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.