Donald, working on “stow away jobs,” feasted his eyes on those islands—rugged, rocky, dense with rank undergrowth and lofty with mighty cedars, spruce and red pine. Huge fallen trunks thrust their tops into the water, and mighty gnarled roots—“snags” the pilot called them—danced in the tide swirls or lay stranded on the beaches. Bare rocks were passed, upon which seals basked or slipped into the quiet water when the ships loomed near, and ever and anon, they passed fishermen in open boats, towing trolling-lines to entice the clear-water salmon. Once a Siwash Indian family in a dug-out canoe, made from a single cedar log, swung lazily under the barque’s stern, and the head of the family imperturbably continued his paddling in the wash from the “skookum sail-ship,” while his “klootch” (woman) cuffed her curious brood to the dug-out’s floor. “Yon’s an Injian,” observed McLean to Donald. “A rid Injian. There’s lots o’ them in these parts.” And Donald’s thoughts turned for a space to the stirring tales of Fenimore Cooper and the “Buffalo Bill Library.” “Do they scalp and go on the war-path nowadays, Mac?” he enquired.
The bos’n laughed. “They’re gey good at scalpin’ th’ heid aff a whusky bottle if they can get yin. Ah was a year on this coast yin time ... tradin’ ... up north. We sold them whusky for pokes o’ gold an’ skins. They’re quiet folk ... no th’ scalpin’ kind.”
Threading around the channels and dodging dangerous up-rooted trees as long as the ship’s main-yard, called for good steersmanship. “A lazy hooker!” remarked the pilot. “A slow ship in stays, I reckon?” Nickerson nodded. “Slower’n scullin’ a loaf o’ bread ’cross a tub o’ Porto Reek molasses in January!” he answered—quoting a “Down-east” phrase indicative of the extreme in tardiness. “Aye ... boxhaul her around or wear ship most of the time ... a condemned scow!” The pilot laughed. “Minds me o’ th’ time I was a kid in an ol’ three-mast schooner timber-droghin’ from Nova Scotia to the West Indies ... flat on the bottom ... wake ’ud be forrad o’ th’ fore-riggin’ ... took a whole watch to tack her in and the whole ocean for sea-room. Haul daown heads’ls an’ fores’l, sheet in mains’l an’ spanker ’n roll th’ wheel daown. Then slack yer after canvas, h’ist fores’l an’ jibs ... sheets to wind’ard ... an’ she’d git around ... maybe!” And he chuckled over the reminiscence.
From Haro Strait, they emerged into the placid waters of the Gulf of Georgia, and in a lifting of the shore haze, the wonderful beauty of the coast ranges on Vancouver Island, and the mainland burst on the vision. All around the horizon the great peaks thrust their summits into the ether and fleecy wisps of mist caressed their tree-clad slopes. Far to the east, dominating them all, Mount Baker, Queen of the Cascades, hove her snow-crowned crest almost eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea.
McKenzie was entranced with this tow-line voyage. This was the happiest day of his seafaring, and Nature’s prodigality in this wonderful country charmed and fired his imagination. He remembered his last sight of land the breadth of two continents away—a dog-toothed spur of wave-lashed granite, a splinter of stone from the tail of America’s tremendous vertebrae—Diego Ramirez rocks to the west’ard of the Horn. Aye! things were different then, but even the Ramirez were good to look upon ... a welcome milepost on a hard traverse.
In mid-afternoon, with no work to do but watch the nip of the towing hawser, and undisturbed by the fear of an oath-besprinkled command, he sat on a fo’c’sle head bitt and absorbed the wonders of that hundred-mile drag. In the words of the fare-well chantey:—
“The sails were furled—the work was done!”
And he relaxed and dreamed and feasted his eyes and starved soul on the magnificent panorama which was unfolded with every mile the ship made up the Gulf. Aye, here was romance! The thrill of having travelled a hard, dreary road and stepping, all of a sudden, into Fairyland. Only those who have experienced it can realize the heart-hunger for the land after six months of nothing but heaving, restless sea. McKenzie forgot the sea and the ship and the voyage and unleashed his soul and imagination to appreciate the glories of the serried peaks which ringed him around, and the gem-like islets set like emeralds on the turquoise of the water.
In the dog-watch, when the sun was setting in an oriflamme of red and gold behind the western peaks, and the lazy waters of the Straits mirrored the lights and shadows in brilliant crimson, gold and blue, they towed past the Fraser River estuary, and the Sand Heads light-ship gleamed scarlet in the sun-glow. Numerous sailboats dotted the turbid flood at the mouth of the river—their occupants setting the twine to enmesh the river-seeking salmon. “Fushin’ fur salmon tae be tinned—or canned, as they ca’ it oot here,” vouchsafed McLean. “They turn oot millions o’ tins o’ salmon up yon Fraser River. Them fishermen are nearly a’ Japs, an’ there’s a wheen o’ them on this coast ... aye, an’ Chinks an’ Hindoos an’ sich-like Mehommedahs!”
It was dark when the tow-boat swung the barque around Point Grey and headed in for the Burrard Inlet Narrows. Between Prospect Point and the high-wooded slopes of the opposite shore, they pulled through a narrow channel, and the huge trees of Stanley Park commanded Jenkins’ admiration. “By golly,” he cried, “I don’t know whether it’s a trick of the moonlight or not, but did you ever see such monsters? They’re higher’n the masts of this ship!” No indeed! Donald never had, but he promised himself a closer scrutiny of those lofty trunks at the first opportunity.