CHAPTER IX
From Fort McPherson to Rampart House : Crossing the Peel River : An Attempt at Intimidation : The Summit of the Rocky Mountains : In Pacific Waters : The Porcupine : John Quatlot Departs.
The following day I commenced to make preparations for the next stage in my trip.
I had hoped to be able to proceed first up Rat Creek to near the summit of the Rocky Mountains where I would make a portage of some ten miles over the summit into the waters of the Bell River, a tributary of the Porcupine, the latter a tributary of the Yukon, all flowing to the Pacific, and I had brought along a good Peterborough canoe for the purpose.
There were a few Indians at McPherson who had recently come over from near Rampart House on the Alaskan boundary and who were willing to engage in assisting me on my way, but they said that owing to the low state of the water it would take us three weeks to get to Bell River via Rat Creek with my canoe. They had come over the long portage of eighty miles leaving their birch bark canoes at Bell River, and they advised me to allow them to carry my outfit and supplies over this trail to their landing place, and that as one of their canoes was a large one I could have room in it while making the journey down to Rampart House. This seemed a wise course and I arranged with them for the trip.
On Tuesday, July 24, at 3.30 P.M., we crossed the Peel River to where the trail starts. Here we made up our packs. Altogether our party consisted of four Indians and one squaw. The latter carried only a small pack but took charge of our three dogs, the latter also each carrying a pack of about thirty pounds.
It was 5.30 P.M. when all was arranged and we climbed up the steep bank of the Peel and commenced our overland journey. The weather was sultry and threatened rain which finally overtook us. Our path was for a few miles through a rather stunted forest which to a certain extent protected us, but as we got away from the river the trees became smaller and more scattered till finally at about ten o’clock we found ahead of us a dreary Arctic swamp covered only with a short growth of grass mixed with low shrubbery. This was the tundra so often mentioned by Arctic travellers. The grass grows in hummocks known as tête de femme (woman’s head). The trail is generally covered with some water, and one is often tempted to try to step from one to another of these tufts of grass, but as the somewhat larger head rests on a slender neck you will soon prefer to wade along the narrow path, after perhaps having a few tumbles, which, to any one loaded with a pack, is not a pleasant experience.
Before entering the open at about 10 P.M. and seven miles from our starting-point, as the rain was increasing, we determined to camp for the night. This was accomplished with some difficulty as the wind had great strength as it blew uninterruptedly in from the dreary waste stretching away to the north and west of us. However, with the assistance of Mr. Stefansson, who accompanied me this far we finally succeeded in getting my tent up and made fast in the swampy soil.
I have already referred to Mr. Stefansson, as one who no doubt will be heard more of in the future. It is now over five years since we bade each other good-bye on that dreary night, and ever since he has lived almost constantly along the Arctic coast, collecting information which it is hoped he may return to publish. He is at present somewhere in that barren region busily studying the ethnological characteristics of that strange race which probably at some time in its past history was driven by its enemies beyond the habitable land to seek shelter on these islands and capes which they have now grown to love so dearly that they would not exchange them for any other.
There seems no reason for this except the sentiment that is enshrined in the word “Home.” A sentiment that is world wide and which every race on earth holds dear.
“The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Proclaims the happiest land his own,
The naked negro panting on the line
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine.”
It rained all night and during the early morning, but cleared up about ten o’clock when we prepared to resume our journey.
I had engaged the Indians to carry my outfit across the portage, thence in their canoes to Rampart House, for a certain sum, and had paid them in advance at Fort McPherson. In addition to the four Indians and squaw whom I have mentioned, a young man had joined the party on starting, and assisted thus far on the journey.
