OUT OF THE FOREST
PACKING OUT
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CHAPTER IX
OUT OF THE FOREST
September 12th was a lovely crisp morning with a touch of frost in the air. The lake was looking perfect as we turned our backs on it, leaving the game country and all the chances of another wapiti behind. It was hard luck and I think we were all more or less depressed.
We made a good march down the Spruce valley till we struck Keogh Lake in the early afternoon. This was the route by which we should have come in, as it was fairly open, more so than any other portion of the forest we had gone through. The timber was very fine. A small creek ran down the valley, and along it there were many beaver dams.
Beavers are still protected by law throughout the island. We saw a large one swimming across Keogh Lake when in camp on our way in, and at night more than once heard the curious noise the beaver makes striking the water with his tail as he dives when frightened. Needless to say, regardless of all game laws, the men had several shots at the beaver without doing him any harm.
Arriving at our old camp at Keogh Lake we found the cedar still smouldering. Having made a new raft we reached camp at the south end of the lake, just as the sky clouded up, evidently preparing for another downpour.
The shores of the Lake were swampy and it was with difficulty we found a place to camp. It rained that night as if it had never rained before.
Lansdown now jacked up and I find the following note in my diary:—
"Smith still ill and Lansdown now sick and very sorry for himself—query, too much wapiti meat—we are a sorry crew, but my knee is free from pain for the first time since the accident occurred."
In all the discomforts I was to be "up against," none of my friends had mentioned the possibility of bad weather in September.
August at the Campbell River had been simply an ideal climate, but from August 30th to September 26th, it had rained fifteen days out of the twenty-eight, and by rain I don't mean showers, which were common and did not count, but a steady downpour which lasted all day, and made marching through the undergrowth, alike on fine or wet days, like going under a continual shower bath.
September 13th. It was still raining heavily and the men were not very keen on starting. Carrying a pack in wet weather is hard work and apt to chafe the back. On the other hand, I had no prospect of more sport and did not care to pay my men 13½ dollars a day that they should rest in camp till the weather cleared. I determined, therefore, to move on, but it was noon before I could get a move on the men, and it required some determination to effect this. It was certainly a miserable march, steady rain the whole time. About 3 o'clock the men gave up and said they could pack no further in such weather.
We had struck the Kitsewa, which was rushing down in heavy flood, so camped on its bank.
Thomson was now feeling seedy, and every one was out of sorts and a bit out of temper at the vile weather.
September 14th. The river was down about a foot but still very full. After crossing and recrossing it about ten times and getting wet through, we arrived at our old camp at the trapper's hut about 1 p.m.; a short but fatiguing march owing to the state of the river. We had intended pushing on further after our midday meal, but once more torrential rains had set in and we decided to remain where we were for the day.
The river was now simply alive with humpbacked salmon and dozens were lying dead on the banks. Bear marks were numerous, but the dense undergrowth rendered any chance of seeing one remote. "Nigger" was revelling in his pursuit of fish and repeatedly dashed into the shallows which were boiling with salmon struggling up stream, bringing out a fish each time, one must have been about six pounds. On the march "Dick" had come on the fresh track of two wolves and promptly started after them. He gave us some anxiety for the half-hour he was away, for with all his pluck, he would have had a poor chance if he had come up with them. I suppose it was the deserted hut which recalled to Lansdown's mind a grim tale of a trapper's fate.
The man had started out from civilization on his usual winter expedition. Spring came and he failed to return, but this did not cause any anxiety as trappers lead a nomadic life, and it was thought he might have pushed further than he intended or found some specially good hunting ground. Two years passed and his existence had been practically forgotten, when a party cruising the woods for timber came on a log hut in a lonely part of the forest. Inside they found a man's skeleton lying on the little shelf which constituted the bed. By the side was a rifle and the bony hand still grasped a twig attached to the trigger, a shattered skull told the rest of the tale.
On a bench beside the bed were the tin plates, a cup and the mouldy remains of what once had been food.
What a tragedy! One could picture illness coming on and the struggle against it. Too weak to pack out, he eventually had to take to bed—at first possibly able to get up and cook a little food while provisions lasted—then his strength gradually declined, the lonely nights thinking of the inevitable end, and then the final decision possibly hastened by hearing the howling of wolves round the log cabin.
