Pony had succumbed at the Rivière la Loche, and had been left behind at that station, to revel in an abundance of white fish. The last sight I got of him was suggestive of his character. He was careering wildly across the river with a huge stolen white fish in his mouth, pursued by two men and half-a-dozen dogs, vainly attempting to recapture the purloined property. Another dog, named “Sans Pareil,” had taken his place, and thus far we had “marched on into the bowels of the land without impediment.”
From the day after my departure from Ile à la Crosse I had regularly used snow-shoes, and now I seldom sought the respite of the sled, but trudged along behind the dogs. I well knew that it was only by sparing my dogs thus that I could hope to carry them the immense distance I purposed to travel; and I was also aware that a time might come when, in the many vicissitudes of snow travel, I would be unable to walk, and have to depend altogether on my train for means of movement. So, as day by day the snow-shoe became easier, I had tramped along, until now, on this 5th of March, I could look back at nigh three hundred miles of steady walking.
Our meal at Echo’s over we set out again. Another four hours passed without a halt, and another sixteen or seventeen miles lay behind us. Then came the second dinner—cakes, tea, and sweet pemmican; and away we went once more upon the river. The day was cold, but fine; the dogs trotted well, and the pace was faster than before. Two Indians had started ahead to hurry on to a spot, indicated by my companion, where they were to make ready the camp, and await our arrival.
Night fell, and found us still upon the river. A bright moon silvered the snow; we pushed along, but the dogs were now tired, all, save my train, which having only blankets, guns, and a few articles to carry, went still as gamely as ever. At sun-down our baggage sleds were far to the rear. My companion driving a well-loaded sled led the way, while I kept close behind him.
For four hours after dark we held steadily on; the night was still, but very cold; the moon showed us the track; dogs and men seemed to go forward from the mere impulse of progression. I had been tired hours before, and had got over it; not half-tired, but regularly weary; and yet somehow or other the feeling of weariness had passed away, and one stepped forward upon the snow-shoe by a mechanical effort that seemed destitute of sense or feeling.
At last we left the river, and ascended a steep bank to the left, passing into the shadow of gigantic pines. Between their giant trunks the moonlight slanted; and the snow, piled high on forest wreck, glowed lustrous in the fretted light. A couple of miles more brought us suddenly to the welcome glare of firelight, and at ten o’clock at night we reached the blazing camp. Eighteen hours earlier we had started for the day’s march, and only during two hours had we halted on the road. We had, in fact, marched steadily during sixteen hours, twelve of which had been at rapid pace. The distance run that day is unmeasured, and is likely to remain so for many a day; but at the most moderate estimate it would not have been less than fifty-six miles. It was the longest day’s march I ever made, and I had cause long to remember it, for on arising at daybreak next morning I was stiff with Mal de Raquette.
In the North, Mal de Raquette or no Mal de Raquette, one must march; sick or sore, or blistered, the traveller must frequently still push on. Where all is a wilderness, progression frequently means preservation; and delay is tantamount to death.
In our case, however, no such necessity existed; but as we were only some twenty-five miles distant from the great central distributing point of the Northern Fur Trade, it was advisable to reach it without delay. Once again we set out: debouching from the forest we entered a large marsh. Soon a lake, with low-lying shores, spread before us. Another marsh, another frozen river, and at last, a vast lake opened out upon our gaze. Islands, rocky, and clothed with pine-trees, rose from the snowy surface. To the east, nothing but a vast expanse of ice-covered sea, with a blue, cold sky-line; to the north, a shore of rocks and hills, wind-swept, and part covered with dwarf firs, and on the rising shore, the clustered buildings of a large fort, with a red flag flying above them in the cold north blast.
The “lake” was Athabasca, the “clustered buildings” Fort Chipewyan, and the Flag—well; we all know it; but it is only when the wanderer’s eye meets it in some lone spot like this that he turns to it, as the emblem of a Home which distance has shrined deeper in his heart.