raise pups because the mothers so often devour their own young; and this is a charge I never heard laid to the Wolf, the ancestor of these dogs, which shows how sadly the creature has been deteriorated by contact with man. There seems no length to which they will not go for food. Politeness forbids my mentioning the final diet for which they scramble around the camp. Never in my life before have I seen such utter degradation by the power of the endless hunger pinch. Nevertheless—and here I expect the reader to doubt, even as I did when first I heard it, no matter how desperate their straits-these gormandisers of unmentionable filth, these starvelings, in their dire extremity will turn away in disgust from duck or any other web-footed water-fowl.

Billy Loutit had shot a Pelican; the skin was carefully preserved and the body guarded for the dogs, thinking that this big thing, weighing 6 or 7 pounds, would furnish a feast for one or two. The dogs knew me, and rushed like a pack of Wolves at sight of coming food. The bigger ones fought back the smaller. I threw the prize, but, famished though they were, they turned away as a man might turn from a roasted human hand. One miserable creature, a mere skeleton, sneaked forward when the stronger ones were gone, pulled out the entrails at last, and devoured them as though he hated them.

I can offer no explanation. But the Hudson's Bay men tell me it is always so, and I am afraid the remembrance of the reception accorded my bounty that day hardened my heart somewhat in the days that followed.

On the Nyarling we were too far from mankind to be bothered with dogs, but at Fort Resolution we reentered their country. The following from my journal records the impression after our enforced three days' stay:

"Tuesday, July 16, 1907.—Fine day for the first time since July 3. At last we pulled out of Fort Resolution (9.40 A. M.). I never was so thankful to leave a place where every one was kind. I think the maddest cynophile would find a cure here. It is the worst dog-cursed spot I ever saw; not a square yard but is polluted by them; no article can be left on the ground but will be carried off, torn up, or defiled; the four corners of our tent have become regular stopping places for the countless canines, and are disfigured and made abominable, so that after our escape there will be needed many days of kindly rain for their purification. There certainly are several hundred dogs in the village; there are about 50 teepees and houses with 5 to 15 dogs at each, and 25 each at the mission and H. B. Co. In a short walk, about 200 yards, I passed 86 dogs.

"There is not an hour or ten minutes of day or night that is not made hideous with a dog-fight or chorus of yelps. There are about six different clans of dogs, divided as their owners are, and a Dogrib dog entering the Yellow-knife or Chipewyan part of the camp is immediately set upon by all the residents. Now the clansmen of the one in trouble rush to the rescue and there is a battle. Indians of both sides join in with clubs to belabour the fighters, and the yowling and yelping of those discomfited is painful to hear for long after the fight is over. It was a battle like this, I have been told, which caused the original split of the tribe, one part of which went south to become the Apaches of Arizona. The scenes go on all day and all night in different forms. A number of dogs are being broken in by being tied up to stakes. These keep up a heart-rending and peculiar crying, beginning with a short bark which melts into a yowl and dies away in a nerve-racking wail. This ceases not day or night, and half a dozen of these prisoners are within a stone's throw of our camp.

"The favourite place for the clan fights seems to be among the guy-ropes of our tent; at least half a dozen of these general engagements take place every night while we try to sleep.

"Everything must be put on the high racks eight feet up to be safe from them; even empty tins are carried off, boots, hats, soap, etc., are esteemed most toothsome morsels, and what they can neither eat, carry off, nor destroy, they defile with elaborate persistency and precision."

A common trick of the Indians when canoe season arrives is, to put all the family and one or two of the best dogs in the canoes, then push away from the shore, leaving the rest behind. Those so abandoned come howling after the canoes, and in unmistakable pleadings beg the heartless owners to take them in. But the canoes push off toward the open sea, aiming to get out of sight. The dogs howl sadly on the shore, or swim after them till exhausted, then drift back to the nearest land to begin the summer of hardship.

If Rabbits are plentiful they get along; failing these they catch mice or fish; when the berry season comes they eat fruit; the weaker ones are devoured by their brethren; and when the autumn arrives their insensate owners generally manage to come back and pick up the survivors, feeding them so that they are ready for travel when dog-time begins, and the poor faithful brutes, bearing no grudge, resume at once the service of their unfeeling masters.

All through our voyage up Great Slave Lake we daily heard the sad howling of abandoned dogs, and nightly, we had to take steps to prevent them stealing our food and leathers. More than once in the dim light, I was awakened by a rustle, to see sneaking from my tent the gray, wolfish form of some prowling dog, and the resentment I felt at the loss inflicted, was never more than to make me shout or throw a pebble at him.

One day, as we voyaged eastward (July 23) in the Tal-thel-lay narrows of Great Slave Lake, we met 5 canoes and 2 York boats of Indians going west. A few hours afterward as, we were nooning on an island (we were driven to the islands now) there came a long howling from the rugged main shore, a mile away to the east of us; then it increased to a chorus of wailing, and we knew that the Indians had that morning abandoned their dogs there. The wailing continued, then we saw a tiny black speck coming from the far shore. When it was half-way across the ice-cold bay we could hear the gasps of a tired swimmer. He got along fairly, dodging the cakes of ice, until within about 200 yards, when his course was barred by a long, thin, drifting floe. He tried to climb on it, but was too weak, then he raised his voice in melancholy howls of despair. I could not get to him, but he plucked up heart at length, and feebly paddling went around till he found an opening, swam through and came on, the slowest dog swimmer I ever saw. At last he struck bottom and crawled out. But he was too weak and ill to eat the meat that I had ready prepared for him. We left him with food for many days and sailed away.

Another of the dogs that tried to follow him across was lost in the ice; we heard his miserable wailing moans as he was carried away, but could not help him. My Indians thought nothing of it and were amused at my solicitude.

