Part 25 (1/2)

Later, as we pa.s.sed the American who lives at Fort McMurray, Jiarobia said to me: ”Dat man is the biggest awful liar on de river. You should hear him talk. 'One day,' he said, 'dere was a big stone floating up de muddy river and on it was tree men, and one was blind and one was plumb naked and one had no arms nor legs, and de blind man he looks down on bottom of river an see a gold watch, an de cripple he reach out and get it, and de naked man he put it in his pocket.' Now any man talk dat way he one most awful liar, it is not possible, any part, no how.”

CHAPTER XLIV

THE RIVER

Now we resumed our daily life of tracking, eating, tracking, camping, tracking, sleeping. The weather had continued fine, with little change ever since we left Resolution, and we were so hardened to the life that it was pleasantly monotonous.

How different now were my thoughts compared with those of last Spring, as I first looked on this great river.

When we had embarked on the leaping, boiling, muddy Athabaska, in this frail canoe, it had seemed a foolhardy enterprise. How could such a craft ride such a stream for 2,000 miles? It was like a mouse mounting a monstrous, untamed, plunging and rearing horse. Now we set out each morning, familiar with stream and our boat, having no thought of danger, and viewing the water, the same turbid flood, as, our servant. Even as a skilful tamer will turn the wildest horse into his willing slave, so have we conquered this river and made it the bearer of our burdens. So I thought and wrote at the time; but the wise tamer is ever alert, never lulled into false security. He knows that a heedless move may turn his steed into a deadly, dangerous monster. We had our lesson to learn.

That night (October 15) there was a dull yellow sunset. The morning came with a strong north wind and rain that turned to snow, and with it great flocks of birds migrating from the Athabaska Lake.

Many rough-legged Hawks, hundreds of small land birds, thousands of Snow-birds in flocks of 20 to 200, myriads of Ducks and Geese, pa.s.sed over our heads going southward before the frost. About 8.30 the Geese began to pa.s.s in ever-increasing flocks; between 9.45 and 10 I counted 114 flocks averaging about 30 each (5 to 300) and they kept on at this rate till 2 P. M. This would give a total of nearly 100,000 Geese. It was a joyful thing to see and hear them; their legions in flight array went stringing high aloft, so high they looked not like Geese, but threads across the sky, the cobwebs, indeed, that Mother Carey was sweeping away with her north-wind broom. I sketched and counted flock after flock with a sense of thankfulness that so many, were left alive. Most were White Geese, but a twentieth, perhaps, were Honkers.

The Ducks began to pa.s.s over about noon, and became more numerous than the Geese as they went on.

In the midst of this myriad procession, as though they were the centre and cause of all, were two splendid White Cranes, bugling as they flew. Later that day we saw another band, of three, but these were all; their race is nearly run.

The full moon was on and all night the wild-fowl flew. The frost was close behind them, sharp and sudden. Next morning the ponds about us had ice an inch thick and we heard of it three inches at other places.

But the sun came out gloriously and when at ten we landed at Fort McMurray the day was warm and perfect in its autumnal peace.

Miss Gordon, the postmaster, did not recognise us at first. She said we all looked ”so much older, it is always so with folks who go north.”

Next morning we somehow left our tent behind. It was old and of little value, so we did not go back, and the fact that we never really needed it speaks much for the sort of weather we had to the end of the trip.

A couple of Moose (cow and calf) crossed the river ahead of us, and Billy went off in hot pursuit; but saw no more of them.

Tracks of animals were extremely abundant on, the sh.o.r.e here.

Large Wolves became quite numerous evidently we were now in their country. Apparently they had killed a Moose, as their dung was full of Moose hair.

We were now in the Canyon of the Athabaska and from this on our journey was a fight with the rapids. One by one my skilful boatmen negotiated them; either we tracked up or half unloaded, or landed and portaged, but it was hard and weary work. My journal entry for the night of the 18th runs thus:

”I am tired of troubled waters. All day to-day and for five days back we have been fighting the rapids of this fierce river. My place is to sit in the canoe-bow with a long pole, glancing here and there, right, left, and ahead, watching ever the face of this snarling river; and when its curling green lips apart betray a yellow brown gleam of deadly teeth too near, it is my part to ply with might and main that pole, and push the frail canoe aside to where the stream is in milder, kindlier mood.' Oh, I love not a brawling river any more than a brawling woman, and thoughts of the broad, calm Slave, with its majestic stretches of level flood, are now as happy halcyon memories of a bright and long-gone past.”

My men were skilful and indefatigable. One by one we met the hard rapids in various ways, mostly by portaging, but on the morning of the 19th we came to one so small and short that all agreed the canoe could be forced by with poles and track-line. It looked an insignificant ripple, no more than a fish might make with its tail, and what happened in going up, is recorded as follows:

CHAPTER XLV

THE RIVER SHOWS ITS TEETH

”Oct. 20, 1907.--Athabaska River. In the Canyon. This has been a day of horrors and mercies. We left the camp early, 6.55--long before sunrise, and portaged the first rapid. About 9 we came to the middle rapid; this Billy thought we could track up, so with two ropes he and Rob were hauling us, I in bow, Preble in stem; but the strong waters of the middle part whirled the canoe around suddenly, and dashed her on a rock. There was a crash of breaking timber, a roar of the flood, and in a moment Preble and I and, all the stuff were in the water.

”'My journals,' I shouted as I went down, and all the time the flood was boiling in my ears my thought was, 'My journals,'--'my journals.'

”The moment my mouth was up again above the water, I bubbled out, 'My journals,--save my journals,' then struck out for the sh.o.r.e.

Now I saw Preble hanging on to the canoe and trying to right it.