CHAPTER XV.
A Hurried Round Trip to Minneapolis—Many Instances.
After leaving Grand Rapids about the middle of August, we saw very few white men for many months following. In October, on our survey, local attraction was so strong on part of our work, that it was necessary to use a solar compass. This emergency had not been anticipated; it, therefore, became necessary to go to Minneapolis to secure that special instrument. Philip B. Winston, afterwards mayor of Minneapolis, and I started in a birch canoe, and in it, made the whole distance from our camp on Bow String Lake to Aitkin, Minnesota, on the Mississippi, the nearest railroad station. We were in Minneapolis but two days, when we returned, catching the steamer at Aitkin, and going up the Mississippi to Grand Rapids, the head of navigation for steamboats.
Captain John Martin of Minneapolis, the well-known lumberman and banker, wished to return with us for his final fishing trip in open water, for that season. He fished successfully for a number of days, and, at the end of each day, personally prepared and cooked as fine a fish chowder as anyone would ever wish to eat. On the day of his departure, I took the Captain in my canoe, and landed him on the four-mile portage with an Indian escort who was to take him to Grand Rapids, whence he would return by steamer to Aitkin, a station on the line of the Northern Pacific Railroad.
I was left alone in my canoe and must return to camp, crossing the open water of Bow String Lake. On my arrival at the main lake, the wind had increased its velocity, and the whitecaps were breaking. I hired an Indian, known as "the hunter," to help me paddle across the lake and up a rapid on a river flowing into Bow String, up and over which it was not possible for one man to push his canoe alone.
The annual payment to the Indians by the United States government was to occur a few days subsequently, at Leach Lake, and the Indians were busy getting ready to leave, to attend the payment. The hunter's people were to start that day, and he seemed to realize when half way across the lake, that, owing to our slow progress, because of the heavy sea, he would be late in returning to his people at camp. He said so, and wished to turn back, but I told him that he must take me above the rapid, which was my principal object in hiring him. After sitting stoically in the bow of the canoe for a few moments, he suddenly turned about, and, drawing his long knife, said in Chippewa, that he must go back. I drew my revolver and told him to get down in the canoe and paddle, and that if he did not, he would get shot. There was no further threat by the Indian, and we made as rapid progress as possible over the rapid, landing my canoe—his own having been trailed to the foot of the rapid. Both stepped ashore. Then he said in Chippewa, "Me bad Chippewa; white man all right"; and bidding me good-by, hurried off to his canoe at the foot of the rapid.
"The fire ... destroyed millions of dollars worth of standing pine timber". (Page [160].)
Once more, during the fall of 1874, I had to reckon with this wily Indian, the hunter, as will soon appear in this narrative.
Perhaps the most convenient pack strap used by the woodsman when on an all day's tramp, is one that is commonly known as the Indian pack strap. It consists of a strap of leather about three inches wide and about three feet long, from each end of which, a tapering piece of leather, either sewed or buckled to it, extends finally to a narrow point no wider than a whip-lash. Each of these added narrow strips is from five to six feet in length, so that the whole strap is about fourteen feet long when straightened out. A blanket or a tent is folded into shape, about four feet by six feet. This is laid on the ground, and the strap is folded double with a spread at the wide part, of about three feet, which is the length of the wide strap. The narrow ends are then drawn straight back over the blanket, across its narrow dimension, leaving the wide strap, which in use becomes the head strap, at the outer edge of the blanket. Then the blanket is folded from each end over the narrow straps, the two ends of which project out and beyond the blanket at the opposite side from the head strap. The articles to be placed within the blanket, which generally consist of small sacks of beans, flour, pork, sugar, coffee, and wearing apparel, and blankets, are then carefully stacked upon the blanket, within the spread of the two narrow lines of the pack strap. When this is done, the blanket is folded over, and the two outer edges are brought as near to the center of the pile of things to be carried within it, as is possible. Then the two tapering ends of the pack strap are brought up and over, to meet the opposite ends of the narrow straps, which, as has been explained, are either sewed to, or buckled onto the wide head strap. Drawing these ends firmly together puckers the outer edge of the blanket on either side, and draws the blanket completely over the contents piled in the center, and makes, ordinarily, nearly a round bundle. This load, or pack, the man then throws over his shoulder, onto his back, and brings the wide strap across his forehead, or across his breast, or across the top of his head, when he is ready to begin his journey. Before he has traveled long with this load, which weighs ordinarily from fifty to one hundred pounds, according to the ability of the man to bear the burden, he will be found shifting that wide strap to any one of the three positions named, and will have used all of those positions many times before the party as a whole, stops for a moment's rest.