A couple of hours later we landed on the rugged east coast to study our course through the ice. At once., we were met by four dogs that trotted along the shore to where we landed. They did not seem very gaunt; one, an old yellow female, carried something in her mouth; this she never laid down, and growled savagely when any of the others came near. It proved to be the blood-stained leg of a new-killed dog, yellow like herself.

As we pulled out a big black-and-white fellow looked at us wistfully from a rocky ledge; memories of Bingo, whom he resembled not a little, touched me. I threw him a large piece of dried meat. He ate it, but not ravenously. He seemed in need, not of food, but of company.

A few miles farther on we again landed to study the lake; as we came near we saw the dogs, not four but six, now racing to meet us. I said to Preble: "It seems to me it would be the part of mercy to shoot them all." He answered: "They are worth nothing now, but you shoot one and its value would at once jump up to one hundred dollars. Every one knows everything that is done in this country. You would have six hundred dollars' damages to pay when you got back to Fort Resolution."

I got out our stock of fresh fish. The Indians, seeing my purpose, said: "Throw it in the water and see them dive." I did so and found that they would dive into several feet of water and bring up the fish without fail. The yellow female was not here, so I suppose she had stayed to finish her bone.

When we came away, heading for the open lake, the dogs followed us as far as they could, then gathering on a flat rock, the end of a long point, they sat down, some with their backs to us; all raised their muzzles and howled to the sky a heart-rending dirge.

I was thankful to lose them in the distance.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE VOYAGE ACROSS THE LAKE



Hitherto I have endeavoured to group my observations on each subject; I shall now for a change give part of the voyage across Great Slave Lake much, as it appears in my journal.

"July 16, 1907.—Left Fort Resolution at 9.40 A. M. in the York boat manned by 7 Indians and Billy Loutit, besides Preble and myself, 10 in all; ready with mast and sail for fair wind, but also provided with heavy 16-foot oars for head-winds and calm. Harding says we should make Pike's Portage in 3 or 4 days.

"Reached Moose Island at 11.30 chiefly by rowing; camped. A large dog appeared on the bank. Freesay recognised it as his and went ashore with a club. We heard the dog yelping. Freesay came back saying: 'He'll go home now.'

"At 1.30 went on but stopped an unnecessary half-hour at a saw-mill getting plank for seats. Reached the Big, or Main, River at 4.10; stopped for tea again till 4.50, then rowed up the river till 5.40; rested 15 minutes, rowed till 6.30; rested 15 minutes, rowed till 7; then got into the down current of the north branch or mouth of the Slave; down then we drifted till 8, then landed and made another meal, the fourth to-day, and went on drifting at 8.30.

"At 9.30 we heard a Ruffed Grouse drumming, the last of the season, also a Bittern pumping, some Cranes trumpeting, and a Wood Frog croaking. Snipe were still whirring in the sky. Saw Common Tern.

"At 10.15, still light, we camped for the night and made another meal. The Indians went out and shot 2 Muskrats, making 7 the total of these I have seen in the country. This is the very lowest ebb. Why are they so scarce? Their low epoch agrees with that of the Rabbits.

"July 17.—Rose at 6 (it should have been 4, but the Indians would not rouse); sailed north through the marsh with a light east breeze. At noon this changed to a strong wind blowing from the north, as it has done with little variation ever since I came to the country. These Indians know little of handling a boat and resent any suggestion. They maintain their right, to row or rest, as they please, and land when and where they think best. We camped on a sand-bar and waited till night; most exasperating when we are already behind time. The Indians set a net, using for tie-strings the bark of the willow (Salix bebbiana). They caught a Jack-fish. Reached Stony Island at night, after many stops and landings. The Indians land whenever in doubt and make a meal (at my expense), and are in doubt every two hours or so. They eat by themselves and have their own cook. Billy cooks for us, i.e., Preble, Weeso, and myself. Among the crew I hear unmistakable grumblings about the food, which is puzzling, as it is the best they ever had in their lives; there is great variety and no limit to the quantity.

"Made 6 meals and 17 miles to-day, rowing 7, sailing 10.

"July 18.—Left Stony Island at 6.55; could not get the crew started sooner; sailing with a light breeze which soon died down and left us on a sea of glass. I never before realised how disgusting a calm could be.

"Camped at 9.15 on one of the countless, unnamed, uncharted islands of the lake. It is very beautiful in colour, red granite, spotted with orange and black lichen on its face, and carpeted with caribou moss and species of cetraria, great patches of tripe-de-roche, beds of saxifrage, long trailers, and masses of bearberry, empetrum, ground cedar, juniper, cryptograma, and many others; while the trees, willow, birch, and spruce are full of character and drawing. Sky and lake are in colour worthy of these rich details, the bird life is well represented and beautiful; there is beauty everywhere, and 'only man is vile.'

"I am more and more disgusted with my Indian crew; the leader in mischief seems to be young Beaulieu. Yesterday he fomented a mutiny because I did not give them 'beans,' though I had given them far more than promised, and beans were never mentioned. Still, he had discovered a bag of them among my next month's stores, and that started him.

"To-day, when sick of seeing them dawdling two hours over a meal when there are 6 meals a day, I gave the order to start. Beaulieu demanded insolently: 'Oh! who's boss?' My patience was worn out. I said: 'I am, and I'll show you right now,' and proceeded to do so, meaning to let him have my fist with all the steam I could get back of it. But he did not wait. At a safe distance he turned and in a totally different manner said: 'I only want to know; I thought maybe the old man (the guide). I'll do it, all ri, all ri,' and he smiled and smiled.

"Oh! why did I not heed Pike's warning to shun all Beaulieus; they rarely fail to breed trouble. If I had realised all this last night before coming to the open lake I would have taken the whole outfit back to Resolution and got rid of the crowd. We could do better with another canoe and two men, and at least make better time than this (17 miles a day).

