THE LAND OF FEAST OR FAMINE

WRITTEN BY: NORMAN L. ROBINSON

DEDICATED TO: My old friend and partner, JOHN HORNBY, who, with two companions, starved to death in the Barren Lands during the winter of 1926-27 whilst attempting to cross from Great Slave Lake to Fort Churchill.

FORWARD

In the year 1914, Jack Hornby and I were serving as Troopers in the 19th Alberta Dragoons on Salisbury Plains, England. In February, 1915, we went to France and from March 17th of that year, when I was wounded, until late in 1919, I did not see him again. Our reunion was in Edmonton, Alberta when we decided to go "down" North together and seek our fortunes in "The Land of Feast or Famine".

Hornby was a lovable fellow but as his friends will remember him, a traveler, camping out whether in the North or in a hotel in civilization. On one occasion I was in his room at the Leland Hotel, Edmonton when he was preparing to go out for dinner. He was in need of a clean collar and I can remember him fishing a gunny sack out from under the bed, scattering moccasins, Arctic Hare's legs and all kinds of things around before he came to the clean collar. He even played golf on the Edmonton course with Roy Douglas and me but he wore moccasins.

As it was fairly late in the fall when we decided to make the journey, we had very little time to make plans so decided to go at once to Peace River Crossing and purchase our outfit there. Our original intentions were to go by canoe from Peace River Crossing to Resolution on Great Slave Lake, buy a train of dogs there and go on with them to Fort Norman where there was expectation of an oil boom. Our reason for going by the Peace River was that Hornby had got a permit to kill a buffalo which he intended to present to a museum and the herd usually wintered near that river. We crowded a few lessons in taxidermy into our limited time as we were both keen naturalists and wanted to preserve any interesting specimens of birds we might find.

Hornby has done extensive traveling all over the North country previously, mainly in the vicinity of Great Slave and Great Bear Lakes and the Coppermine River and had lived for two years in an Esquimaux village. Consequently he was no chechako1, but it was my first experience in that line and I was thrilling to the excitement of the unknown. I had absolute faith in Hornby's ability to steer us through; in fact, there were no flies in the ointment except a slight shortage of cash. Still, between us, we had enough for a sufficient, if meager, outfit. So we took the train from Edmonton and began what to me was the most interesting five years I ever spent in my life. Sometimes together, sometimes apart -- meeting in queer, out-of-the-way places -- we both stayed a full five years before we again saw Edmonton.

Whilst in the North, I wrote home regularly. My mother used to copy my letters and send them to other members of the family but she also wrote them into a manuscript which she kept herself. On her death, this manuscript was returned to me and I then decided to write my experiences in book form, taking my data from those letters.

I have chosen the name for this book as a tribute to Hornby, who often spoke of writing a book under that title. In any case, no title could better explain that wonderful country

1 Sourdough

of quick changes -- where a man is up one moment, down the next; hungry for a while and then surfeited with the necessaries of life. A country where one lives close to Nature, feasting one's eyes on scenery unsurpassed, listening to the music of rivers and trees and taking life as it comes but always making the most of even the very smallest of blessings.

CHAPTER 1: THREE-HUNDRED MILES BY CANOE

On October 10, 1919, Jack Hornby and I arrived at Peace River Crossing. Although it was getting late in the fall, we intended to purchase a camping outfit, canoe, grub, etc., and go as far down the Peace River as we could before freeze-up in an attempt to get through to Fort Resolution on Great Slave Lake. Three routes were open to us. One leaving the Peace at Fort Vermillion, crossing to the Hay River which we would follow down to Hay River Post on Great Slave Lake, passing the famous Alexandra Falls en route, thence East along the shore of Great Slave Lake to Fort Resolution. The second route was by trail from Peace Point, one-hundred, fifty miles below Fort Vermillion, to Fort Smith. This was the route we were most anxious to follow as Hornby had a permit to shoot a buffalo, which he intended to present to a museum and this trail led diagonally across the buffalo range. The third route followed the Peace River as far as its junction with the Slave River, thence down the Slave via Fort Smith to Resolution. It would be far the longest way round, but we really expected to, and finally did, follow it.

It was of the utmost importance to get started as soon as possible on account of its being late in the season, in fact the freeze-up was due at any moment so, on Sunday, October 12th, we loaded our belongings into an eighteen-foot canoe and began our long and most exciting journey. I sat in the bow, Hornby in the stern; consequently, he did the steering. Our outfit was piled amid-ship and was so heavy that we only had about four inches of free board. A trip like this had always been one of my greatest ambitions and I thrilled with excitement. Hornby, being used to it, took it all with the greatest calm.

The Peace River runs from five to seven miles an hour and, as we kept paddling steadily but without exerting ourselves, we did about ten miles an hour. Every now and then we came to stretches, generally passing islands, where the current was more swift but they didn't last long. A most remarkable thing to me was the absolute quiet in contrast to the noises of the war. Not a sound of any kind except occasionally the swish of the water. On one occasion, we heard a sound like water going over a fall. It grew louder and louder until we expected rapids, but found it to be just a partly submerged rock causing a riffle. It must have been half a mile distant when we first heard it. Another time, for half a day, we were continually passing dead mice. There must have been a migration and in the attempt to swim the river, they all drowned. Ducks were very numerous and formed our main meat diet during the whole journey, but towards the end we were sick of them. Quite often, we saw flocks of two- or three-hundred collected on a sand bar in preparation, I presume, for the long flight south. One time a flight we were watching suddenly dropped to the water as if they had all been shot. A moment later, we saw the hawk which had dived at them.

