On Tuesday, July 31, we left camp at 7 A.M. and made another long journey about the same distance as the day before, arriving at Old Crow River at 7 P.M., and killing eight or ten geese on the way; another twelve wearisome and uneasy hours. A raw wind with showers made travelling very uncomfortable during the whole day, but the Indians had set their hearts on reaching their home that night and nothing would stop them.
Both the Bell and Porcupine are very crooked, so much so that the distance is probably three times as great by following the windings of the stream as it would be in a straight line, and while the wind assisted us on certain stretches, this was more than counter-balanced by the delay it caused us on others, and I was in almost constant fear that our canoes would be swamped.
The high cut banks of the Porcupine when seen at a distance through a haze or light fog take on the most fantastic shapes, frequently resembling great buildings of all styles of architecture, and it is impossible for me to adequately describe an illusion of this kind that met our view as we approached the Indian encampment at the mouth of the Old Crow River.
It was a cloudy hazy evening with a stiff wind from the north and, as we rounded a point leading up to the encampment, a great city apparently lay a few miles away, with piers and vessels in front and buildings of various kinds extending far back from the shore. There was a church with its spire so real in its appearance as almost to persuade me that my Indians had been over modest in not informing me of their skill in architecture. It was a most bewildering sensation and gave me some anxious thoughts. Could it be that the strain that I had undergone, especially during those last few days, produced by fear and anxiety, was causing such visions to appear, or was it the prelude of a catastrophe that seemed any moment likely to happen as our little canoe was at this very time attempting to ride waves on this stretch of the river which it seemed foolhardy to attempt?
Altogether the situation was to me most perplexing.
This illusion was kept up for fully half an hour, though varying somewhat in appearance. I watched the panorama till finally through the haze one portion of the high bank after another gave up its fancied appearance and resumed its true character, when, instead of the castellated city, which in this vision I had pictured as the home of the Indians, I saw only about forty half-starved creatures out on the bank to welcome us, while behind among the trees were a dozen dilapidated tents; the entire surroundings indicating want and starvation, sickness and a struggle for existence known only to those who are condemned to live in this Arctic land.
An Indian Camp
Before reaching the village one of my men fired off his gun as a signal of our approach. This was quickly answered, and shortly after our three canoes landed and John Tizzard, his son Jacob, and old John Quatlot, my three companions, were welcomed by their friends.
One old squaw, the wife of John Quatlot, instead of exhibiting joy at their return seemed overcome with grief and commenced a fearful tale of woe, which led me to think that some, if not all their family had died during her husband’s absence. I soon perceived that old John paid little attention to what she said. I had not yet become acquainted with the practice of these people on meeting each other, which is first to tell all the troubles they have had since parting.
The first thing done was to make tea. Then all partook of a meal, which under the circumstances was a very scanty one indeed. Then a hymn was sung and a thanksgiving service offered up, which certainly seemed very appropriate. After this there was so much to relate that the short twilight had given place to the dawning of another day before they retired to rest.