After all, his best friend was his rifle and that was close to hand. Who can blame him for the decision he had the courage to carry out?
Lansdown was one of the men sent out to bury the remains.
September 15th. The morning was fine and we got away about 8.30. Thomson announced that the provisions had practically run out—no more flour or sugar and we were two days from the lake. We had actually left some flour and other provisions behind in order to lighten the packs.
Improvidence seems to characterize these men of the west. So long as provisions are plentiful there is no thought of the future.
Three spoonfuls of sugar will be put in a cup of tea and a two-pound tin of jam will disappear at a meal—treated as if it were stewed fruit, but the future is forgotten.
To-day the poor dogs had no food at all. We ourselves did not fare brilliantly, but a short march on the morrow should bring us to the Nimquish Lake. We might indeed with an effort have made it in the day.
September 16th. A two hours' march took us to the lake and our last meal was taken on its shores. It was neither luxurious nor plentiful—a few crusts of yesterday's bread fried in some bacon fat which remained on the pan, and a cup of weak tea, for tea too had run out.
I hunted for and found a portion of the skin of the deer I had shot on the first day in and which I had thrown into the lake.
"Dick" and "Nigger" devoured it ravenously. Poor doggies, they had been two days without a meal. More faithful or longsuffering companions a man never had. They seemed to understand we could not give them what we had not, and while they looked at us eating with anxious eyes, when no scraps were thrown they resigned themselves to hunger and curled up to sleep.
THE WAPITI. 13 POINTS
THE SHORE OF LAKE NIMQUISH
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I reserve for ever a warm corner in my heart for "Dick" and "Nigger."
How "Dick" found his way in the forest was always a mystery to me. Of the keenest sporting instinct, he considered it his duty to pursue any track he came across. Wolf, bear or deer were all the same to him. I fear even a wapiti would not have been sacred, but in the wapiti country, we always tied him up in camp.
Over and over again he went away giving tongue loudly till distance drowned his barks. He had no idea in what direction we were marching. Sometimes he would be away for an hour and we began to fear something had happened to him but he invariably turned up wagging his tail, having found our tracks and followed them. I have seldom met a more intelligent dog.
Coming out of the dense forest and suddenly striking the open lake bathed in brilliant sunshine, the effect was dazzling and our eyes were almost blinded. Fortunately we saw a Siwash canoe across the lake, and were lucky enough to find that Mr. Dickenson, one of the Directors of a timber company, was up on a tour of inspection.
He most kindly offered to take me down the river in his canoe, and we decided to fish a little on the way down. In the first pool where the river left the lake I got a couple of nice cut-throat trout, one about 2 lb., on the fly.
The pool was simply alive with cohoe salmon, which could be seen on all sides swimming about in the clear water. Mr. Dickenson trolling with a spoon was soon in a nice fish of about 7 lb., which gave really good sport on a light trout rod before it was landed.
Shooting the rapids in great form we were very soon opposite Lansdown's house, where I landed.
And so ended my hunting trip in the Vancouver forests.
I cannot say much in its favour. It was timber crawling pure and simple from beginning to end—no real stalking, only a snapshot which fortunately got me my wapiti. The weather had been all against us—the camping grounds, with the exception of that on Keogh Lake, most uncomfortable. Food was indifferent owing to difficulty of finding any game; deer there were in numbers, judging by the tracks, but one seldom saw them. There were ruffled grouse, but Smith was not very successful with his pistol, and we only got two or three the whole trip.
With the fishing I was very much disappointed. The trout in the lakes in the interior were tiny things, hardly worth catching or eating.
So long as one has to pack, I do not see how a really comfortable trip can be made. Discomfort to a certain extent I don't mind, but we had a little too much of it. I had added one more experience to a life of varied sport, but I mentally resolved that I never again would be tempted to hunt the wapiti in the Vancouver forest, or indeed, to go on any hunting trip which depended on packing for transport. Who knows whether I shall keep that resolve?
That night we put up at Lansdown's, and never in the best restaurants of Paris or London have I enjoyed a meal more than that which Mrs. Lansdown with true hospitality placed before us, abundance of food—mutton, potatoes, and other fresh vegetables, eggs, milk and cream. I fear we all ate far too much.