"Yesterday the Indian boys borrowed my canoe, my line, and in my time, at my expense, caught a big fish, but sullenly disregarded the suggestion that, I should have a piece of it.

"Each of them carries a Winchester and blazes at every living thing that appears. They have volleyed all day at every creature big enough to afford a mouthful—Ducks, Gulls, Loons, Fish, Owls, Terns, etc.—but have hit nothing. Loons are abundant in the water and are on the Indians' list of Ducks, therefore good food. They are wonderfully expert at calling them. This morning a couple of Loons appeared flying far to the east. The Indians at once began to mimic their rolling whoo-ooo-whoo-ooo; doing it to the life. The Loons began to swing toward us, then to circle, each time nearer. Then all the callers stopped except Claw-hammer, the expert; he began to utter a peculiar cat-like wail. The Loons responded and dropped their feet as though to alight. Then at 40 yards the whole crew blazed away with their rifles, doing no damage whatever. The Loons turned away from these unholy callers, and were none the worse, but wiser.

"This scene was repeated many times during the voyage. When the Loons are on the water the Indians toll them by flashing a tin pan from the bushes behind which the toller hides till the bird is in range. I saw many clever tollings but I did not see a Loon killed.

"July 19.—I got up at 4, talked strong talk, so actually got away at 5.30. Plenty grumbling, many meals to-day, with many black looks and occasional remarks in English: 'Grub no good.' Three days ago these men were starving on one meal a day, of fish and bad flour; now they have bacon, dried venison, fresh fish, fresh game, potatoes, flour, baking powder, tea, coffee, milk, sugar, molasses, lard, cocoa, dried apples, rice, oatmeal, far more than was promised, all ad libitum, and the best that the H. B. Co. can supply, and yet they grumble. There is only one article of the food store to which they have not access; that is a bag of beans which I am reserving for our own trip in the north where weight counts for so much. Beaulieu smiles when I speak to him, but I know he is at the bottom of all this mischief. To day they made 6 meals and 17 miles—this is magnificent.

"About 7.30 a pair of Wild Geese (Canada) appeared on a bay. The boys let off a whoop of delight and rushed on them in canoe and in boat as though these were their deadliest enemies. I did not think much of it until I noticed that the Geese would not fly, and it dawned on me that they were protecting their young behind their own bodies. A volley of shot-guns and Winchesters and one noble head fell flat on the water, another volley and the gander fell, then a wild skurrying, yelling, and shooting for some minutes resulted in the death of the two downlings.

"I could do nothing to stop them. I have trouble enough in matters that are my business and this they consider solely their own. It is nothing but kill, kill, kill every living thing they meet. One cannot blame them in general, since they live by hunting, and in this case they certainly did eat every bit of all four birds, even to their digestive organs with contents; but it seemed hard to have the devotion of the parents made their death trap when, after all, we were not in need of meat.

"July 20.—Rose at 4; had trouble on my hands at once. The Indians would not get up till 5, so we did not get away till 6.20. Beaulieu was evidently instructing the crew, for at the third breakfast all together (but perhaps 2) shouted out in English, 'Grub no good!

"I walked over, to them, asked who spoke; no one answered; so, I reviewed the bargain, pointed out that I had given more than agreed, and added: 'I did not promise you beans, but will say now that if you work well I'll give you a bean feast once in a while.'

"They all said in various tongues and ways, 'That's all ri.' Beaulieu said it several times, and smiled and smiled.

"If the mythical monster that dwells in the bottom of Great Slave Lake had reached up its long neck now and taken this same half-breed son of Belial, I should have said, 'Well done, good and faithful monster,' and the rest of our voyage would have been happier. Oh! what a lot of pother a beneficent little bean can make.

"At noon that day Billy announced that it was time to give me a lobstick; a spruce was selected on a slate island and trimmed to its proper style, then inscribed:

E. T. SETON E. A. PREBLE W. C. LOUTIT 20 July 1907

"Now I was in honour bound to treat, the crew. I had neither the power nor the wish to give whiskey. Tobacco was already provided, so I seized the opportunity of smoothing things by announcing a feast of beans, and this, there was good reason to believe, went far in the cause of peace.

"At 1.30 for the first time a fair breeze sprang up or rather lazily got up. Joyfully then we raised our mast and sail. The boys curled up to sleep, except Beaulieu. He had his fiddle and now he proceeded to favour us with 'A Life on the Ocean Wave,' 'The Campbells are Coming,' etc., in a manner worthy of his social position and of his fiddle. When not in use this aesthetic instrument (in its box) knocks about on deck or underfoot, among pots and pans, exposed in all weather; no one seems to fear it will be injured.

"At 7 the usual dead calm was restored. We rowed till we reached Et-then Island at 8, covering two miles more or 32 in all to-day. I was unwilling to stop now, but the boys, said they would row all day Sunday if I would camp here, and then added, 'And if the wind rises to-night we'll go on.'

"At 10 o'clock I was already in bed for the night, though of course it was broad daylight. Preble had put out a line of mouse-traps, when the cry was raised by the Indians now eating their 7th meal: Chim-pal-le! Hurra! Chilla quee!' ('Sailing wind! Hurra, boys!').

"The camp was all made, but after such a long calm a sailing wind was too good to miss. In 10 minutes every tent was torn down and bundled into the boat. At 10.10 we pulled out under a fine promising breeze; but alas! for its promise! at 10.30 the last vestige of it died away and we had to use the oars to make the nearest land, where we tied up at 11 P. M.

"That night old Weeso said to me, through Billy, the interpreter: 'To-morrow is Sunday, therefore he would like to have a prayer-meeting after breakfast.'

"'Tell him,' I said, 'that I quite approve of his prayer-meeting, but also it must be understood that if the good Lord sends us a sailing wind in the morning that is His way of letting us know we should sail.'

"This sounded so logical that Weeso meekly said, 'All right.'

