Clear Water Bay transformed—Cahill's Farewell—Ptarmigan Bay—A Night
under Canvas—"No more Collars or Neckties!"—Companions in
Misfortune—Cedar Lake—"Lop-sticks"—An Indian Village—Shashegheesh's
Two Wives—Buying Potatoes—Seniores Priores—Excellent
Carrots!—Frank's Flirtations with the Squaws—The Dogs eat Carrière's
Toboggan.
Towards noon we turned westward into Clear Water Bay, and were soon at the landing. How changed from the night when we landed here nearly a year and a half before! Then it was only a forest traversed by a narrow path; now the scene is crowded with a log storehouse and well-used roads, several shanties, piles of glycerine cans, a barge waiting the arrival of the tug, swarms of boats and canoes, and groups of navvies standing round the storehouse, whence we hear the twang of a rudely played, but not unmusical, violin: Indians and squaws, beside their wigwams, complete the picture. Here we met our old friend Cahill, who came on board to say good-bye. He had been away haymaking when I left Lake Deception, and I regretted not seeing him. He had made up his mind to leave the country and return to Ontario. In despair because he had not his two trunks with him, so that he could accompany us, he implored us to wait until he went and fetched them, and when we tried to explain that we should have no means of conveying his trunks he drew himself up and informed us with dignity that he could afford to pay his way like any other honest man. But at last, understanding that our mode of travelling would preclude any such weighty baggage as trunks, he bade us farewell and a hearty God-speed, muttering as he walked away that he would not be long after us in "this God-forsaken counthry, that all the gintlefolks were lavin'." I have never heard if he carried out his threat, but wherever he may end his days, I am sure his kind Irish heart will be unchanged.
Taking the barge in tow and our Indians—Carrière, who was to act as guide, and a merry Iroquois named Frank Saddler—coming on board, we steamed out of Clear Water Bay, and in the fast-falling rain reached our landing-place, a large rock on a sandy, wooded shore, whence we were to make our first portage into Ptarmigan Bay. The captain let the tug run close up to this rock, and with little difficulty we disembarked on a spot that seemed to lead nowhere. Bidding us a cordial good-bye, good luck, and speedy return all round, the jolly old skipper left us, and we watched the little tug with the barge hugged close alongside to keep it off the sunken rocks, disappear in the rain.
We decided that it was too wet and late to make any further progress that night, so Carrière and Frank went in search of a camping-ground; and soon the merry ring of their axes, the crash of falling timber, and the crackling of fires, which sent ruddy gleams through the trees, raised our drooping spirits and dried our damp clothes, and no merrier party ever clustered round the welcome blaze. We enjoyed our pan of fried pork and cold roast beef, accompanied by tin pannikins of tea, more thoroughly than the most recherché repast served in the most perfectly appointed dining-room. Spreading the waterproof sheets and robes on the ground in the tent, Mr. F—— made the bed over its entire width, then rolled the ends up, leaving us space to dress. We had a huge fire across the doorway of our tent, and about ten or twelve feet off blazed another fire, behind which rose the tent of the gentlemen.
"Now we're in camp, away with the frivolities of civilized life," cried Mr. F——, as he took off his collar and necktie and tossed them into his wife's lap. "I'm not going to put those on again until I get to Winnipeg, and fashion demands the sacrifice; nor coat either—unless," he prudently added, "I'm caught in the rain;" and he looked up at the still weeping clouds.
No ribbons, no bows, no extra adornments, were to be allowed, and next morning, when I appeared with some, I was voted a rebel by the assembled travellers, and in mock politeness offered a stump to sit on, and a knife, fork, and spoon all to myself. Rising at seven, we made our toilets on the shore of the small bay where we had landed the night before, and it required some little practice to wash our faces, standing or kneeling on the slippery stones, without getting our skirts wet or letting the water run up our sleeves. After breakfast we packed up, and the men having taken over the canoes, we all followed, each carrying what we could, through a narrow belt of woods; then the path rounded a grassy swamp to a long, rocky point. Mr. M—— was some distance in front, with the frying-pan in one hand, and a basket containing the knives, forks, etc., in the other, while my load was the lantern, whisky-keg, and a small tin pail of pork. Just as I reached the rock, Mr. M——, who was feeling his way along the top, and warning me to be careful, slipped, turned, and, vainly trying to grasp the rock, went down on all fours with a run and splash into the lake. Away went Frank after him, shouting with a laugh, "I'll save the frying-pan!"
"What's that?" cried Mrs. F——, who was behind me with a load of shawls.
"Only Mr. M—— in the lake," said I; and adding conceitedly, "Wait a minute, Mr. M——, and I'll come and pull you out"—I stepped upon what was apparently firm ground, and sank to my knees in soft, slimy mud, from which I was with difficulty extricated. When the canoe loads were divided, it was voted unanimously that Mr. M—— and I should be put in the same boat, to sink or swim together.
The day cleared, and we reached our next portage after a three-hours' paddle, from Ptarmigan Bay to a nameless lake, one of the most beautiful I ever saw. The portage is about half a mile long, up a narrow path over a hill, and the men loaded and travelled so well, that in two trips they had carried everything over, while we, though more lightly laden, only accomplished one. Somebody here called attention to the wisdom with which I had chosen my load, as it got lighter at every trip, especially the whisky, which, by the way, was contraband. Of course we gave the lake a name—in fact, it had half a dozen before we left it, one being in honour of the dear little baby, who, through all the discomforts of our trip, enjoyed and bore it best among us. But the name it retained was Cedar Lake, from a lovely passage, three or four hundred feet long, between the mainland and an island, each high, rocky bank being covered with large cedars, which almost met overhead.
Passing out from among the cedars, Carrière paused a moment; then, steering the canoe in another direction, said—"This is the way, Mr. M——. I doubted a moment, for I was only over this part of the trail once, nearly four years ago. Four years this Christmas."