As we had a seven-by-seven tent with us, we were quite independent but, owing to there being snow on the ground, we took advantage of several trappers shacks which we reached at a convenient time for camping. We had plenty of coverings, in fact, my bed consisted of four single blankets, a wolf skin, and a piece of canvas. Hornby has two double Hudson's Bay blankets and a caribou skin.

We traveled along peacefully, making about fifty to sixty miles a day, passing scows (flat-bottomed boats), canoes and Indians fishing in the eddies. Occasionally the wind would change, forcing us to exert ourselves or a sudden squall would make traveling unpleasant for a while. Sailing along close to the shore, we saw several mink and muskrats and, on one occasion, an Indian hunting in the approved story-book style. His hair was long, hanging down in plaits. He was using a single-barreled muzzle loader and was slowly stalking a Willow Grouse. The bird was perched in a large clump of willows and at the crucial moment when he was preparing to shoot, some imp prompted Hornby to shout "Hello". The Indian was surprised and the bird flew.

Thus we traveled along until October 18th when we reached Fort Vermillion. Just above the Fort is a Government Experimental Farm and the most northerly one in Canada but, owing to a splendid sailing breeze, we did not stop to inspect it. Stopping for a few minutes at Vermillion to augment our decreasing supplies, we hurried on, making every mile we could while the breeze lasted. Sailing a canoe is tricky work if there is no load but, when well weighted down, the canoe shows no signs of crankiness and it certainly makes pleasant traveling. By afternoon on the 18th, the wind had increased and rain was falling so we decided to make camp on a large island. We pitched our tent, laid spruce bows for our beds, lit our little camp stove and soon were quite comfortable and drying our clothes.

Next day, October 19th, rain had turned to sleet and the weather was so cold and miserable that we stayed in camp. Tuesday, October 20th broke clear but, to our dismay, the sleet that fell the day before had turned to ice on the river and was now in the form of large floes; not very thick, but with sharp, jagged edges -- a deadly menace to our frail canoe. We had no choice but to proceed, as we had passed Vermillion where the trail led off to Hay River and turning back generally means more and more trouble. So we loaded up and started for the Vermillion Chutes, which we had heard roaring many miles back. Coming to a place where the river suddenly broadened out, we could see white water ahead and knew that we were approaching the rapids, one mile above the Chutes. There had been a Hudson's Bay Company trading post somewhere near here and we understood that some of the buildings were still standing so we kept close to shore, searching for it and finally found it not more than a quarter of a mile from the rapids. The Post had been moved to Little Red River -- "Moqua Sepi" in Cree Indian -- six miles further downstream, but a "portage" ran to that point and parties going downstream generally shipped their outfits across on wagons, taking to the river again below the Chutes. Having pitched our tent and made fire, we began making plans. There was still a considerable amount of ice running but the river further down looked clear, so we decided to go on. Next morning, we loaded our canoe and moved carefully down towards the rapids.

CHAPTER 2: THE VERMILLION CHUTES AND RAPIDS

It was October 22nd when we arrived at the rapids. Snow was falling and the temperature well below freezing. The water was very low and, while these rapids can be run safely at most stages of the water, it was absolutely impossible when we were there. So the only thing to do was portage our outfit and "line" the canoe down. The portage was very short, not more than 500 yards, and moving our outfit was easy, but lining the canoe down was difficult in the extreme. Carrying it around was impossible, owing to the rocks, so we had no choice. Tieing our "link line" -- a strong but light cord -- onto the canoe, I got a pole to fend off rocks and steer, got into the canoe, Hornby took the line and we were ready. Keeping as close as possible to shore, we missed most of the really swift water but, now and then, we were forced into it when the canoe would jump ahead. Several times we grounded and had to take to the water to get the canoe off. I do not yet understand how we got through without any damage, but we managed it, reloaded our outfit, and started towards the Chutes.

Hornby had a vague idea that they were about a mile below the rapids -- I knew nothing about it. The roar which we had heard back upstream was now gone, owing, of course, to the whole river going over the falls and the only noise we could hear was from the rapids. The current kept getting swifter and swifter and I knew we were near trouble of some kind, so I proposed to Hornby that we get on shore and take a look around. He was quite agreeable so we pulled in closer to the shore and then found, to our dismay, that there were about three feet of shore ice all the way along. This made landing practically impossible. There was just one chance. A little further down a spruce tree had fallen, the top reaching to within a few feet of the shore. If I could balance myself right on the point of the bow, on one foot, while Hornby steadied the canoe as much as possible, I might be able to jump far enough to catch hold of that tree. It was a case of "have to" so, taking a tie round my wrist with the painter, I got all set, waited till the right moment and jumped, sprawled on the slippery ice, but managed to get up and take hold of the tree before the full weight of the canoe came on my arm. Tieing our craft firmly, I helped Hornby ashore and then we got our first chance to look around. First sight to register on our amazed minds was that of the whole river, from bank to bank, just felling away about one-hundred yards below where we were standing. Another ten minutes in the canoe and we would both have certainly been drowned in the boiling cauldron below the spot where we would have gone over but, about fifty feet above the falls, there was a big eddy in which a boat could remain in perfect safety while being unloaded. So we lowered the canoe down the shore line to this eddy, tied her securely, and walked down to the edge of the falls.

