Bishop Reeve, of the Anglican Diocese of the Mackenzie River, came aboard at Hay River for a round trip to McPherson and return, and Miss Wilgriss left us to resume her position at the Mission here. We were all impressed with the zeal of this lady in her work, which is certainly one of self-sacrificing devotion to a great cause.
Copyright Ernest Brown, Edmonton
DOG-RIBBED INDIANS ON GREAT SLAVE LAKE
Hay River is a stream of considerable size which enters Great Slave Lake from the west at a distance of some forty miles south of the entrance to the Mackenzie.
The morning was fine. The wind had subsided, and the great lake, which serves as a filtering basin for the turbid waters entering it from the Slave River, was here as clear as that of the great inland lakes of Eastern Canada—Huron, Erie or Ontario. Wherever a river contains muddy water, you may at once conclude that it has no large lake expansions above it. In nearly every stream pouring its waters into the great clear water lakes of the St. Lawrence basin the water is dark and more or less impure; very different both in quality and appearance from that which it assumes after having had a little time to settle. This is, of course, due to the process of precipitation which the river currents have previously prevented. The Saskatchewan, the Missouri and the Mississippi are streams whose waters are similar in appearance to that of the “Yellow Tiber” at Rome. So, also, are those of the Columbia and the Fraser of the Pacific slope, and in each case you will search in vain for any large lake expansions in their courses.
A few hours’ run brought us to a bay with many islands, which gradually contracted to a width of two or three miles and we now had entered the great river, the Mackenzie, into which all the waters we had traversed flow. No more delays were now anticipated, no lakes to cross, no rapids to encounter, and no darkness to delay us on our course for the rest of our journey, a thousand miles in all, to the delta of the Mackenzie.
Great Slave Lake impresses the visitor by its size, which approximates to that of the great lakes of Eastern Canada. For some time we were entirely out of sight of land. There is a bar at the mouth of the river which our steamer struck once or twice as she also did in two or three other places farther down.
After passing what might be called the entrance, the river widens out into expansions which deserve and receive the distinction of lakes. Islands covered with green timber are numerous, and the appearance is suggestive of the lower St. Lawrence. We had some difficulty in following the channel at the mouth of one of these expansions, named Beaver Lake, where we grounded twice on a soft bottom. This did no damage to the steamer but caused us several hours’ delay.
The blowing of the whistle of the Wrigley early on Sunday morning of July 15 announced that we were approaching Fort Providence, and as the boat rounded an island in the river, exclamations of astonishment at the beauty of the picture that lay before us were heard on every hand. There on the right bank of the river, its waters as clear as those of the St. Lawrence, lay a village, so strikingly similar in appearance to those along that familiar stream that we could almost forget the long distances we had journeyed and fancy ourselves approaching one of the parishes of old Quebec. The church bells were ringing out a call to the Sunday morning service. The convent hard by was decorated with flags betokening some joyful occasion, while the Indian pupils in their pretty costumes accompanied by their teachers, the sisters of the Mission, lined the bank to welcome the founder of the school, Sister Ward, of Montreal, who had accompanied us this far.