While we were packing up in the morning this individual in a rather defiant manner approached me and in fair English informed me that it would be impossible, without his assistance, for the others to carry all that I was bringing; at the same time asking me what I proposed to pay him for helping them across. I realised that I had to act firmly. I would gladly have engaged him, but I felt that it was, to use a common phrase, “a hold up,” and that if I allowed him to intimidate me at this early stage in the journey there was no telling what he might attempt next. My authority with the others would be weakened and they would look on him rather than myself as leader of the party. I told him that all the loads had been weighed before starting from the post, that his people had been given all they asked for the work, and that if they wanted his assistance it rested with them to pay him. In a somewhat angry tone he said “that was not the way for a white man to talk, and that if I did not pay him he would go ahead light and make the journey in half the time we would.” I then told him that he must provide for himself, as I did not want him in our party. With this he hurriedly gathered up his blankets and a little dried meat he had, and with his gun started ahead, and we saw no more of him. I felt greatly relieved when he left, and after this I heard not the slightest complaint from any one of the party, though they were heavily loaded; so much so that I could not refrain from assisting them myself, and the fact was that from this point across I believe I bore my fair share with the rest, according to my strength, though in real weight I only took a small fraction of what one of the men carried. This particular Indian and his wife, who was with us, were really fine specimens of their race. Both were young, of splendid stature, and really good looking, and though he must have carried over 100 pounds across that eighty miles, it was all done without any show of irritability but with the utmost good nature, while the wife also bore her share without complaint.
We did not get started on this, our second day on the trail, till 11 o’clock, but travelled till 8.30 P.M. and camped on the bank of a small stream flowing southerly and emptying into a larger one flowing easterly into the Peel. The latter is known as La Pierre or “Stony Creek,” and our trail lay in the valley of this stream all the way to the “great divide.” The small stream where we camped was at this time only two rods wide and fifteen inches deep, but evidently is one of considerable size at other seasons of the year.
The weather was hot till late in the afternoon, when it turned cooler. My Indians informed me that on their trip across this portage a few weeks before they had suffered with the intense heat and lost some of their dogs in consequence of it.
This was about the same time that we had experienced the excessive heat on the Athabaska. Perhaps the reader will recall the extreme hot weather that I am informed was general throughout what I may call Southern Canada as well as the United States in the early part of July 1906. It would seem that this hot wave had extended from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic Ocean.
During this second day’s journey the trail was generally through what might be called an Arctic swamp, but occasionally we would ascend an eminence, and on each occasion I cast a glance back where I could see Fort McPherson, but each successive time it grew more indistinct, till finally it was lost to view and the last link with civilisation in that direction was broken. It had seemed to me up to this time that something might happen which would prevent my getting across the portage and cause me to return to McPherson by the same route which I had previously taken. But the return would not have been by steamers, but in my canoe, which was still at McPherson. From now on, however, there was fortunately no looking backward.
On July 26 we started at 9 A.M. and travelled till 7 P.M., making about eighteen miles, and crossing another small stream in the afternoon. Our course still lay westerly up the same valley, with Stony Creek far below us to the left. The day was quite cool and the night decidedly so. We were now well up the mountains and some snow was seen in the ravines. This was the most fatiguing day of the trip. Though there was really no mountain climbing in the usual sense of the term, the continual gradual ascent was most wearisome, and right glad was I when the Indians threw off their packs on the bank of another small creek.
We left camp at 8.30 A.M. on Friday the 27th, and at 1 P.M. reached “the summit” of the Rocky Mountains at a height of 2600 feet above sea level in the pass, though the mountains on each side are from two to three thousand feet higher. Shortly after this we crossed a stream which flowed into one further south, similar in size to Stony Creek, but, of course, flowing westerly with its waters coursing on their way into the Pacific Ocean.
Immediately after crossing the height of land we found the travelling much easier, for we were now on the descent and though to the eye this was scarcely discernible, and the swamp was just as wet as before, yet, when we rested for the night I was by no means so tired as on the previous night, though we had travelled several miles farther. The weather was cool and (blessed boon) there were no mosquitoes. We passed over some snow on the hill sides, but without the least difficulty, as it was almost as hard as ice.
On Saturday the 28th we started at 8 A.M. and immediately forded the stream by which we had camped and in the valley of which we had been travelling since crossing the summit; it was of considerable size, but at this season was easily forded. Four miles further on we crossed the same stream again. The mountain scenery here was very beautiful, though the peaks are not so high as further south, though they probably attain an elevation of 5000 feet above sea level. No large glaciers are to be seen in this region, but considerable snow remains the year round on some of the peaks. At noon a high mountain lay directly in front of us to the west with great valleys both north and south of it. Following our trail as it bore off to the north to avoid this mountain, we finally came to the same stream again which we now crossed for the last time, now flowing to the north. It had evidently received a tributary since our last crossing, for its contents were much greater, and though its depth was not over eighteen inches the current was very rapid, and without the assistance of one of the Indians I fear I would have had trouble in making the ford. We camped immediately after crossing.