What a magnificent sight met our eyes. A wall of rock stretched across the river from shore to shore -- roughly one and a half miles at this point -- over which the river rushed before its fall of from twelve to fifteen feet. In places, the fall was abrupt while, here and there, outcroppings from the face had formed chutes. Now that we were on the bank, we got the full sound that we had heard faintly when further back; a rumbling roar so loud that we had to shout to each other to make ourselves heard. We knew that boats had run these chutes and figured out possible places but, as far as we could

judge, only large and well powered boats would have the faintest chance, an attempt in a canoe being out of the question. It must be remembered that the water was at its worst stage -- very low -- and all rocks showed up whereas, if the water had been high, it might not have looked so bad. Having decided that any attempt to run these chutes was out of the question, we began to look around for a place to portage our outfit. A goat trail ran along the edge which, at ordinary times, would have been passable but, unfortunately, there was a strip of glare ice across it, maybe ten feet wide, cutting down to the river at an angle of forty-five degrees. That trouble could have been surmounted in several ways except for the fact that each time we crossed it, we would have a heavy load, the most awkward being the canoe and, of course, the slightest slip meant certain death. To add to all this, there was a considerable amount of ice on the river below the chutes and we were afraid that, even if we negotiated this part safely, we would most likely be held up below. Finally, we decided that the risk was not worth it and sadly determined to turn back, figuring that if we could get as far as Fort Vermillion, we could purchase dogs and take the trail north via the Hay River -- one of our original plans. Owing to the swiftness of the water, paddling the canoe was impossible so we attached our "link line" and "tracked" upstream. Taking it in turns to pull -- hard work against the fast current -- we finally reached the rapids, went through all the same business that we had had when coming down, and reached the old Hudson's Bay Post again on October 23rd.

Our dejection at having to turn back was mitigated by the knowledge that we were not the first to be held up by the Chutes and we knew that they had taken their toll of lives. In fact, some months previous to our arrival, a man and his wife, both wonderful swimmers, had attempted to go through in a canoe. Wearing bathing suits in expectation of an upset, they felt confident in their ability to swim ashore from any point if necessary. The attempt ended in tragedy. Apparently, having upset and having lost trace of each other in the water, the wife swam ashore, presumably imagining that her husband had done the same. Unfortunately, he was still swimming around looking for her but, whilst doing so, noticed her on shore and swam in, but she was not there. Not finding her husband, this lady pluckily took to the water again to search for him and was never seen again. I have talked to men who came through on large, high powered craft and they all say the same thing -- they would never do it again. By using the portage there is very little trouble and no danger.

CHAPTER 3: FROZEN IN

Our attempt to pass the Chutes having failed, we decided to make ourselves as comfortable as possible at the old trading post and trap until such time as we could purchase dogs and continue our journey. As soon as we could manage it, we walked the six miles across the portage to Little Red River Post and introduced ourselves to Bill Grey, the Factor, who informed us we could not get any dogs at that time, but as soon as the freeze-up had come and Indians were on the move, it might be possible. He was certainly very kind in lending us sufficient traps to make a beginning.

So back we went -- did some more fining up -- plastering, etc. to our temporary home and busied ourselves as best we could till trapping started. Our first efforts were along a nearby creek where we had seen mink and muskrat tracks. Hornby showed me how to make the "sets" and we got out quite a few traps. Next day we had a beautiful, large, dark mink which I hit on the head with a stick and laid, still in the trap, on the ice behind me while I knelt down to re-fix the set. Presently, some sixth sense warned me that eyes were boring into me, but I could see nothing. Glancing behind me, I found that I had only stunned the mink which had now regained consciousness and was preparing for drastic action. His mouth was open, ready to bite a portion of my anatomy very necessary in the process of sitting down. Needless to say, I moved and was more careful in future.

I liked trapping in every way, except one. Being out of doors all the time, the excitement of wondering what might be in the next trap, and a hundred and one other things made it a lovely life, but I never could get over a feeling of pity for the animals I caught. Some of them would still be alive, others frozen stiff. Of course, they were not in actual pain after the first few moments because the jaws of the trap, closing so tightly, cut off circulation and cause numbness and freezing almost immediately. As for freezing to death -- I have been near that myself and can vouch for the fact that, once one is cold enough, there is no more pain. Thawing out is what hurts. I will give an instance of that later on.

During our trapping operations, the many fur bearers caught were mink, muskrat, skunk and weasel. Luckily for us, fur prices went wild that winter -- weasel (ermine), cheapest of all fur, fetching as high as one dollar and a half.

Just before Christmas we moved, lock stock and barrel, across the portage to Red River where we camped in a shack belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company. Whilst here, I was initiated into the mysteries of the Indian "Give Away" dance. Apparently, all that is necessary to get one started is a donation from the traders of a few groceries, tea, etc. Having collected which, rifles are fired signifying that some excitement is afoot. About 9:00 p.m., people began to collect at a small shack close by, so I wandered over to see the fun. Everyone looked prosperous -- the men wearing good looking suits or buckskins, while most of the women were dressed in silk or satin with, of course, the inevitable large silk handkerchief over the head. The men also wear silk handkerchiefs draped over one shoulder and under the opposite arm, or around the

neck. Music was comprised of the high falsetto voices of two Indians accompanied by the incessant "ta tum, ta tum, ta tum" of moose skin drums which, from time to time, got slack and had to be held near the stove to stretch the hide.