I had taken with me, on going north on this long campaign, an extra fine red leather pack strap that I had had made to order at a Minneapolis harness shop. I had kept it coiled up, and carefully stored in my belongings, waiting for an emergency when the more common straps would no longer be of service. A number of times the Indians had seen this strap and had admired it, and, as it later proved, not always without envy.
One day the strap was missing, and I could find it, neither by searching, nor by open inquiry of my fellow white men, nor of the Indians, whom I occasionally met. On one occasion, while portaging my canoe to another lake, I found several families of Indians camping at the end of the portage. Among them was the hunter who has been previously mentioned. While stopping a moment for a friendly talk with the Indians, I saw protruding from under the coat of the hunter, nearly two feet of one end of my missing pack strap. I knew it so well that I was sure that it was no other pack strap. Nevertheless, I deliberated slowly what action I should take to recover the strap, not wishing by any possibility to make a mistake. Having surely concluded that the strap was mine, and that the hunter had not come into possession of it honestly—he having previously denied, when questioned, that he knew anything of the whereabouts of the strap—I decided upon a course of action. Going up quietly behind the hunter, and twisting the end of the protruding strap twice around my wrist, and grasping it firmly in my hand, I started with all my might to run with the strap. The effect was to make a temporary top of my friend, the hunter, who whirled about until the other end of the pack strap was released from his body. It was too good a joke, even for the Indians to remain unmoved, and the majority of them broke into merriment. The hunter at first was disposed to take it seriously but soon looked sheepish and ashamed, and tried to smile with the rest of his tribe, as well as with myself.
"One of the horses balked frequently". (Page [167].)
Having wound the strap carefully around my own body, and having made sure that the ends did not protrude, I bade my friends, including the hunter, good day, got into my canoe and pushed out into the lake. This proved to be the last time I ever saw the hunter, but it was not the last time that I ever thought of the incident.
In justice to the Indians as compared with white men, I am glad to be able to say, that, after mingling with them more or less for many years, and becoming sufficiently familiar with their language to be able to use it on all necessary occasions, I believe that the Indians are as honest and as honorable as the men with whom they mingle, who have not a copper skin.
Captain Martin was the last white man whom any one of our party saw for four months. Winter closed in on us before the beginning of November. The snow became very deep, so that it was absolutely necessary to perform all of our work on snowshoes. The winter of 1874 and 1875 is shown to have been the coldest winter in Minnesota, of which there is any record, beginning with 1819 up to, and including, 1913.
The party was mostly composed of men who had had years of experience on the frontier, and who were inured to hardship. With a few, however, the experience was entirely new, and, except that they were looked after by the more hardy, they might have perished. As it was, however, not one man became seriously ill at any time during this severe winter's campaign.
All of the principal men of the party wore light duck suits, made large enough to admit of wearing heavy flannel underwear beneath them. Either boot-packs or buckskin moccasins, inside of which were several pairs of woolen socks, composed the footwear. Boot-packs or larigans, as they are commonly called by the lumber-jack, are tanned in a manner that makes them very susceptible to heat, and the leather will shrivel quickly if near an open fire. It cost one of the party several pairs of boot-packs before he could learn to keep sufficiently far away from the open fire, on returning to camp from his work. It will be surmised by the reader that he was one of the inexperienced of the party.
