A blacksmith's forge hidden amid the trees, with the brawny smith singing over his work, was the only object of interest we passed before reaching Darlington, the contractor's head-quarters, where Mr. K—— was to leave me.
The bay is an arm of the waters of the Winnipeg River, about three miles from its outlet—a low, swampy-looking place. There is a cluster of shanties for the men, and another serving as offices, with a remnant of civilization in one narrow window, in the shape of a doctor's sign; which hangs crooked, however, as if ashamed of the bad company it has got into. Further on are two log-houses with rather more pretension to comfort about them, where the contractor and his chief engineer lived. I remained two days with Mrs. W——, the contractor's wife, whose kind hospitality will never be forgotten by me, and went on to Kuwatin on Saturday evening. Mr. F——'s house there is built on the top of the high, rocky land which commands a view of the Lake of the Woods and the Winnipeg River, and is close to the portage path over which Lord and Lady Dufferin and their party crossed when on their trip through Manitoba the previous summer, camping at night on the shores of the river.
After spending Sunday morning in packing baggage to be sent by the Dawson route, we went for a paddle up to the rapids. When the canoe had taken us as far as possible, we got out and clambered over the rocks into the foam. The mouth of the Winnipeg is divided into two channels by a large island; the lower, on which we were, is a succession of rapids each more beautiful than the last. Skirting the shore through a pretty, wooded path, we reached a bare hill above the highest rapid. At our feet the water ran smooth and clear round a bend on the river below. A little further it dashed against great rocks, sending the spray whirling in clouds over their heads where jagged edges fretted it as it passed, or forming clear, deep, dark pools between their smooth and solid sides. Then it swirled round a tiny island, beyond which a long ridge of piled-up rocks stretched its bare sides almost across the stream, as though to stay its impetuous course. The varied expanse of water, framed in overhanging trees, and rocks which rose black against the glowing sky, while the setting sun tinted every jet of spray with crimson and gold, formed a picture I would have liked to carry away with me in more than memory. Over many of the deep pools there were long poles with baited lines, and there, too, the Indians catch large fish with both spear and net.
Half a mile above the rapids, we reached the partially bored tunnel through the island which divides the river, the rocks blasted out being used to fill up the embankment at the crossing. A few days before, this spot had been the scene of a narrow escape from drowning. Two gentlemen, who attempted to cross in a birch-bark canoe too near the rapids, were caught by the eddy round the point; the canoe was capsized, and went to pieces over the first rapid, while the canoeists, with great difficulty, swam to the further shore, striking it only a few feet above the rapid—barely enough to save their lives.
Returning from the tunnel, we went into a low-roofed shanty, lately occupied by a family of nine. Its accommodation consisted of bunks built into the wall for beds, with some dirty hay in them, a smoky mud chimney, a hole dug in the middle of the mud floor to let off the water that dripped through the roof, and the door hanging loose on its dried skin hinges. There was no window, and but for the many gaps between the logs of the walls, the inmates must have had very little air.
On Sunday, the 29th of September, soon after seven o'clock in the morning, loaded with wraps, satchel-bags, and baskets, our travelling party was on the way down a muddy hill to the little tug awaiting it. Our old friend, Captain W——, greeting us enthusiastically, and busied himself in improvising seats for us with our bags and bale of blankets. The little tug had been built by the captain's own hands, and he naturally thought a great deal of it, but in our eyes it seemed the shakiest-looking craft we had ever been afloat in. Blackened with smoke, exposure, and hard usage, it was yet thoroughly seaworthy, and although it rolled about until well under weigh, was not uncomfortable. The stern was roofed, but the rain drove in at the open sides, until we stretched some waterproofs across from one upright to another. The engine fires underneath, where the energetic one-eyed stoker was not sparing of fuel, made it very warm, and before long I found my way round the tiny wheel-house to the bow, and settling myself as comfortably as I could upon a saw-horse, enjoyed my trip over the lake in spite of the drizzling rain.
As we passed the Hudson Bay Company's post at that portage, the man at the wheel pointed out the channel he would take when carrying supplies for the work on the next portion of the Canada Pacific Railway, which would "likely be worked next year;" and the confident tone of monopoly of the traffic on the lake with which the man spoke raised vague speculations as to the mine of wealth this little creaky boat must be to the four men who built and worked it, their expenditure being literally confined to their own provisions, the oil burnt in their lanterns, and the cost of cutting the wood for fires.
A long canoe, paddled by two grinning young squaws, shot out from the company's post, and for a time kept alongside us. About nine we entered the Narrows, a passage only just wide enough to allow the tug to pass, and were quickly in the Lake of the Woods. I tried before to recall the impression made by the beauties of this exquisite lake, when crossing it for the first time. Its islands and shores were then clad in all the young verdure of the spring; now they wore all the glory of the autumn, in hues of crimson, yellow, red, and gold—dark pines blending with and forming backgrounds to the loveliest scenes that painter ever traced or pen described. As I sat on the old saw-horse, vainly endeavouring to grasp all the beauty around, the man at the wheel told me the legends of each point and island, gathered from the Ojibbeways during his life among them. If any unwary traveller ran his canoe on yonder great dark island, closely wooded to the shore, braving the wrath of the Mutaha Manito (Bad Spirit), who claimed it as his own, storms would be sent over the lake by the offended deity, wrecks and misery alone appeasing him. A Pale-face once, scorning the warning of the Redskin, had landed there, and even dared to build a fire on its shores; but before the sun again set he found an unknown grave in the great lake. Never in the memory of the Indians had such a terrific storm raged as after the perpetration of the impious act.
Further on we saw, in a broad expanse of water, a long, narrow, lonely island, its trees low and stunted, its underbrush so matted that it would seem impenetrable, where the Kichee Manito (Great Spirit), grieving that the likeness of the Mutaha Manito, the Kennebeck (serpent), should trouble his children when upon the chase, or in their homes in the good land he had given them, and yet too merciful to destroy, sent his messengers in the silent night to gather all the serpents together. He gave them this island to live in, bidding his children leave them unmolested. And the poor Indian, in his gratitude, has never disobeyed the behest. Another beautiful island is the resting-place of the Great Spirit when he pays his rare visits to earth, and the Indian leaves upon its shores his choicest fish of the first catch of the season, and the first-fruits of the chase as his oblation. Another green hilly island is the grave of the braves, where they are laid until the spirits come to lead them to the happy hunting grounds.