There were two stoves in this shack; one against the wall -- not lit, the other in the center and burning. Bucks all sat on one side, squaws on the other. The idea of the dance is explained in its name -- "give away" -- and the modus operandi is as follows. Having selected the article to be given away, the donor, whether buck or squaw, walks across the room directly to the prospective recipient who takes hold of one end of the gift. Both parties, still holding the gift between them, take to the floor and proceeded to dance a step which is simply a left-right, left-right, only done sideways -- the body swaying and accentuating each step. As soon as the donor has had enough of this, he or she lets go the gift, which now becomes the property of the recipient and that dance is finished, no attention being paid then, or at any other time, to the music. After a while, the recipient will dance some gift back to the donor and all will be square.

Having danced away one or two small things such as handkerchiefs, I thought I had seen enough and was about to leave when an old man came across to me holding out his gaily decorated buck skin vest. Having taken a great fancy to it, I was delighted and went through the dance with him, after which the vest was mine. It then dawned on me that this old fellow had an eye to business. A large gift like this cannot be carried while the dance is going on, so the two dancers concerned hold a short piece of stick which is left with the prospective recipient until it can be redeemed. No mention is made as to what the stick represents. Since coming back from overseas, I had worn my army tunic whenever outside civilization. It was a handy article of clothing; warm, of strong serviceable material with gilt buttons, and large and numerous pockets. All of which, coupled with the fact that my medal ribbons were still in place, adding a splash of color, had caught the old Indian's attention and awakened in him the hope that if he gave me something of a similar nature, I would be forced to dance the tunic to him in return. But I figured it differently, refused to part with my most useful tunic, and finally gave him my fur cap. It was a close shave and made me extremely careful in future.

As a matter of fact, on special occasions or sometimes when there is a little home brew in camp, the Indians give each other wonderful presents such as dogs, rifles, furs, money or clothes. The largest gift I ever saw being given at Fort Smith some years later when the gift consisted of a sleigh and five splendid dogs, the whole worth between $200 and $300. But that is exceptional and is the result of some special emotion or excitement. On Christmas Eve, we had a dance of our own. Two whitemen arrived with their squaws and we danced to the tunes of a gramophone, spending my first Northern Christmas very pleasantly.

During days of enforced idleness caused by pain in my right foot from a way injury, I visited quite often with the Indians, learning their language and listening to their stories. The language was easy, although their habit of clipping words short made it difficult at first. For instance, "I will go away" is "nea kegiwan", but they say "n'kegiwan". I consider Cree, the language of these Indians, one of the most pleasing to the ear of any

I have ever come across. One old chief, "Tall Cree", had seven wives. Missionaries came along and persuaded him to renounce six of them. Four out of the six died of broken hearts, according to the Indian story.

About this time, we were lucky enough to purchase three dogs very reasonably, one of which was very mean and difficult to handle -- that being, I am convinced, the main reason we were able to get him so cheaply. He was a fine upstanding dog, weighing over 100 pounds and only cost $75 (£15-0-0). As Hornby was away on the trap line, I kept this dog -- "Demon" we called him -- right in the shack with me and left him to make the advances when he wanted food. At first he paid no attention to me, just growling when I came near but finally, one meal time, he came over and sat close enough for me to give him a bite occasionally. I judged that he had been mistreated and did everything in my power to gain his confidence and to assure him that he now had a kind master. All went smoothly until the first time I hooked him up. After harnessing the other two dogs, I fetched Demon out on a chain. He promptly jumped my wheel dog, "Wolf", and I had quite a time getting them separated. Demon was now excited, growling at me and showing every sign of getting ready to battle. If I gave in or showed fear, I knew I would have trouble with him all the time; so I walked up and began to push him around as if he was the quietest dog in the world. This must have been totally different to anything he had come across before and he was so surprised that he stopped growling, submitted to being harnessed and when told to "mush", started off as if nothing had happened. He was one of the best dogs I ever drove. Poor old fellow -- he died of starvation two years later when Hornby very nearly met the same fate at Fort Reliance, an old Hudson's Bay Post at the east end of Great Slave Lake. Hornby told me the story -- how he hurt his leg and couldn't hunt. There was no one there to help him and with his injury, he couldn't return to Resolution, two-hundred miles away. By spring he was in very bad condition. All the dogs had died except one and he was living mainly on squirrels. One day, when the ice on the lake began to thaw and pools of water formed along the shore, two loons settled. Hornby got his rifle with the intention of shooting but, crazed with hunger, forgot to shoot and ran into the lake trying to catch them. This must have straightened him out considerably because next day, when a flock of ducks settled, he managed to shoot two. Shortly after this some Indians came along and, with their help, he got back to Resolution. It was an experience similar to this which eventually cost him his life but, of that, more later.

Gradually we managed to collect dogs until we had our train complete. Working them on the trap line got them used to each other. About this time we heard there was going to be a wedding forty miles down the river and some of the Indians were going. This meant a trail for that distance anyway, possibly another one made by Indians coming from below, so we decided to stop trapping, complete the necessary outfit, and start our three-hundred-mile trip to Fort Smith.