"Sure enough, the morning dawned with a wind and we got away after the regular sullen grumbling. About 10.20 the usual glassy calm set in and Weeso asked me for a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote something in Chipewyan on the sheet I gave, then returned the pencil and resumed his pilotic stare at the horizon, for his post was at the rudder. At length he rolled the paper into a ball, and when I seemed not observing dropped it behind him overboard.

"'What is the meaning of that, Billy?' I whispered.

"'He's sending a prayer to Jesus for wind.' Half an hour afterward a strong head-wind sprang up, and Weeso was severely criticised for not specifying clearly what was wanted.

"There could be no question now about the propriety of landing. Old Weeso took all the Indians off to a rock, where, bareheaded and in line, they kneeled facing the east, and for half an hour he led them in prayer, making often the sign of the cross. The headwind died away as they came to the boat and again we resumed the weary rowing, a labour which all were supposed to share, but it did not need an expert to see that Beaulieu, Snuff, and Terchon merely dipped their oars and let them drift a while; the real rowing of that cumbrous old failure of a sailboat was done by Billy Loutit and Yum Freesay."



CHAPTER XXV

CROSSING THE LAKE—ITS NATURAL HISTORY



All day long here, as on the Nyarling, I busied myself with compass and sketch-book, making the field notes, sketches, and compass surveys from which my various maps were compiled; and Preble let no chance go by of noting the changing bird and plant life that told us we quit the Canadian fauna at Stony Island and now were in the Hudsonian zone.

This is the belt of dwindling trees, the last or northmost zone of the forest, and the spruce trees showed everywhere that they were living a life-long battle, growing and seeding, but dwarfed by frost and hardships. But sweet are the uses of adversity, and the stunted sprucelings were beautified, not uglified, by their troubles. I never before realised that a whole country could be such a series of charming little Japanese gardens, with tiny trees, tiny flowers, tiny fruits, and gorgeous oriental rugs upon the earth and rocks between.

I photographed one group of trees to illustrate their dainty elfish dwarfishness, but realising that no one could guess the height without a scale, I took a second of the same with a small Indian sitting next it.

Weeso is a kind old soul; so far as I could see he took no part in the various seditions, but he was not an inspiring guide. One afternoon he did something that made a final wreck of my confidence. A thunderstorm was rumbling in the far east. Black clouds began travelling toward us; with a line of dark and troubled waters below, the faint breeze changed around and became a squall. Weeso looked scared and beckoned to Freesay, who came and took the helm. Nothing happened.

We were now running along the north shore of Et-then, where are to be seen the wonderful 1,200-foot cliffs described and figured by Captain George Back in 1834. They are glorious ramparts, wonderful in size and in colour, marvellous in their geological display.

Flying, and evidently nesting among the dizzy towers, were a few Barn-swallows and Phoebe-birds.

This cliff is repeated on Oot-sing-gree-ay, the next island, but there it is not on the water's edge. It gives a wonderful echo which the Indians (not to mention myself) played with, in childish fashion.

On Sunday, 21 July, we made a new record, 6 meals and 20 miles.

On July 22 we made only 7 meals and 11 miles and camped in the narrows Tal-thel-lay. These are a quarter of a mile wide and have a strong current running westerly. This is the place which Back says is a famous fishing ground and never freezes over, even in the hardest winters. Here, as at all points, I noted the Indian names, not only because they were appropriate, but in hopes of serving the next traveller. I found an unexpected difficulty in writing them down, viz.: no matter how I pronounced them, old Weeso and Freesay, my informants, would say, "Yes, that is right." This, I learned, was out of politeness; no matter how you mispronounce their words it is good form to say, "That's it; now you have it exactly."

The Indians were anxious to put out a net overnight here, as they could count on getting a few Whitefish; so we camped at 5.15. It is difficult to convey to an outsider the charm of the word "whitefish." Any northerner will tell you that it is the only fish that is perfect human food, the only food that man or dog never wearies of, the only lake food that conveys no disorder no matter how long or freely it is used. It is so delicious and nourishing that there is no fish in the world that can even come second to it. It is as far superior in all food qualities to the finest Salmon or Trout as a first-prize, gold-medalled, nut-fed thoroughbred Sussex bacon-hog is to the roughest, toughest, boniest old razor-backed land-pike that ever ranged the woods of Arkansas.

That night the net yielded 3 Whitefish and 3 Trout. The latter, being 4 to 8 pounds each, would have been reckoned great prizes in any other country, but now all attention was on the Whitefish. They certainly were radiantly white, celestial in color; their backs were a dull frosted silver, with here and there a small electric lamp behind the scales to make its jewels sparkle. The lamps alternated with opals increased on the side; the bellies were of a blazing mother-of-pearl. It would be hard to imagine a less imaginative name than "white" fish for such a shining, burning opalescence. Indian names are usually descriptive, but their name for this is simply "The Fish." All others are mere dilutes and cheap imitations, but the Coregonus is at all times and par excellence "The Fish."

Nevertheless, in looking at it I could not help feeling that this is the fat swine, or the beef Durham of its kind. The head, gills, fins, tail, vital organs and bones all were reduced to a minimum and the meat parts enlarged and solidified, as though they were the product of ages of careful breeding by man to produce a perfect food fish, a breeding that has been crowned with the crown of absolute success.

The Indians know, for the best of reasons, the just value of every native food. When Rabbits abound they live on them but do not prosper; they call it "starving on rabbits." When Caribou meat is plenty they eat it, but crave flour. When Moose is at hand they eat it, and are strong. When Jack-fish, Sucker, Conies, and Trout are there, they take them as a variant; but on Whitefish, as on Moose, they can live with out loathing, and be strong. The Indian who has his scaffold hung with Whitefish when winter comes, is accounted rich.