Many incidents, amusing to others, happened during the winter to this same man. He had started on the trip in the summer months, with a supply of shoe blacking and paper collars. The crossing of one or two portages with his loaded pack sack on his back was sufficient to convince him that there was no need of carrying either shoe blacking or paper collars, and they were thrown out to reduce weight. Each man carried a hank or skein of thread, a paper of needles, and a supply of buttons. Soon after winter set in, this man, who might ordinarily be termed a tenderfoot, complained of lameness in one of his feet. As the weather became more severe, he added from time to time, another pair of socks to those he already had on, never removing any of previous service. This necessitated, not infrequently, his choosing a larger sized boot-pack. Before the campaign was over, although he was a man of low stature and light weight, his feet presented the appearance of being the largest in the party. Still he complained of lameness in the hollow of his foot, and no relief came until March, when the work was completed. Arriving once more back in civilization, he removed his much accumulated footwear. There, under this accumulation of socks, and against the hollow of his foot, was found his skein of thread, the absence of which, from its usual place, had necessitated his borrowing, whenever he had need of it, from some one of his companions. Before starting out on this campaign, he had been one of the tidiest of men about his personal appearance.
One evening in midwinter, when sitting around the camp fire, by reason of the pile of wood for the evening being largely composed of dry balsam, we were kept more or less busy, extinguishing sparks that are always thrown out from this kind of wood when burning. Sometimes one would light on the side of the tent near by, and unless immediately extinguished, would eat a large hole in the cloth. That evening, Fendall G. Winston and I were sitting side by side, when we saw a live spark more than a quarter of an inch in diameter light in the ear of our friend who sat a little way from, and in front of us. It did not go out immediately, neither did it disturb the tranquillity of the young man. Mr. Winston and I exchanged glances and smilingly watched the ember slowly die. The time to clean up had not yet arrived for at least one of the party.
The compassman's work that winter was rendered very laborious from the fact that his occupation made it necessary for him, from morning until night of every day, to break his own path through the untrodden snow, for it was he who was locating the line of the survey. I was all of the time running lines in the interior of the sections, following the work of the surveyors, and choosing desirable pine timber that was found within each section. I had no companion in this work, and thus was separated most of each day from other members of the party, but returned to the same camp at night.
In the morning, each man was furnished by the cook, with a cloth sack in which were placed one or two or more biscuits, containing within, slices of fried bacon and sometimes slices of corned beef, also, perhaps, a doughnut or two. This he tied to the belt of his jacket on his back and carried until the lunch hour. Ordinarily a small fire was then kindled, and the luncheon, which generally was frozen, thawed out and eaten. Under such mode of living, every one returned at night bringing an appetite of ample dimensions.
One of the most acceptable of foods to such men at the supper hour was bean soup, of a kind and quality such as a cook on the frontier, alone, knows how to prepare. Plenty of good bread was always in abundance at such time. Usually there was also either corned beef or boiled pork to be had by those who wished it; generally also boiled rice or apple dumplings, besides tea and coffee.
In a well-regulated camp, where men are living entirely out of doors in tents, a bean hole is pretty sure to be demanded. The bean hole is prepared by first digging a hole in the ground, sufficiently large, not only to make room for the pail, but also for several inches of live coals with which it must be surrounded. After supper is over, the beans are put into a large pail made of the best material, with ears always riveted on, so that the action of heat will not separate any of its parts. The beans are first parboiled with a pinch of soda in the water. As soon as the skins of the beans become broken, the water is poured off; then the beans are placed in the bean pail, a small quantity of hot water is added together with a sufficiently large piece of pork; and, when a tight cover has been put on the pail, it is placed in the bean hole. The live coals are placed around it, until the hole is completely filled and the pail entirely covered several inches deep. Then ashes or earth are put on the top of it all, to exclude the air. Thus the pail remains all night, and, in the morning when the cook calls the men to breakfast, the beans, thoroughly cooked and steaming, are served hot and furnish an acceptable foundation for the arduous day's work about to begin.
