At mid-day the sun shone, and the thermometer stood at 26° below zero; the sun was utterly powerless to make itself felt in the slightest degree; a drift of dry snow flew before the bitter wind. Was this really great cold? I often asked myself. I had not long to wait for an answer. My two fellow-travellers were perhaps of all men in those regions best able to settle a question of cold. One had spent nigh thirty years in many parts of the Continent; the other had dwelt for years within the Arctic Circle, and had travelled the shores of the Arctic Ocean at a time when the Esquimaux keep close within their greasy snow huts. Both were renowned travellers in a land where bad travellers were unknown: the testimony of such men was conclusive, and for years they had not known so cold a day.
“I doubt if I have ever felt greater cold than this, even on the Anderson or the Mackenzie,” said the man who was so well acquainted with winter hardship. After that I did not care so much; if they felt it cold, if their cheeks grew white and hard in the bitter blast, surely I could afford to freeze half my face and all my fingers to boot.
Yet at the time it was no laughing matter; to look forward to an hour seemed an infinity of pain. One rubbed and rubbed away at solid nose and white cheek, but that only added one’s fingers to the list of iced things one had to carry.
At last the sun began to decline to the west, the wind fell with it, the thick, low-tying drift disappeared, and it was possible by running hard to restore the circulation. With dusk came a magnificent Aurora; the sheeted light quivered over the frozen lake like fleecy clouds of many colours blown across the stars. Night had long closed when we reached the warm shelter of the shore, and saw the welcome lights of houses in the gloom. Dogs barked, bolts rattled, men and children issued from the snow-covered huts; and at the door of his house stood my kind fellow-traveller, the chief factor of the district, waiting to welcome me to his fort of Ile à la Crosse.
The fort of Ile à la Crosse is a solitary spot. Behind it spreads a land of worthless forest, a region abounding in swamps and muskegs, in front the long arms of the Cruciform Lake. It is not from its shape that the lake bears its name; in the centre, where the four long arms meet, stands an island, on the open shore of which the Indians in bygone times were wont to play their favourite game of la Crosse. The game named the island, and the island in turn gave its name to the lake. The Beaver River enters the lake at the south-east, and leaves it again on the north-west side. The elevation of the lake above the level of Hudson’s Bay cannot be less than 1300 feet, so it is little wonder if the wild winds of the north should have full sweep across its frozen surface. The lake is well stocked with excellent white fish, and by the produce of the net the garrison of the fort is kept wholly in food, about 130 large fish being daily consumed in it.
At a short distance from the fort stands the French Mission. One of the earliest established in the north, it has thrown out many branches into more remote solitudes. Four ladies of the order of Grey Nuns have made their home here, and their school already contains some thirty children. If one wants to see what can be made of a very limited space, one should visit this convent at Ile à la Crosse; the entire building is a small wooden structure, yet school, dormitory, oratory, kitchen, and dining-room are all contained therein.
The sisters seemed happy and contented, chatted gaily of the outside world, or of their far-away homes in Lower Canada. Their present house was only a temporary erection. In one fell night fire had destroyed a larger building, and consumed their library, oratory, everything; and now its ravages were being slowly repaired. Of course it was an event to be long remembered, and the lady who described to us the calamity seemed still to feel the terror of the moment.
My long journey left me no time for delay, and after one day’s rest it became necessary to resume the march. The morning of the 21st February found us again in motion.
We now numbered some five sleds; the officer in charge of the Athabasca district, the next to the north, was still to be my fellow-traveller for nearly 400 miles to his post of Fort Chipewyan. All dogs save mine were fresh ones, but Cerf-vola showed not one sign of fatigue, and Spanker was still strong and hearty. Pony was, however, betraying every indication of giving out, and had long proved himself an arrant scoundrel.
Dogs were scarce in the North this year. A distemper had swept over all the forts, and many a trusty hauler had gone to the land where harness is unknown.