"And what," says the pessimist, "is the fly in all this precious ointment?" Alasl It is not a game fish; it will not take bait, spoon, or fly, and its finest properties vanish in a few hours after capture.

The Whitefish served in the marble palaces of other lands is as mere dish-water to champagne, when compared with the three times purified and ten times intensified dazzling silver Coregonus as it is landed on the bleak shores of those far-away icy lakes. So I could not say 'No' to the Indian boys when they wanted to wait here, the last point at which they could be sure of a catch.

That night (22d July) five canoes and two York boats of Indians landed at the narrows. These were Dogribs of Chief Vital's band; all told they numbered about thirty men, women, and children; with them were twenty-odd dogs, which immediately began to make trouble. When one is in Texas the topic of conversation is, "How are the cattle?" in the Klondike, "How is your claim panning out?" and in New York, "How are you getting on with your novel?" On Great Slave Lake you say, "Where are the Caribou?" The Indians could not tell; they had seen none for weeks, but there was still much ice in the east end of the lake which kept them from investigating. They had plenty of dried Caribou meat but were out of tea and tobacco. I had come prepared for this sort of situation, and soon we had a fine stock of dried venison.

These were the Indians whose abandoned dogs made so much trouble for us in the days that followed.

At 4 P. M. of 23d of July we were stopped by a long narrow floe of broken ice. Without consulting me the crew made for the shore.

It seemed they were full of fears: "What if they should get caught in that floe, and drift around for days? What if a wind should arise (it had been glassy calm for a week)? What if they could', not get back?" etc., etc.

Preble and I climbed a hill for a view. The floe was but half a mile wide, very loose, with frequent lanes.

"Preble, is there any reason why we should not push through this floe using poles to move the cakes?"

"None whatever."

On descending, however, I found the boys preparing to camp for "a couple of days," while the ice melted or drifted away somewhere.

So I said, "You get right into this boat now and push off; we can easily work our way through." They made no reply, simply looked sulkier than ever, and proceeded to start a fire for meal No. 5.

"Weeso," I said, "get into your place and tell your men to follow."

The old man looked worried and did nothing, He wanted to do right, but he was in awe of his crew.

Then did I remember how John MacDonald settled the rebellion on the river.

"Get in there," I said to Preble and Billy. "Come on, Weeso." We four jumped into the boat and proceeded to push off with all the supplies.

Authorities differ as to the time it took for the crew to make up their minds. Two seconds and eleven seconds are perhaps the extremes of estimate. They came jumping aboard as fast as they could.

We attacked the floe, each with a lodge-pole; that is, Billy and Preble did in the bow, while Freesay and I did at the rear; and in thirty-five minutes we had pushed through and were sailing the open sea.

The next day we had the same scene repeated with less intensity, in this case because Freesay sided with me. What would I not give to have had a crew of white men. A couple of stout Norwegian sailors would have done far better than this whole outfit of reds.

When we stopped for supper No. 1 a tiny thimbleful of down on two pink matches ran past, and at once the mother, a Peetweet, came running in distress to save her young. The brave Beaulieu fearlessly seized a big stick and ran to kill the little one. I shouted out, "Stop that," in tones that implied that I owned the heaven, the earth, the sea, and all that in them is, but could not have saved the downling had it not leaped into the water and dived out of sight. It came up two feet away and swam to a rock of safety, where it bobbed its latter end toward its adversaries and the open sea in turn.

I never before knew that they could dive.

About eight o'clock we began to look for a good place to camp and make meal No. 6. But the islands where usually we found refuge from the dogs were without wood, and the shores were too rugged and steep or had no dry timber, so we kept going on. After trying one or two places the Indians said it was only a mile to Indian Mountain River (Der-sheth Tessy), where was a camp of their friends. I was always glad of a reason for pushing on, so away we went. My crew seized their rifles and fired to let their village know we were coming. The camp came quickly into view, and volley after volley was fired and returned.

These Indians are extremely poor and the shots cost 5 and 6 cents each. So this demonstration totalled up about $2.00.

As we drew near the village of lodges the populace lined up on shore, and then our boys whispered, "Some white men." What a peculiar thrill it gave me! I had seen nothing but Indians along the route so far and expected nothing else. But here were some of my own people, folk with whom I could talk. They proved to be my American friend from Smith Landing, he whose hand I had lanced, and his companion, a young Englishman, who was here with him prospecting for gold and copper. "I'm all right now," he said, and, held up the hand with my mark on it, and our greeting was that of white men meeting among strangers in a far foreign land.

As soon as we were ashore a number of Indians came to offer meat for tobacco. They seemed a lot of tobacco-maniacs. "Tzel-twee" at any price they must have. Food they could do without for a long time, but life without smoke was intolerable; and they offered their whole dried product of two Caribou, concentrated, nourishing food enough to last a family many days, in exchange for half a pound of nasty stinking, poisonous tobacco.

Two weeks hence, they say, these hills will be alive with Caribou; alas! for them, it proved a wholly erroneous forecast.

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 passed the Great White Fall at the mouth of Hoar Frost River; the Indians call it Dezza Kya. If this is the Beverly Falls of Back, his illustrator 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 shore. 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 shore, 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 button 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 embarrassing 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 shore and all hands set out to pick up the few pencil-thick stems of creeping birch, roots of annual plants, or wisps of grass 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 shores, 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.

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 godsend, 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 butterflies 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, bumpy, and bloody, 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, sturdy, 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 shore 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, "Loutit" 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 shores 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 XXX

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 shores 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 buttes with long grassy 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 grass, 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 passed the splendid landmark of Beaver Lodge Mountain. Its rosy-red granite cliffs contrast wonderfully with its emerald cap of verdant grass 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, passed 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 pass 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 massing, they once more charged the fearsome odour and went right through it. Now they passed 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 passed 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 grass, where it lay as though it had unlimited time.