"Our camp was made in a fine grove of pig-iron Norway". (Page [167].)
The work of the frontiersman is more or less hazardous in its nature, and yet bad accidents are rare. Occasionally a man is struck by a falling limb, or he may be cut by the glancing blow of an ax, though he learns to be very careful when using tools, well knowing that there is no surgeon or hospital near at hand. Sometimes in the early winter, men unaccompanied, yet obliged to travel alone, drop through the treacherous ice and are drowned. Few winters pass in a lumber country where instances of this kind do not occur. One day, when alone, I came near enough to such an experience. I was obliged to cross a lake, known to have air holes probably caused by warm springs. The ice was covered by a heavy layer of snow, consequently I wore snowshoes, and before starting to cross, cut a long, stout pole. Taking this firmly in my hands, I made my way out onto the ice. All went well until I was near the opposite shore, when suddenly the bottom went out from under me and I fell into the water, through an unseen air hole which the snow covered. The pole I carried was sufficient in length to reach the firm ice on either side, which alone enabled me, after much labor, impeded as I was by the cumbersome snowshoes, to gain the surface. The next absolutely necessary thing to do, was to make a fire as quickly as possible, before I should become benumbed by my wet garments.
The survey went steadily on, the snow and cold increased, and rarely was it possible to make an advance of more than four miles in a day. Frank Hoyt remained at the warehouse and watched the supplies which were steadily diminishing. One day, Philip B. Winston, two men of the crew, and I, set out to the supply camp to bring some provisions to the cook's camp. The first day at nightfall, we reached an Indian wigwam that we knew of, situated in a grove of hardwood timber, near the shore of a lake, directly on our route to the supply camp. Our little party stayed with the Indians and shared their hospitality. It was a large wigwam, covered principally with cedar bark, and there was an additional smaller wigwam so close to it, that a passage way was made from one wigwam to the other.
In the smaller wigwam lived a young Indian, his squaw, and the squaw's mother; in the larger wigwam lived the chief, his wife, his daughter, son-in-law, and the hunter, his wife, and two daughters, all of whom were present except the hunter. There was an air of expectancy noticeable as we sat on the mats around the fire in the wigwam, after having made some coffee and eaten our supper outside. Presently the chief informed us that an heir was looked for that evening in the adjoining tent. Before nine o'clock it was announced that a young warrior had made his appearance, and all were happy over his arrival. The large pipe was brought forth, filled with tobacco, and, after the chief had taken the first smoke, it was passed around to their guests, and all the men smoked, as well as the married women.
The next morning, we continued our journey across the lake and on to Hoyt's camp, where, it is needless to say, he was glad to see some white men. Their visits were rare at his camp. Filling our packs with things the cook had ordered, we started on our return journey, arriving at the Indian camp at nightfall. As we left the ice to go up to the wigwams, we met the mother of the young warrior who had made his first appearance the preceding night, going down to the lake with a pail in each hand to bring some water to her wigwam. The healthy young child was brought into the wigwam and shown to the members of our party, who complimented the young mother and wished that he might grow to be a brave, worthy to be chieftain of their tribe.
That evening a feast had been prepared at the chief's wigwam, in honor of the birth of the child, to which our party was invited. The menu consisted principally of boiled rice, boiled muskrat, and boiled rabbit. The three principal foods having been cooked in one kettle and at the same time, it was served as one course, but the guests were invited to repeat the course as often as they desired. This invitation was accepted by some, while others seemed satisfied to take the course but once. I have always found the hospitality of the Chippewa Indian unsurpassed, and more than once, in my frontier experiences, I have found that hospitality a godsend to me and to my party.