CHAPTER 4: THREE-HUNDRED MILES ON THE ICE

It was on February 5, 1920 that we started our long and arduous trip down the river to Fort Smith, not knowing as yet whether we would be able to take the short-cut from Peace River, thereby saving about one-hundred miles, or have to follow the river all the way. Our train consisted of five good dogs with Demon as leader, pulling a load of about three-hundred pounds. Here and there, near some trapper's cabin, we would have a trail from a short distance but, with the exception of about fifty miles, we had to break trail all the way to Fort Chipewyan -- two-hundred miles from Red River Post. Snow-shoes were necessary all the time as the snow varied in depth from half an inch to four feet and even more in the drifts. Breaking trail, that is walking ahead of the dogs, was a tiring business and we had to take turns at it.

We pitched out tent right on the ice each night, froze pegs and poles, placed plenty of spruce bows under our blankets, and rested our small camp stove on two short iron rods which, in turn, rested on two long poles. Shortly after lighting the stove there would be a pool of water under it, but our poles and rods kept the stove from sinking. By such means, we traveled comfortably. Our dogs worked splendidly, but the sharp ice which we had to cross from time to time made their feet sore, necessitating shoes made out of canvas.

At one place, the river was shallow and consequently very swift. We notice that the ice was thin and, on testing it, found only half an inch. Several places had not frozen over at all, owing to the swiftness of the current. There was no chance of going around and our only hope was to hurry the dogs over it as fast as possible. We navigated it safely but the weight of the sleigh "bent" the ice to such an extent that water flooded our trail as we passed. On arriving at the Buffalo Reserve ranger's cabin at Peace Point, we found it deserted and not knowing if the trail direct to Fort Smith was passable, we had no choice but to continue by river.

One night we reached a cabin inhabited by two trappers who showed us every hospitality. The story of one of them is sad but interesting. During the war, he was following mechanical dentistry and, on returning home one evening, found his wife and little daughter missing. He began searching along the country road near home and eventually came on his car overturned, with his loved ones both dead underneath it. The shock partially turned his head. He drifted around for a while, finally landing in the cabin where we met him. Some years later, I met a trader from Fort Chipewyan who told me the story of this poor fellow's dramatic end. The trader was, at the time, traveling around the district with his dogs, buying fur from the trappers and was returning home, his sleigh loaded, when he came to the shack where this man was then staying. There was no sound or sign of life so he forced an entrance only to find this man's body, stiff and cold, badly eaten by weasels. Owing to the sleigh being loaded and the terrible condition of the body, the trader decided that there was only one thing to do. Placing the body on a table in the center of the shack, he set fire to the

logs. It may not have been the ethical procedure, but it was surely what this poor fellow would have wished.

Leaving our hospitable friends, we continued our journey to Fort Chipewyan, a fur trading post, picturesquely situated on Lake Athabasca. First visited by that famous trader, Peter Pond in 1778, it has grown until now it is one of the most important posts in the North.

We stayed at Chipewyan long enough to stock up again with groceries and purchase more dried fish for dog feed, then left for Fort Fitzgerald, one hundred miles down the river. The first day was alright but then things went wrong. First of all, I got a bad attack of the flu, accompanied by severe neuralgia. I wouldn't have minded the headache and pains so much, but the weakness left me incapable of doing anything. To make matters worse, we took a wrong trail when going across a short-cut and wasted a day and a half. To add to this, the ice was so rough that the dogs were having a hard time with the sleigh and I couldn't ride on top of the load. Even so, we made the one-hundred miles in four and a half days. Between Forts Fitzgerald and Smith, a portage of eighteen miles has to be made owing to a series of rapids which are unsafe. In a later chapter, I will describe a journey down these rapids.

Fort Fitzgerald, named after the Mounted Police Inspector who, with his party, lost their lives on the Dawson Trail when caught in a blizzard, is a busy place as all freight for points further North has to be unloaded, hauled across the portage and reloaded at Fort Smith. The Ryan Brothers have the most up-to-date material for handling the business; tractors, trucks and truck-drawn wagons. I have seen a large boat being taken across, perched up on two huge spruce tree skids, and hauled by two tractors. As the season for freighting is comparatively short, everything is bustle and rush from the moment the first boat arrives from Fort McMurray in the spring. Most of the freighting used to be done by Indians with their teams, but that method could no longer cope with the ever- increasing quantities shipped each year.

Fort Fitzgerald, in company with all posts on the river, has two main trading stores -- The Hudson's Bay Company and the Northern Trading Company -- but there is generally one, and sometimes more, individual traders at each place. I will explain later why these small traders are such a thorn in the flesh of the large companies.

A curious sight at this Fort is a great flock of seagulls, which stay all summer and get so tame that they will hardly move out of the way of pedestrians.

The run across the portage was quickly made owing to our having a well-beaten trail to follow. On the way, we got a splendid view of part of the rapids. Sixteen miles from Fitzgerald and two miles from Smith, we crossed the line between Alberta and the North West Territories; so, from this moment, we could consider ourselves really in the North.