I took one photograph, and as I crawled to get one nearer, a shot passed 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. He said nothing to me then, but later complained to Billy, asking, "What did we come for?"

Next morning at dawn I dreamed I was back in New York and that a couple of cats were wailing under my bedroom window. Their noise increased so that I awoke, and then I heard unaccountable caterwauls. They were very loud and near, at least one of the creatures was. At length I got up to see. Here on the lake a few yards from the tent was a loon swimming about, minutely inspecting the tent and uttering at intervals deep cat-like mews in expression of his curiosity.

The south wind had blown for some days before we arrived, and the result was to fill the country with Caribou coming from the north. The day after we came, the north wind set in, and continued for three days, so that soon there was not a Caribou to be found in the region.

In the afternoon I went up the hill to where Weeso left the offal of his deer. A large yellowish animal was there feeding. It disappeared over a rock and I could get no second view of it. It may have been a wolf, as I saw a fresh wolf trail near; I did not, however, see the animal's tail.

In the evening Preble and I went again, and again the creature was there, but disappeared as mysteriously as before when we were 200 yards away. Where it went we could not guess. The country was open and we scoured it with eye and glass, but saw nothing more of the prowler. It seemed to be a young Arctic wolf, yellowish white in colour, but tailless,

Next day, at noon Preble and Billy returned bearing the illusive visitor; it was a large Lynx. It was very thin and yet, after bleeding, weighed 22 pounds. But why was it so far from the forest, 20 miles or more, and a couple of miles from this little grove that formed the last woods?

This is another evidence of the straits the Lynxes are put to for food, in this year of famine.



CHAPTER XXXI

GOOD-BYE TO THE WOODS



The last woods is a wonderfully interesting biological point or line; this ultimate arm of the forest does not die away gradually with uncertain edges and in steadily dwindling trees. The latter have sent their stoutest champions to the front, or produced, as by a final effort, some giants for the line of battle. And that line, with its sentinels, is so marked that one can stand with a foot on the territory of each combatant, or, as scientists call them, the Arctic Region and the cold Temperate.

And each of the embattled kings, Jack-frost and Sombre-pine, has his children in abundance to possess the land as he wins it. Right up to the skirmish line are they.

The low thickets of the woods are swarming with Tree-sparrows, Redpolls, Robins, Hooded Sparrows, and the bare plains, a few yards away, are peopled and vocal with birds to whom a bush is an abomination. Lap-longspur, Snowbird, Shorelarks, and Pipits are here soaring and singing, or among the barren rocks are Ptarmigan in garments that are painted in the patterns of their rocks.

There is one sombre fowl of ampler wing that knows no line—is at home in the open or in the woods. His sonorous voice has a human sound that is uncanny; his form is visible afar in the desert and sinister as a gibbet; his plumage fits in with nothing but the night, which he does not love. This evil genius of the land is the Raven of the north. Its numbers increased as we reached the Barrens, and the morning after the first Caribou was killed, no less than 28 were assembled at its offal.

An even more interesting bird of the woods is the Hooded Sparrow, interesting because so little known.

Here I found it on its breeding-grounds, a little late for its vernal song, but in September we heard its autumnal renewal like the notes of its kinsmen, White-throat and White-crowned Sparrows, but with less whistling, and more trilled. In all the woods of the Hudsonian Zone we found it evidently at home. But here I was privileged to find the first nest of the species known to science. The victory was robbed of its crown, through the nest having fledglings instead of eggs, but still it was the ample reward of hours of search.

Of course it was on the ground, in the moss and creeping plants, under some bushes of dwarf birch, screened by spruces. The structure closely resembled that of the Whitethroat was lined with grass and fibrous roots; no down, feathers, or fur were observable. The young numbered four.

The last woods was the limit of other interesting creatures—the Ants. Wherever one looks on the ground, in a high, dry place, throughout the forest country, from Athabaska Landing northward along our route, there is to be seen at least one Ant to the square foot, usually several. Three kinds seem common—one red-bodied, another a black one with brown thorax, and a third very small and all black. They seem to live chiefly in hollow logs and stumps, but are found also on marshes, where their hills are occasionally so numerous as to form dry bridges across.

I made many notes on the growth of timber here and all along the route; and for comparison will begin at the very beging.

In March, 1907, at my home in Connecticut, I cut down an oak tree (Q. palustris) that was 110 feet high, 32 inches in diameter, and yet had only 76 rings of annual growth.

In the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho, where I camped in September, 1902, a yellow pine 6 feet 6 inches high was 51 inches in circumference at base. It had 14 rings and 14 whorls of branches corresponding exactly with the rings.

At the same place I measured a balsam fir—84 feet high, 15 inches in diameter at 32 inches from the ground. It had 52 annual rings and 50 or possibly 52 whorls of branches. The most vigorous upward growth of the trunk corresponded exactly with the largest growth of wood in the stump. Thus ring No. 33 was 3/8 inch wide and whorl No. 33 had over 2 feet of growth, below it on the trunk were others which had but 6 inches.

On the stump most growth was on north-east side; there it was 9 inches, from pith to bark next on east 8 1/2 inches, on south 8 inches, north 6 1/2 inches, west 6 1/2 inches, least on north-west side, 6 inches. The most light in this case came from the north-east. This was in the land of mighty timber.

On Great Slave River, the higher latitude is offset by lower altitude, and on June 2, 1907, while among the tall white spruce trees I measured one of average size—118 feet high, 11 feet 2 inches in girth a foot from the ground (3 feet 6 1/2 inches in diameter), and many black poplars nearly as tall were 9 feet in girth.

But the stunting effect of the short summer became marked as we went northward. At Fort Smith, June 20, I cut down a jackpine that was 12 feet high, 1 inch in diameter, with 23 annual rings at the bottom; 6 feet up it had 12 rings and 20 whorls. In all it appeared to have 43 whorls, which is puzzling. Of these 20 were in the lower part. This tree grew in dense shade.

