We saw many beautiful little flowers, the bluebell always in evidence, daisies, a bunch of forget-me-nots, and what fascinated me beyond description,—several bunches of violets away above the snow-line. They took me back to the springtime in the Middle States. The wild geraniums were in bloom, varying in color from a delicate purple to a faded hue, with leaves colored from green to scarlet.
When we left the main camp provisions enough to last two days were packed. It was our intention to keep a packer going between camps carrying our supplies; thus we could move from place to place as light as possible. When Doc returned from the last camp to headquarters with his lamb and a packer to show him the way, he promised faithfully to send the Indian back to us with a good supply of provisions. We suggested writing down the articles desired, but he thought this was not necessary,—that a good supply would be forthcoming. Thus we separated. My companion was uneasy for fear of the Indian not being able to find our camp, for our supplies were getting low. I had no fear from this source, knowing well the natural instinct of a child of the forest for taking our trail, which was so pronounced that even a novice could follow us. You may imagine the chagrin of the party when he returned on the following day with no flour and only bread enough to last one meal. We then came to the conclusion that Doc was tired of the hunt and had adopted this means of forcing us by starvation to return to the provision camp. We hunted all that day with only one small biscuit apiece. It was raining, and in the evening, when we returned to camp wet and hungry, a large fire was built and our wet clothing dried. A tin cup full of boiling hot tea soon revived our depressed spirits. This, with a few ptarmigan roasted on a spit, enabled us to retire in good condition.
By this time my comrade could not stand the hardships any longer and wanted to return to the lake. He insisted that there were no big trophies in the country. I succeeded in getting him to stay a day or two longer by telling him I had seen a large ram. The last day we hunted together we came upon a prospector’s cache. On top of a large stone we noticed a pile of small stones arranged in a way that at first sight indicated the hand of man. Examining the pile we found beans, flour, and dried fruits. Although we had been living on porcupine for two days, the natives refused to touch the cache. There is an unwritten law among prospectors and hunters that is never violated in this far-away land. The cache is never disturbed, for they know full well that some fellow-man is depending upon the provisions to reach civilization, and to disturb it may cost the life of the owner. However, if one in a starving condition helps himself, he leaves his name and the owner considers it an act of humanity. Those only who have been in a similar situation can appreciate what it means. One of the guides insisted it was cached by the owner, who had gone back to civilization and left it in the hope that some person in great need might find it. How we longed to have a mess of those navy beans, but we had not yet reached the condition where we could help ourselves, for we were only one day’s march from plenty.
Finally my companion had his way, and in the morning, though the weather looked threatening, we started, two of the packers towards camp with the outfit, and the hunters for the summit once more. While resting a little before we made the ascent of a high mountain, my guide pointed out a large moose, with huge palmated horns. He was feeding peacefully in the distance, occasionally looking around as though always on the alert for foes. One horn was still in the velvet, and on the other the velvet was dangling down just ready to drop off, with the red corpuscles on the antlers glittering in the rain.
By and by the clouds began to form on the mountain-tops, and gradually lowered until they enveloped the entire mountains and valleys. Again the rain commenced, and continued a steady downpour for the remainder of the day. The fates were against us in respect to the weather, but we did not have to go hungry, for the marmots were plentiful, whistling here and there, as though a kind Providence had provided a good supper for the camp. After walking all day in a cold, drizzling rain that was almost sleet, we overtook our packers, who had been traveling since morning in order to reach a camping place where there were both wood and water. We finally reached the foothills, where we found water and scrub spruce in abundance. One of the guides, while “rustling” sticks for fire, ran onto a large porcupine, and between marmot soup and porcupine roast we had an abundance to satisfy the inner man.
After the Indians had eaten their fill,—and the amount they could eat was surprising,—the one that got the brisket had picked it clean and started to twirl it in the air, uttering some chanting words each time he tossed it, until it fell with the narrow side up, then he turned to his companions laughing and shaking his head. Then another went through the same motions. I subsequently learned that if the narrow side turned up frequently this indicated they would have another “porky” on the morrow. Porcupine they prefer to any other kind of meat. The intestines seem to be considered the choice morsels. Our guide would take hold of the intestine with one hand and with the other would strip it of its contents in the various stages of digestion. Then to each man would be allotted his pro rata share,—and each was careful to see that he got his full portion of the delicacy. Next they would string the sections on sticks and gather round the fire on their “hunkers,” singeing the tidbits more or less, each according to his taste. Upon our inquiring why they did not wash the dainties, they explained that washing spoiled the flavor. There was a great deal of humor about them and they frequently tried to play simple jokes on each other. Occasionally one would reach for the field-glasses, look long and earnestly, then point in the direction of the mountain to some rocks and shout “Mushee”[1] (meaning “Sheep”), and when another member of the party would hurriedly reach for the glasses and shout “No mushee,” all would have a laugh at his expense. They are great tea drinkers and when in camp the teapot is always on the fire getting hot for the next cup. If for any reason they were compelled to do without it, they would sulk until they got it.
[1] The term for mountain sheep in the language of the British Columbian Indians is “Scoulaps.”
It rained all night and we did not rest well, although very tired after our trip over long stretches of mountain-side covered with loose stones of all sizes and forms thrown down by the elements from the mountain-top. The bed was hard; the tent was pitched under a scrub hemlock to get protection from the strong wind that was blowing down the pass. The wind moaned and groaned all the fore part of the night, then subsided, but the rain continued till morning. The Nimrods huddled together in a small depression on the ground, with no bed but the rubber blankets and very scanty covering. Our hip bones would get sore, and one would turn and then the other, continually. We were glad to see the dawn of another day. All night long, “drip, drip, drip” in different parts of the tent the rain could be heard. The hunting shoe of my companion, standing upright under one of the largest leaks, proved an opportune receptacle, consequently in the morning his shoe was about half full of rain water. After a breakfast of porcupine stewed with a spoonful of evaporated potatoes and washed down with a cup of tea, we folded our tent and plodded our weary way towards camp. Blueberries and salmon-berries were very plentiful. We found at the higher elevations an abundance of a species of blueberry, the woody plants of which grew less than three inches in height. They were laden with a small berry, very sweet to the taste, and so plentiful that they could be stripped off by the handful. Among them grew another species as heavily laden with red fruit, which I think was a species of partridge-berry. The two grew about the same height. The Indians preferred the red berries and seemed fond of them. As for myself, I was not partial to them, but ate liberally of the blue.
Among the berries we came upon a covey of ptarmigan feeding. Doc, murderously inclined, fired some ten shots at one of them before it flew. Indeed, so recklessly did he scatter his leaden pellets as the birds rose, that old Shanghai, one of our Indians, called to me: “Hey, Billy, Billy! Come on! Damn! Him make bullets whiz by head!”
As we reached lower levels, the blueberries gave way to salmon-berries. They resemble raspberries in growth and appearance, but have a peculiar tart flavor. They were in great abundance, and were much relished by our party.