Whilst traversing this beautiful region of country, we passed the bands of Sioux, who had made us so much trouble on our way to the Red Pipe, but met with no further molestation.
At the Traverse de Sioux, our horses were left, and we committed our bodies and little travelling conveniences to the narrow compass of a modest canoe, that must most evidently have been dug out from the wrong side of the log—that required us and everything in it, to be exactly in the bottom—and then, to look straight forward, and speak from the middle of our mouths, or it was “t’other side up” in an instant. In this way embarked, with our paddles used as balance poles and propellers (after drilling awhile in shoal water till we could “get the hang of it”), we started off, upon the bosom of the St. Peters, for the Fall of St. Anthony. * * * * * * Sans accident we arrived, at ten o’clock at night of the second day—and sans steamer (which we were in hopes to meet), we were obliged to trust to our little tremulous craft to carry us through the windings of the mighty Mississippi and Lake Pepin, to Prairie du Chien, a distance of 400 miles, which I had travelled last summer in the same manner.
“Oh the drudgery and toil of paddling our little canoe from this to Prairie du Chien, we never can do it, Catlin.”
“Ah well, never mind, my dear fellow—we must ‘go it’—there is no other way. But think of the pleasure of such a trip, ha? Our guns and our fishing-tackle will we have in good order, and be masters of our own boat—we can shove it into every nook and crevice; explore the caves in the rocks; ascend ‘Mount Strombolo,’ and linger along the pebbly shores of Lake Pepin, to our hearts’ content.” “Well, I am perfectly agreed; that’s fine, by Jupiter, that’s what I shall relish exactly; we will have our own fun, and a truce to the labour and time; let’s haste and be off.” So we catered for our voyage, shook hands with our friends, and were again balancing our skittish bark upon the green waters of the Mississippi. We encamped (as I had done the summer before), along its lonely banks, whose only music is the echoing war-song that rises from the glimmering camp-fire of the retiring savage, or the cries of the famishing wolf that sits and bitterly weeps out in tremulous tones, his impatience for the crumbs that are to fall to his lot.
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Oh! but we enjoyed those moments, (did we not, Wood? I would ask you, in any part of the world, where circumstances shall throw this in your way) those nights of our voyage, which ended days of peril and fatigue; when our larder was full, when our coffee was good, our mats spread, and our musquito bars over us, which admitted the cool and freshness of night, but screened the dew, and bade defiance to the buzzing thousands of sharp-billed, winged torturers that were kicking and thumping for admission. I speak now of fair weather, not of the nights of lightning and of rain! We’ll pass them over. We had all kinds though, and as we loitered ten days on our way, we examined and experimented on many things for the benefit of mankind. We drew into our larder (in addition to bass and wild fowls), clams, snails, frogs, and rattlesnakes; the latter of which, when properly dressed and broiled, we found to be the most delicious food of the land.