CUTTING UP THE MOOSE.
Directly opposite a huge cone mountain rose up some eight or nine thousand feet above us, and just ere evening fell over the scene, his topmost peak, glowing white in the sunlight, became mirror’d in most faithful semblance in the clear quiet river, while the life-stream of the moose flowed out over the tranquil surface, dyeing the nearer waters into brilliant crimson.
If some painter in the exuberance of his genius had put upon canvas such a strange contrast of colours, people would have said it is not true to nature; but nature has many truths, and it takes many a long day, and not a few years’ toil, to catch a tenth of them. And, my dear friend with the eye-glass—you who know all about nature in a gallery and with a catalogue—you may take my word for it.
And now, ere quitting, probably for ever, this grand Peace River Pass—this immense valley which receives in its bosom so many other valleys, into whose depths I only caught a moment’s glimpse as we floated by their outlets—let me say one other word about it.
Since I left the Wild North Land, it has been my lot to visit the chief points of interest in Oregon, California, the Vale of Shasta, and the Yosemite. Shasta is a loftier mountain than any that frown above the Peace River Pass. Yosemite can boast its half-dozen waterfalls, trickling down their thousand feet of rock; but for wild beauty, for the singular spectacle of a great river flowing tranquilly through a stupendous mountain range,—these mountains presenting at every reach a hundred varied aspects,—not the dizzy glory of Shasta nor the rampart precipices of Yosemite can vie with that lonely gorge far away on the great Unchagah.
On the 9th of May we reached the Forks of the river, where the two main streams of the Parsnip and the Findlay came together. A couple of miles from their junction a second small rapid occurs; but, like the first one, it can be run without difficulty.
Around the point of junction the country is low and marshy, and when we turned into the Findlay, it was easy to perceive from the colour of the water that the river was rising rapidly.
Some miles above the Forks there is a solitary hut on the south bank of the river. In this hut dwelt Pete Toy, a miner of vast repute in the northern mining country.
Some ten years ago Pete had paddled his canoe into these lonely waters. As he went, he prospected the various bars. Suddenly he struck one of surpassing richness. It yielded one dollar to the bucket, or one hundred dollars a day to a man’s work. Pete was astonished; he laid up his canoe, built this hut, and claimed the bar as his property. For a long time it yielded a steady return; but even gold has a limit—the bar became exhausted. Where had all his gold come from?
Ah, that is the question! Even to-day, though the bank has been washed year after year, “it is still rich in colour;” but the “pay-dirt” lies too far from the water’s edge, hence the labour is too great.