About ten o’clock in the morning we started. Our party now consisting of Jacob in a single canoe and old John and I in another, John Tizzard remaining with his people at the Old Crow encampment. There was no big canoe, however, and I took my place behind the old man in the same one that had carried me before, but as it was not quite so heavily loaded I felt more comfortable. The day continued fine throughout, the water was without a ripple, the current strong, and we glided down the tortuous course of the stream at almost steamboat speed. At night we reached a point near the entrance of Blue Fish River, a long distance from our start in the morning, and camped on the beach. The Porcupine is here about sixty rods wide, and the water becomes clearer as the stream descends. The night was clear and calm. This was the first of August, over a month beyond the summer solstice. Consequently the period of perpetual daylight was passed and the stars were faintly visible for an hour or more before and after midnight.
I had a restful and refreshing sleep with less forebodings of accident than I had enjoyed since starting with the canoes. To-morrow we should reach Rampart House if all should go well. There is one point, however, on this stretch of the river which we were told at McPherson might prove dangerous because of a partially submerged rock in a short rapid. I talked this over as best I could with my two men, but they told me there would be no danger at the existing depth of the water. This we afterwards found to be the case.
On Thursday, August 2, another lovely summer day, we left camp at 8.45 A.M. In a few hours the river narrowed to less than half its usual width, and the current correspondingly increased, carrying us along at great speed. We were now in the upper ramparts of the Porcupine. Though not to be compared in grandeur with those of the Mackenzie, they nevertheless possess characteristics that are entirely unique. The stream winds around between sandstone banks, and at every turn in the descent, new scenes open up to view that are very tempting to the photographer. At noon we saw a tent on the beach, and as we approached found it occupied by a white man, the first we had seen since leaving McPherson. He was engaged in fishing, laying up his winter supply for himself and his dogs.
I soon learned that he was a member of a distinguished family of Eastern Canada, the son of a man to the foresight and energy of whom the city and Port of Montreal are greatly indebted. He had wandered far from his old home and associates through this northern wilderness, strangely infatuated with the wild life and the charm which it possesses. He informed me that he was expecting an appointment as Customs officer from the Dominion Government for Rampart House on the Alaska boundary, and I told him that I had seen what was undoubtedly his commission with the forms appertaining to his office many times on our way down to Fort McPherson, as the mail bag was opened at the different posts, and that it was then awaiting him at the Fort on Peel River. Whether he received these precious documents or not I am unable to say. About an hour after we beheld a few log buildings on the right bank of the river, and were greeted by the barking of dogs and a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of this isolated village, Rampart House. We had looked anxiously forward to our arrival here for two reasons: first because our supplies of food were all but entirely exhausted, and secondly it was here where I hoped to be able to discard those cockle shells of canoes for more comfortable craft.
The white man whom we met an hour before, however, while holding out some hopes of my getting a row boat from a half breed, conveyed to me the unwelcome information that the season’s provisions had not yet reached the post, and that I would probably have to be satisfied with obtaining only a little dried meat; that they might have a little tea and tobacco left also, but that they were absolutely out of flour, the very article I was needing most.
Just as we reached the landing I saw a large row boat tied up at the shore, on which were a few white men. They were bound for the Upper Porcupine, where they intended to spend the autumn and winter in trapping, and also in exploring for mineral in that region. I saw one of the men sitting in his boat with an Indian at his side, busily obtaining such information as he could get of the geography of the upper river country, with which he was a stranger. From the instruction given him he was endeavouring to construct a map, which I soon saw would be of little service to him. It so happened I had with me a lithographed map conveying just the information he needed. Here was my opportunity, and it was not long till we had made a bargain. For a few pounds of flour I handed over the map, which was of no further use to me, but which I had little doubt would be of great service to him; a good illustration of the fact that barter between individuals is frequently profitable to both parties.
Rampart House is in Canadian territory, but the 141st meridian which divides our territory from that of Alaska is only a few hundred yards west of the post. In fact the surveyed line between the two is within sight of the village. It was formerly a post of the Hudson Bay Company, but is now occupied by Mr. Dan Cadzow, an independent trader. He was at this time absent from his post, having gone to Dawson City some time before for his winter’s stock of supplies. He was expected back any day, and his return was eagerly looked for by the few people of the post as well as by the Indian hunters of the district, all of whom were dependent on him for many of the necessaries of life.
A French Canadian, bearing the Hibernian name of Healy, was the only white man at the post during Cadzow’s absence and was in charge of the store—if such it could be called. Shortly after my arrival, on learning that I was from Ottawa, he confidentially informed me that he was expecting the appointment of Customs officer and beseeched me to urge his claims for the position. The fact of there being two aspirants for an office that certainly could not be a remunerative one was a reminder that I was approaching civilisation. Beyond the prestige that the office might give to the holder among the Indians and half breeds of the district, I could not see why any one should wish to hold it. Healy could not speak the Loucheaux tongue, the language of the country himself, but his better half, an Indian woman, known by the “classic name” of Big Mary, possessed as he said “Les Deux Langues,” and was the interpreter for the post.
It was difficult for me to realise that within the comparatively short period of nine days I had travelled fully 300 miles through a most inhospitable wilderness, and it was a relief to know that from here on I would probably have no longer to endure the anxiety that had attended me from day to day ever since leaving the Peel river at McPherson.