Fort Smith has the largest population of all Northern posts, both white and Indian, amongst whom are many well-known families and individuals. Conibear's store, known from one end of the North to the other, is the first large building one sees when entering the North West Territories. Few travelers ever left Fort Smith without remembering the pleasant conversations, wonderful hospitality and touch-of-home in their visits to the Conibears. Mr. Conibear, an expert machinist, made the trip from Toronto to Fort Smith many years ago to set up a steam boat engine sold to the Catholic Mission by the firm for which he was working. Having completed his job, he liked the country so well that he abandoned all though of returning to Toronto and is still at Fort Smith. Mr. McDougall, the Government Agent, is known, respected and loved by sourdoughs and travelers throughout the whole of Northern Canada. On one occasion, although not a member of that faith, I was singing in the choir at a midnight celebration of Mass. The choir was in a balcony at the back of the Church. Mrs. McDougall, who had a glorious voice, was to sing a solo. When the time came, she moved over beside the organ which rested on a low platform. The light was rather dim and by some mischance, while actually singing, she stepped off the platform and fell. Through her courage and quick thinking, very few people knew that anything untoward had taken place and the service was in no way interrupted. Corporal Walters of the R.C.M. Police, now retired. Mr. Drew of the Northern Trading Company, whose Managing Director was the famous "James K. Cornwall", know to all as "Peace River Jim". Pete McCallum, brother of the Alberta M.L.A.; Joe Burke of large family fame and ex-Mounted Policeman, Fred Noise, originally from Lac St. Anne -- old timers all -- and the Indians, Willie Brown, Susy May, Cockeye, Mrs. Beauliau and many others. Fort Smith could not be the same without them, although I am afraid many will have passed on by this time.

Fort Smith, after being forced to come round by the river, was our first real destination and we figured we deserved a good rest. The flu has left, but I was still rather weak. Stopping at the house of an old friend of Hornby's, Pete McCallum, was a great luxury after camping out for so long and we certainly made the most of it. Still, it was not very long before we wanted more excitement and decided to go after a buffalo and, at the same time, get a load of fish for dog feed. Fifty miles west of Smith, a small stream comes out from underground, staying open all winter. At certain times small fish, about four inches long, could be caught here in dip nets and as the "Moccasin Telegraph" had just brought news that they were there, we decided to leave immediately. Getting our camping outfit together, we harnessed the dogs and pulled out. Several Indians were ahead of us so traveling was good.

After crossing the Salt River, which is a nearly saturated solution of salt and which, as I know from experience, makes horrible tea when one is compelled to use it, we struck across the salt plains passing the big salt spring. This spring wells up continually, evaporates, and leaves a mound of pure salt which is used extensively all through the North. We saw some buffalo tracks here, but they were old. Further on we crossed some fresher tracks but, although we followed these, we saw so buffalo. We found out later that, at one point, we could not have been more than half a day from a large herd. These buffalo are enormous beasts and I was informed that an extra large one, shot for a museum and weighed in the bush lock stock and barrel, turned the scales at two-

thousand, eight-hundred pounds on the hoof. Even though the weighing had to be done bit by bit, a fairly accurate result could be obtained. Hornby made a second trip but I am sorry to say, never did get one. Having arrived at our destination and got what fish we needed, we loaded the sleigh with the fish, frozen in convenient-sized blocks, and then returned to Fort Smith.

About this time, Hornby was keen that I accompany him to the east end of Great Slave Lake where we would winter and trap, leaving in the spring for Fort Churchill by way of the Back and Thelon Rivers. I would have liked to go very much but my wounded foot had caused me endless trouble while traveling and I decided that it would be taking too big a chance. That trip across the Barren Lands, one of Hornby's main ambitions, eventually cost the lives of himself and two partners. But, this time, he decided to go alone, taking the dogs and outfit with him. The last I saw of him for two years was pulling out in a canoe loaded to the gunwale with his outfit and, on top of everything, four dogs. As soon as the Salt River thaws, the Indians go to the mouth to catch and dry fish for dog feed. Nets, from bank to bank of the river are so numerous that it seems impossible for the fish (suckers) to get through, but many of them do on the way to their spawning grounds which lie in the small tributaries near the source. Nets are waiting for them on their return and thousands are caught every year. Each fish is cleaned and opened so that when dry, it will lie flat. This and drying are done by squaws, the latter operation consisting of hanging the fish on racks and letting the sun do the rest. Dry fish is not as good feed as when it is "green" but it is easier to handle when traveling. Fishing for dog feed constitutes the main summer employment of all hunters and fishing for human consumption is carried on all the year round, nets being let through the ice in winter. In fishing through the ice, a "jigger" is used. This consists of a plank about ten feet long with a short piece, maybe three feet long let into the center of it at right angles. The top of the small board is shod with two sharp spikes for gripping the ice. The lower end has a long line attached. The jigger is then pushed through a hole in the ice and floats on the water underneath. By means of steady jerks on the line, it is propelled to the desired distance and, as it is invisible under the snow, located by the sound of the sharp spikes scratching on the ice. Another hole is then cut large enough to allow the jigger to be pulled out. We then have a long line under the ice, the usual length for lake fishing being about eighty fathoms. Having attached this line to one end of the net which has previously been fitted with sinkers and floats, it is drawn under the ice, each end being attached to an anchor pole or a line weighted with a rock. Reverse procedure is followed when "visiting" the net; the line being attached to one end, the other pulled in.

Early in the spring, I made a trip through the rapids between Fitzgerald and Smith. Two large scows (forty-foot, oblong, flat-bottomed craft) were to be taken down for the oil company starting work at Fort Norman. Crews consisted of four rowers to each scow, a man in the bow to fend off rocks, and a pilot. Oars were simply medium-size spruce trees, flattened at one end. Steering was done with a larger tree, flattened at one end and fitted over a pin on the stern so that it could pivot.