So far we had experienced no rain after the first night out, but this afternoon showed symptoms of an approaching storm, which I greatly feared, the swamps being bad enough even in dry weather. As we were wading through one of these the squaw asked me if I would travel the next day (Sunday). I did not wish to show them a bad example, while at the same time I disliked halting a whole day when the weather was threatening and our supplies of food were growing short, so I told her they could do as they chose in the matter. She immediately replied that Archdeacon Macdonald always told them it was not wrong to walk on Sunday when they were short of “grub.” I told her Archdeacon Macdonald was a good man. She said “yes,” and I knew then what they would do.
On the following morning old John Quatlot, as faithful a man as I ever met, was up at an unusually early hour and had breakfast ready by about six o’clock. After this was over and before starting, I walked down along the stream a short distance, and, on my way back heard an old familiar hymn, and on approaching found all had joined in the religious service for this particular day. Each of them had his prayer and hymn book, while one who was a lay reader had with him Archdeacon Macdonald’s translation of a portion of the scriptures. After the service was concluded they shouldered their packs and started again on the trail, and soon entered one of the worst swamps we had encountered. After this we made a slight ascent and then commenced the descent of a steep hill partially wooded, at the foot of which flowed the Bell River. We had at last, in less than five days, reached the end of the portage, the length of which was, as has been previously said, about eighty miles. I have only one further word to say about this trail, and it is to warn any one not to attempt the journey without a guide, even in summer, for there is very little travel over it, and the marks made in the swamps one year will be almost obliterated the next. In many places the path is covered with water, but there is no fear of miring anywhere, as perpetual frost is found less than a foot below the surface.
On the bank of the Bell we left the Indian, Charlie Fox, and his wife with their dogs, he having given us his canoe. After resting a day or two he intended to build a raft on which they would float down stream over a hundred and fifty miles to his home, at the junction of the Old Crow River with the Porcupine.
It was a pleasant sight to behold the calm waters of the Bell in front of us and to realise that by our journey of less than five days we had reached the waters flowing into the Pacific Ocean, but this pleasure was soon marred when I saw the canoes in which we were about to embark.
I had been assured that one of the three was a large craft capable of carrying two men with a lot of “dunnage,” I had also expected that this one would be constructed on lines similar to those used in the east, where my man would sit in the stern and steer while I would have the pleasure of a comfortable seat in the bow and be able to assist with my paddle. But I soon realised that this would be impossible, as this canoe was built on the same lines as those I had seen at McPherson and at other points along the Mackenzie. They are very long and narrow with the bow and stern decked over similar to the Esquimaux kayak. In other respects they resemble a single scull without the sliding seat. The Captain, and the propeller of the craft, took his seat near the centre, and I was assigned one immediately behind him, so near him as to make it impossible for me to use a paddle. All I had to do was to sit perfectly still while my man did all the paddling and steering. The latter was done by his making about four strokes on one side and then changing his paddle to the other side. However, before starting, at my instance, they lashed the three canoes together by cross pieces, making a sort of catamaran, and we were soon gliding down stream at the rate of about four miles an hour, without any danger of capsizing, but with some feelings for poor Charlie Fox and his wife, who waved us good-bye until a turn in the river hid them from view. But this feeling of security did not last long. After a couple of hours we went ashore for lunch, and, to my dismay, on starting they insisted on disengaging the canoes and by no manner nor means could I induce them to desist from this determination. Finally we compromised on their agreeing to try how they would go separately, and if not satisfactory to again lash them together. With great reluctance I took my place in the largest canoe, weighed down in the centre to about three inches of the water. In a steady craft this would have been ample, but ours was about the most cranky of its species. On starting I thought it would be utterly impossible for us to continue this, but, once under way, the impetus made it a little steadier, and, as the water this afternoon was perfectly calm, we succeeded in making a landing in the evening without any accident, but with the firm determination on my part that we would revert to our former plan the next morning. In the evening we discussed the matter as best we could, considering their limited knowledge of English and my ignorance of their language. They tried to persuade me that there was less danger separately than when hitched together if the water became rough, as in that case it would splash up between the canoes and swamp them, but I soon learned that the real reason for their refusal was that they could go much faster separately, and they were in a great hurry to get to their homes before the run of the salmon was over.