At Fort Resolution we left the Canadian region of large timber and entered the stunted spruce, as noted, and at length on the timber line we saw the final effort of the forests to combat Jack Frost in his own kingdom. The individual history of each tree is in three stages:

First, as a low, thick, creeping bush sometimes ten feet across, but only a foot high. In this stage it continues until rooted enough and with capital enough to send up a long central shoot; which is stage No. 2.

This central shoot is like a Noah's Ark pine; in time it becomes the tree and finally the basal thicket dies, leaving the specimen in stage No. 3.

A stem of one of the low creepers was cut for examination; it was 11 inches through and 25 years old. Some of these low mats of spruce have stems 5 inches through. They must be fully 100 years old.

A tall, dead, white spruce at the camp was 30 feet high and 11 inches in diameter at 4 feet from the ground. Its 190 rings were hard to count, they were so thin. The central ones were thickest, there being 16 to the inmost inch of radius; on the outside to the north 50 rings made only 1/2 an inch and 86 made one inch.

Numbers 42 and 43, counting from the outside, were two or three times as thick as those outside of them and much thicker than the next within; they must have represented years of unusual summers. No. 99 also was of great size. What years these corresponded with one could not guess, as the tree was a long time dead.

Another, a dwarf but 8 feet high, was 12 inches through. It had 205 rings plus a 5-inch hollow which we reckoned at about 100 rings of growth; 64 rings made only 1 3/8 inches; the outmost of the 64 was 2 inches in from the outside of the wood. Those on the outer two inches were even smaller, so as to be exceedingly difficult to count. This tree was at least 300 years old; our estimates varied, according to the data, from 300 to 325 years.

These, then, are the facts for extremes. In Idaho or Connecticut it took about 10 years to produce the same amount of timber as took 300 years on the edge of the Arctic Zone.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE TREELESS PLAINS



On August 7 we left Camp Last Woods. Our various specimens, with a stock of food, were secured, as usual, in a cache high in two trees, in this case those already used by Tyrrell seven years before, and guarded by the magic necklace of cod hooks.

By noon (in 3 hours) we made fifteen miles, camping far beyond Twin Buttes. All day long the boat shot through water crowded with drowned gnats. These were about 10 to the square inch near shore and for about twenty yards out, after that 10 to the square foot for two hundred or three hundred yards still farther from shore, and for a quarter mile wide they were 10 to the square yard.

This morning the wind turned and blew from the south. At 2 P. M. we saw a band of some 60 Caribou travelling southward; these were the first seen for two or three days. After this we saw many odd ones, and about 3 o'clock a band of 400 or 500. At night we camped on Casba River, having covered 36 miles in 7 hours and 45 minutes.

The place, we had selected for camp proved to be a Caribou crossing. As we drew near a dozen of them came from the east and swam across. A second band of 8 now appeared. We gave chase. They spurted; so did we. Our canoe was going over 6 miles an hour, and yet was but slowly overtaking them. They made the water foam around them. Their heads, necks, shoulders, backs, rumps, and tails were out. I never before saw land animals move so fast in the water. A fawn in danger of being left behind reared up on its mother's back and hung on with forefeet. The leader was a doe or a young buck, I could not be sure which; the last was a big buck. They soon struck bottom and bounded along on the shore. It was too dark for a picture.

As we were turning in for the night 30 Caribou came trotting and snorting through the camp. Half of them crossed the water, but the rest turned back when Billy shouted.

Later a band of two hundred passed through and around our tents. In the morning Billy complained that he could not sleep all night for Caribou travelling by his tent and stumbling over the guy ropes. From this time on we were nearly always in sight of Caribou, small bands or scattering groups; one had the feeling that the whole land was like this, on and on and on, unlimited space with unlimited wild herds.

A year afterward as I travelled in the fair State of Illinois, famous for its cattle, I was struck by the idea that one sees far more Caribou in the north than cattle, in Illinois. This State has about 56,000 square miles, of land and 3,000,000 cattle; the Arctic Plains have over 1,000,000 square miles of prairie, which, allowing for the fact that I saw the best of the range, would set, the Caribou number at over 30,000,000. There is a, good deal of evidence that this is not far from the truth.

The reader may recollect the original postulate of my plan. Other travellers have gone, relying on the abundant Caribou, yet saw none, so starved. I relied on no Caribou, I took plenty of groceries, and because I was independent, the Caribou walked into camp nearly every day, and we lived largely on their meat, saving our groceries for an emergency, which came in an unexpected form. One morning when we were grown accustomed to this condition I said to Billy:

"How is the meat?"

"Nearly gone. We'll need another Caribou about Thursday."

"You better get one now to be ready Thursday. I do not like it so steaming fresh. See, there's a nice little buck on that hillside."

"No, not him; why he is nearly half a mile off. I'd have to pack him in. Let's wait till one comes in camp."

Which we did, and usually got our meat delivered near the door.'

Caribou meat fresh, and well prepared, has no superior, and the ideal way of cooking it is of course by roasting.

Fried meat is dried meat,

Boiled meat is spoiled meat,

Roast meat is best meat.

How was it to be roasted at an open fire without continued vigilance? By a very simple contrivance that I invented at the time and now offer for the use of all campers.

A wire held the leg; on the top of the wire was a paddle or shingle of wood; above that, beyond the heat, was a cord.

The wind gives the paddle a push; it winds up the cord, which then unwinds itself. This goes on without fail and without effort, never still, and the roast is perfect.

Thus we were living on the fat of many lands and on the choicest fat of this.