I took the bow pole; Boniface Bouchy, an Indian, was pilot and, with our rowers working steadily, we ran the first few rapids with nothing untoward happening. Then, without warning, we ran up onto a submerged rock where it was impossible to move the scow until, standing in the rushing water, we got our backs under her and raised her sufficiently for the current to get hold. Grabbing her as she leaped forward was exciting. Then came a chute with a sharp bend at the bottom. We navigated the chute without trouble but could not make the turn, careening into the bank with a resultant dead stop, much to the dismay of our rowers who could not see ahead and so had no warning.

So far, we had been following side channels on the right bank, the main channel being absolutely impassable and now, just about the Mountain Rapid, we had to cross the river in order to make a short, but very steep, portage which we accomplished quickly with the help of a team, block and tackle, and rollers.

The remaining rapids were easy to navigate, the worst being the last named "The Rapid of the Drowned", where we shipped a considerable amount of water. At only one point in the whole trip were we in actual danger and that was running a chute where a cross wave caught the scow and stood here right up on her side. Everyone was knocked down and we lost two oars and our steering sweep. Luckily, the pilot was lashed to the scow and didn't go overboard. We managed to reach an eddy close by where, just as we touched land, the scow began to fill with water and we had to camp overnight to patch her up.

The total fall of the river in the eighteen miles between Fitzgerald and Smith is one- hundred, twenty-five feet. In running rapids, one would imagine that sufficient speed would be given by the current and it is so, except in the bad places where rowers have to do their utmost in order to beat the speed of the current and keep good steerage way. By the time we got through the rapids, Fort Smith was in the throws of its spring rush.

CHAPTER 5: SPRING IN THE NORTH

As soon as warm days begin to come and pools of water show where snow has lain, the conversation of a northern post centers around the words "the river seems to be rising". When the Peace Rivers lets go, all its ice goes under the Slave River ice, which breaks up later. In passing underneath, it takes up so much space that the water is pushed out on top of the ice and, as snow and ice thaw, it rises continually. Sometimes it suddenly drops, the result of a jamb forming somewhere upstream. This, of course, takes place above the rapids at Fitzgerald, for by the time it gets through them, the ice is smashed into comparatively smaller floes. The Slave River ice, after its break up, is followed as the river clears by all kinds of boats, large and small, freighters and canoes, which have been waiting and from that movement begins the spring rush.

Freight has to be unloaded, checked, reloaded, and checked again. Boats need repairing and getting ready for the summer's work. Stocks of groceries, etc. replenish the sadly depleted stores and in cases where there has been a shortage of certain lines, there will be a rush for those particular articles. Everything is rush and bustle in the common understanding that the season is short and time limited.

Whilst at Fort Fitzgerald, I met several interesting people, foremost of whom was Phillip H. Godsell, who since wrote that interesting series of articles dealing with northern history which was printed in the "Canadian Magazine" but who, at that time, was known better as an inspector with the Hudson's Bay Company than as a writer.

There was Willie McNeil, who brought a herd of reindeer from Labrador to Great Slave Lake as an experiment on the part of the government. The herd was held at Fort Smith for a considerable time, but was finally moved to an island on Great Slave Lake where, from one cause and another, it dwindled down till there was just one left. As a parting gesture, this last one was slaughtered and used by the local "powers-that-were" for feasting material. Willie later became head Buffalo Ranger at Fort Smith.

"Shorty" Jewell lived at Fitzgerald. Six foot-four in height, he was called "Shorty" because he was the shortest of three brothers, all ex-North West Mounted Policemen.

Inspector Anderson of the Mounted Police, who got fame and promotion by carrying a man's head hundreds of miles when it was impossible to find other means of identifying the body to the satisfaction of the Court.

Mrs. Laroque, known to and beloved by all, ran a stopping place in those days while here husband was cook for the R.C.M.P. Years later, when living at the east end of Great Slave Lake, four-hundred miles from Fitzgerald, Mrs. Laroque died of tuberculosis but, before her death, asked her husband, William, to see that she was buried at Resolution, two-hundred, fifty miles distant. Two trips were necessary with dogs over the ice; the first, to take the children to the Catholic Mission, and the second the bring in the corpse. Although it necessitated one-thousand miles of mushing, Mrs. Laroque's last request was fulfilled.

Last but not least, Willie Lysle, Hudson's Bay Trader, two-hundred, fifty pounds in weight, but one of the fastest and best dog drivers in the north and able to talk fluently in Gaelic, French, English, Cree, Chipewyan, and Slavey.

Trucks rush the freight across from Fitzgerald to Smith where it either goes to the stores and warehouses or is loaded directly onto the boats running to Aklavik and intermediate points. Reunions are many and there is great rejoicing, especially when the "permits" arrive. No liquor is allowed in the Northwest Territories unless accompanied by a special permit issued from Ottawa which states that the purchaser requires it for sacramental or medicinal purposes, as the case may be. Needless to say, quite a number of people seem to be in need of medicine. Three quart-bottles a year is the limit.

Whilst all this bustle and activity was in progress, I made a trip to Fort Resolution by gas boat with the Treaty party. Under the terms of the Indian Treaty, the natives are allowed to fish, hunt and do various other things "as long as the sun rises in the East and the rivers run downhill". They also receive, every man, woman and child, a bonus of $5.00 each. In return for all this, they agree to conform to a number of laws, which very few of them understand in the least.

