The 27th of August dawned sultry and oppressive, but having decided to leave Inver for a long-promised visit to Ostersund on that day, and feeling that if I did not get the parting with the children over at once I should never succeed in going away at all, I determined to carry out my intention, although by doing so I was obliged to forego the pleasure of visiting Kalmar, which I regretted very much.
Mr. K—— and Mr. F—— came for me about two o'clock, and sending the man on with my travelling-bag, I prepared to enjoy the first long walk I had taken since I left Ontario. From the top of the east rock I took my last look at the spot where I had spent nearly sixteen months, on which I shall always look back with kindly memories. Clinging to the rough railing, and walking quickly over the floating logs, we were soon across the boom in Lake Deception, and over the first short portage to Lake Beau-Beau—or "Champagne Charlie" Lake—a beautiful sheet of water, with several pretty islands, along whose southern shore the Canada Pacific Railway line runs.
Catching sight of a boat, which probably belonged to a gang of men who were at work with pulleys, removing great fragments of rock from a cutting near, Mr. F—— took possession of it, and we rowed across, ignoring the fatigue of the poor navvies, who, after a hard day's work, would have to walk round the lake to recover their property.
On the opposite shore part of the trail lay through a long, narrow valley, where it became such a mere path that two could not walk abreast; then it passed over such lofty hills, and into such sudden dips of valley land, that one could not help speculating as to the immense cost of filling up and levelling to bring the line to the proper grade. We skirted the shores of Lake Lulu, whose blue waters glistened in the afternoon sun, as we caught a momentary glimpse through the trees of the tiny hill, where a clear fresh spring tempted us to sit on the gnarled trunk of a fallen tree and refresh ourselves. How small we felt by involuntary comparison with the gigantic rock towering above our heads, or even with the huge fragments thrown out and scattered at its base! I wonder if future ages will look upon these blocks of stone as we do upon Stonehenge, and conjecture with what powerful weapons we ancients could have moved them, or what convulsion of nature had dislodged them from their bed, and thrown them headlong into the lovely dell.
I should like to linger over the delightful three weeks I spent at Ostersund, and describe in detail the tranquil pleasures of every day. How we sat working with the children, through long, quiet mornings, on the small space cleared in front of the house, or wandered through the woods in search of mosses and ferns; how we went for long paddles on Lake Lulu, either in the bright afternoon, when we took the children with us over to the island garden, returning with supplies of ripe red tomatoes, or in the clear, silent evenings, when we pushed out the canoe in any direction—for all were charming—watching the glowing sunset die beyond the hills, and the Indian camp fires wake to life along the shores.
One of the strangest thunderstorms I ever saw raged while I was at Ostersund. The whole day had been warm, and as night fell the air became sultry, and the sky assumed a leaden hue. Directly west of us, the only bit of horizon we could see was across the line of railway; on either side of this, high wooded rocks, some few hundred feet from the line, dropped to a much lower level than that on which the house stood, and beyond the brow of this declivity the sky had the appearance of a huge fire, whose bright-red flames shot up into great clouds of rolling, whirling smoke, their inky hue gradually expanding until the whole sky became covered. Still the flames raged on in a weird stillness broken only by the sound of rushing wind, the crackling and swaying of branches, or a low, distant moan that warned us the storm was on its way. For more than half an hour we watched the horizon, scarcely believing that its strange hue was not really the reflection of a fire in the woods, till, with a report as of a thousand cannon crashing on all sides, and the fierce blast of a tornado, the storm was upon us. It spent itself, however, in that one blast; the red light gradually paled and died, stars peeped through the riven clouds, and the muttering thunder rolled away to the south.
A culvert was being built close to the house, and we took the greatest interest in the proceedings of all concerned—from the oxen, with their tinkling bells, labouring up the steep with the heavy timbers in tow, to the sad-faced contractor and his jovial, good-looking partner. As I stood one morning watching the latter go up with a springing step to the top, to superintend the placing of a beam, I saw the chain below snap, and at the same instant the huge beam swung round, striking the contractor, who, with a groan, fell headlong to the bottom of the ravine—a distance of twenty feet. Instantly half a dozen men sprang down and pulled him up, while another ran for Mr. K——, who telegraphed for the doctor. Most fortunately, a cross stick against which the poor man struck had broken his fall, and except for a few bruises and the shock he was unhurt, and back at work again in a few days.
I lingered on at Ostersund until I heard that my heavy luggage had arrived at Kuwatin, via Clear Water Bay and the Lake of the Woods, having had a narrow escape on its way over the portage. The horse ran away, and dragged the cart over a number of nitro-glycerine cans. The driver fled in terror, but returned some time afterward, and was astonished to find an atom of either horse, cart, or luggage remaining. The driver was not wanting in bravery either, for a few days before, the left wheel of his cart had come in contact with a stump and turned over, the whole weight of the horse's body falling upon the man. Knowing that the load in the cart was too heavy for the horse to raise unassisted, and that if he struggled he would be pounded to death, he had the presence of mind to seize the brute by the ear and hold his head to the ground until assistance came—an hour and a half afterwards—when the poor fellow was too exhausted and numbed to get up.
As it was necessary that I should repack my luggage before sending it to Winnipeg, I was obliged to tear myself away from Ostersund, hoping to see my friends again before I left the contract altogether. This hope, however, was not fulfilled, and it was a last farewell I took of them as they stood on the rustic wharf, while Mr. K—— pushed off the birch-bark canoe on which I was lounging. Paddling along the east shore, rather close in, as the lake was rough, we soon reached the portage to Middle Lake. Lifting the canoe well out of the water, and turning it over, Mr. K—— raised it above his head; then, slipping the paddles on his shoulders, and across the bars of the canoe, he carried it with ease up the steep bank and down the hill to the other lake. In this way Indians will carry, or, as they call it, "portage," their canoes for long distances. Middle Lake is long, narrow, and swampy-looking, less pretty than any we crossed on our way out. Leaving the canoe at the next portage well drawn in under the trees, and the paddles carefully hidden in the underbrush, lest any stray traveller should take advantage of it, we walked the remaining two miles to Darlington Bay.
The heavy rains of the week before had made parts of the track very wet, but by jumping from one log to another, and utilizing stones scattered from the cuttings, we managed to cross very well. One of the most beautiful spots is where the line crosses War Eagle Rock Lake. Until on the very brow of the rocky, perpendicular shore, one does not suspect the existence of a lake, and when nearly there I laughed as Mr. K—— asked how wide a lake I thought there was between us and the trail leading through some trees apparently close by. A moment later I paused in astonishment. At our feet, full sixty feet below, lying between two walls of rock, which looked as though an earthquake had rent it apart to leave space for the sparkling water, was the lake of the romantic name. Below the boom, which is eighty feet across, the breach widened, leaving space for a tiny rocky island with only sufficient foliage upon it to make it picturesque—a natural fortress to guard the opening into the broad, beautiful sheet of water which lay beyond.