At the Methy Portage we are on the western boundary of this Laurentian rock; from here it runs south-east to Canada, north to the Frozen Ocean.
It is of the region lying between this primary formation and the Rocky Mountains, the region once an ocean, of which we would speak.
I have said in an earlier chapter that the continent of British America, from the United States’ boundary, slopes to the north-east, the eastern slope terminates at this Portage la Loche, and henceforth the only slope is to the north; from here to the Frozen Sea, one thousand miles, as wild swan flies, is one long and gradual descent. Three rivers carry the waters of this slope into the Arctic Ocean; the great Fish River of Sir George Back, at the estuary of which the last of Franklin’s gallant crew lay down to die; the Coppermine of Samuel Hearne; and the Mackenzie which tells its discoverer’s name. The first two flow through the Barren Grounds, the last drains by numerous tributaries, seventeen hundred miles of the Rocky Mountains upon both sides of that snow-capped range. All its principal feeders rise beyond the mountains, cutting through the range at right angles, through tremendous valleys, the sides of which overhang the gloomy waters.
The Liard, the Peel, the Peace rivers, all have their sources to the west of the Rocky Mountains. Even the parent rill of the Great Athabasca is on the Pacific side also. Nor is this mountain, thus curiously rent in twain by large rivers, a mere ridge, or lofty table-land; but huge and vast, capped by eternal snow, it lifts its peaks full fifteen thousand feet above the sea level.
Many large lakes lie spread over this ancient sea bottom; Lake Athabasca, Great Slave, and Great Bear Lake continue across the continent, that great Lacustrine line, which, with Winnipeg, Superior, Huron, and Ontario, forms an aggregate of water surface half as large as Europe.
Of other lakes, the country is simply a vast network, beyond all attempt at name or number; of every size, from a hundred yards to a hundred miles in length, they lie midst prairie, or midst forest, lonely and silent, scarce known even to the wild man’s ken.
And now, having thus imperfectly tried to bring to the reader’s mind a vision of this vast North, let us descend from the height of land into the deep valley of the Clearwater, and like it, hurry onward to the Athabasca.
Descending the many-curving Clearwater for one day, we reached, on the last day of February, its junction with the Athabasca, a spot known as the Forks of the Athabasca. The aspect of the country had undergone a complete change; the dwarf and ragged forest had given place to lofty trees, and the white spruce from a trunk of eight feet in circumference lifted its head fully one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. Nor was it only the aspect of the trees that might have induced one to imagine himself in a land of plenty. In the small fort at the Forks, luxuries unseen during many a day met the eye; choice vegetables, the produce of the garden; moose venison, and better than all, the tender steak of the wood buffalo, an animal now growing rare in the North.
There was salmon too, and pears and peaches; but these latter luxuries I need hardly say were not home produce; they came from the opposite extremes of Quebec and California. Here, then, in the midst of the wilderness was a veritable Eden. Here was a place to cry Halt, to build a hut, and pass the remainder of one’s life. No more dog-driving, no more snow shoes, no smoky camp, no aching feet, no call in midnight; nothing but endless wood buffalo steaks, fried onions, moose moofle, parsnips, fresh butter, rest and sleep: alas! it might not be; nine hundred miles yet lay between me and the Rocky Mountains; nine hundred miles had still to be travelled, ere the snow had left bare the brown banks of the Peace River.
And now our course led straight to the north, down the broad bed of the Athabasca. A river high shored, and many islanded, with long reaches, leagues in length, and lower banks thick wooded with large forest trees.