And what a region it is for pasture. At this place it reminds one of Texas. Open, grassy plains, sparser reaches of sand, long slopes of mesquite, mesas dotted with cedars and stretches of chapparal and soapweed. Only, those vegetations here are willow, dwarf birch, tiny spruce, and ledum, and the country as a whole is far too green and rich. The emerald verdure of the shore, in not a few places, carried me back, to the west coast of Ireland.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE UNKNOWN



The daily observations of route and landmark I can best leave for record on my maps. I had one great complaint against previous explorers (except Tyrrell); that is, they left no monuments. Aiming to give no ground of complaint against us, we made monuments at all important points. On the, night of August 8 we camped at Cairn Bay on the west side of Casba Lake, so named because of the five remarkable glacial cairns or conical stone-piles about it. On the top of one of these I left a monument, a six-foot pillar of large stones.

On the afternoon of August 9 we passed the important headland that I have called "Tyrrell Point." Here we jumped off his map into the unknown. I had, of course, the small chart drawn by Sir George Back in 1834, but it was hastily made under great difficulties, and, with a few exceptions, it seemed impossible to recognize his landscape features. Next day I explored the east arm of Clinton-Colden and discovered the tributary that I have called "Laurier River," and near its mouth made a cairn enclosing a Caribou antler with inscription "E. T. Seton, 10 Aug., 1907."

Future travellers on this lake will find, as I did, that the Conical Butte in the eastern part is an important landmark. It is a glacial dump about 50 feet above the general level, which again is 100 feet above the water, visible and recognizable from nearly all parts of the lake.

Thus we went on day by day, sometimes detained by head or heavy winds, but making great progress in the calm, which nearly always came in the evening; 30 and 35 miles a day we went, led on and stimulated by the thirst to see and know. "I must see what is over that ridge," "I must make sure that this is an island," or "Maybe from that lookout I shall see Lake Aylmer, or a band of Caribou, yes, or even a band of Musk-ox." Always there was some reward, and nearly always it was a surprise.

From time to time we came on Snowbirds with their young broods, evidently at home. Ptarmigan abounded. Parry's Groundsquirrel was found at nearly all points, including the large islands. The Laplongspur swarmed everywhere; their loud "chee chups" were the first sounds to greet us each time we neared the land. And out over all the lake were Loons, Loons, Loons. Four species abound here; they caterwaul and yodel all day and all night, each in its own particular speech, From time to time a wild hyena chorus from the tranquil water in the purple sunset haze suggested, that a pack of goblin hounds were chivying a goblin buck, but it turned out always to be a family of Red-throated Loons, yodelling their inspiring marching song.

One day when at Gravel Mountain, old Weeso came to camp in evident fear—"far off he had seen a man." In this country a man must mean an Eskimo; with them the Indian has a long feud; of them he is in terror. We never learned the truth; I think he was mistaken.

Once or twice the long howl of the White Wolf sounded from the shore, and every day we saw a few Caribou.

A great many of the single Caribou were on the small islands. In six cases that came under close observation the animal in question had a broken leg. A broken leg generally evidences recent inroads by hunters, but the nearest Indians were 200 miles to the south, and the nearest Eskimo 300 miles to the north. There was every reason to believe that we were the only human beings in that vast region, and certainly we had broken no legs. Every Caribou fired at (8) had been secured and used. There is only one dangerous large enemy common in this country; that is the White Wolf. And the more I pondered it, the more it seemed sure that the Wolves had broken the Caribous' legs.

How! This is the history of each case: The Caribou is so much swifter than the Wolves that the latter have no chance in open chase; they therefore adopt the stratagem of a sneaking surround and a drive over the rocks or a precipice, where the Caribou, if not actually killed, is more or less disabled. In some cases only a leg is broken, and then the Caribou knows his only chance is to reach the water. Here his wonderful powers of swimming make him easily safe, so much so that the Wolves make no attempt to follow. The crippled deer makes for some island sanctuary, where he rests in peace till his leg is healed, or it may be, in some cases, till the freezing of the lake brings him again into the power of his floe.

These six, then, were the cripples in hospital, and I hope our respectful behaviour did not inspire them with a dangerously false notion of humanity.

On the island that I have called Owl-and-Hare, we saw the first White Owl and the first Arctic Hare.

In this country when you see a tree, you know perfectly well it is not a tree; it's the horns of a Caribou. An unusually large affair of branches appeared on an island in the channel to Aylmer. I landed, camera in hand; the Caribou was lying down in the open, but there was a tuft of herbage 30 yards from him, another at 20 yards. I crawled to the first and made a snapshot, then, flat as a rug, sneaked my way to the one estimated at 20 yards. The click of the camera, alarmed the buck; he rose, tried the wind, then lay down again, giving me another chance. Having used all the films, I now stood up. The Caribou dashed away and by a slight limp showed that he was in sanctuary. The 20-yard estimate proved too long; it was only 16 yards, which put my picture a little out of focus.

There never was a day, and rarely an hour of each day, that we did not see several Caribou. And yet I never failed to get a thrill at each fresh one. "There's a Caribou," one says with perennial intensity that is evidence of perennial pleasure in the sight. There never was one sighted that did not give us a happy sense of satisfaction—the thought "This is what we came for."



CHAPTER XXXIV

AYLMER LAKE



One of my objects was to complete the ambiguous shore line of Aylmer Lake. The first task was to find the lake. So we left the narrows and pushed on and on, studying the Back map, vainly trying to identify points, etc. Once or twice we saw gaps ahead that seemed to open into the great inland sea of Aylmer. But each in turn proved a mere bay.—On August 12 we left the narrows; on the 13th and 14th we journeyed westward seeking the open sea. On the morning of the 15th we ran into the final end of the farthest bay we could discover and camped at the mouth of a large river entering in.

As usual, we landed—Preble, Billy, and I—to study topography, Weeso to get firewood, and curiously enough, there was more firewood here than we had seen since leaving Artillery Lake. The reason of this appeared later.

I was utterly puzzled. We had not yet found Aylmer Lake, and had discovered an important river that did not seem to be down on any map.