Treaty time is very important in the life of an Indian. Tribes which do not see each other the rest of the year, meet and "pow wow". Chiefs put on their coats with brass buttons and gold braided caps. Counsellors only have the caps. Feasting and dancing are in order. When the Treaty party arrives, composed most likely of the Indian Agent, a secretary and an R.C.M. Policeman, seats are placed for them and the chiefs, the other Indians squatting in a circle on the ground. Views are aired, complaints, if any -- in fact, the whole year's business is gone over in as short a time as possible as the Indians are naturally anxious to get their $5.00, the paying of which comes last. Still, the pow wow is taken very seriously by all and, on any occasion when I have been present, the Agents have certainly handled their protégés with great tact and thoughtfulness. Most of the money is spent immediately and, if groceries are bought, they are eaten up as soon as possible, fish and meat constituting the favorite diet. Many packets of matches are bought to be used as stakes in the gambling games, the favorite of which is similar to our "guess-which-hand-it-is-in". Two rows of men, possibly eight or ten in number, crouched on their knees, face each other across a piece of canvas. One "team" "finds", while the other "hides". Each man on a team takes it in turn to hide the small piece of stick, an opponent guesses which hand it is in and so on until the whole team has been eliminated, when the other team does the hiding. Stakes are paid over when a team is "out", intermediate counts being marked by sticks stuck in the ground. All the time the incessant "ta tum, ta tum" is beaten on their moose skin drums. Of much interest to an onlooker is the muscular twitching and jerking which each player goes through when his turn comes to hide the stick. After Treaty has been paid, the Indians return to their respective fishing grounds and continue to put up dog feed for the coming winter.

On returning to Fort Smith, I was appointed to the position of Purser on the Husdon's Bay boat, "The MacKenzie River". She was still at Gravel Point, where she had been pulled high and dry on shore for the winter, but the crew was busy getting her into the water and as her load of freight was rapidly being brought across the portage, there was plenty of checking to be done. All freight was handled with the greatest care because if anything was spoilt, there was no chance of replacing it for a whole year and the person for whom it was being brought in would have to go short.

The river ice has all gone a considerable time before Great Slave Lake is clear but, as soon as there is sufficient open water, freight is carried as far as Fort Resolution, the main trip to Aklavik commencing later.

The boats used in the north are of the flat-bottomed, stern paddle wheel type, carrying an average load of about one-hundred, twenty tons with very slight draft. Steam engines burning wood for fuel supply power. Pilots on a one-thousand-mile trip can hardly be expected to remember the channel or landmarks all the way so they "read" the water; that is, tell by the look of the surface whether there is deep or shallow water below. It takes experience but when once mastered, becomes simple.

A Purser's duties on one of these boats are legion in number and, besides looking after the passengers, saloon and galley, he has to check all freight on and off and make out the waybills, etc., besides keeping the books. As it does not take long to run the one- hundred or one-hundred, fifty miles between posts when headed downstream, his time is very limited; in fact, he has to keep at it day and night, taking his rest on the slower return trip upstream. Still, it is one of the most enjoyable positions imaginable. Apart from gorgeous scenery, pleasant companions, comfortable living and many other joys, one of the most important attractions of this position lies in the absence of flies. Flies, at this time of the year, are the bane of the North. Bull dogs, sand flies, mosquitoes an "no-see-ums" all add to the necessity for a mosquito bar, except on board ship. Here, their absence is made more noticeable by the clouds which greet one on arrival at each stopping place. But, luckily, they do not last late in the season. Standing at the gang plank, the Purser checks each bale of goods as it is carried on board by crew or hired Indians. Each parcel, package, bale or box is clearly marked with the year, destination, name of shipper, name of consignee, identifying number of bale and weight. As all loading and unloading is done by hand, weights range from twenty to one-hundred, fifty pounds but, occasionally, once comes across a heavier one and it is surprising to see the ease with which it is shouldered and carried to its appointed place.

As soon as the boat's whistle is heard, all inhabitants of the post who can possibly manage it line the banks to cheer and wave as she comes up from her winter quarters. Activity takes on an added zest and loading starts immediately. At the last moment, passengers come aboard, cabins are allotted and everything is in readiness to start the first trip to the Arctic Coast.

CHAPTER 6: THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

With a couple of blasts on the whistle, shouting of orders, untying of topes and waving farewells, we move slowly away from shore into the current, which gently takes hold and augments the force of our engines in pushing us downstream. Indian villages, trappers shacks, tributaries and islands pass with the never-ending line of changing scenery. Occasionally a "lobstick" rears its bald trunk, the clump of evergreens left at the top standing out clearly to mark some camp, trail or channel to be taken by our pilot. Each person we pass, whether in a boat or on land, waves recognition of the fact that we are his only connecting link with the "outside".

Turning continuously, following the tortuous course which marks the channel of any large river, we come at length to the mouth of the Slave where it empties into Great Slave Lake, a lake of eleven-thousand-square-miles area.

Owing to the shortness of the season and the distance we had to travel, it was necessary to start as soon as possible but it may be that, on arrival at the lake, we find our passage blocked with great floes of ice and have to wait a day or two till the wind changes and blows it clear, when we can continue our journey to Fort Resolution, situated on the lake shore. If by any chance a heavy wind is blowing, we must take shelter behind an island or even wait at the mouth of the river, as the anchorage at Resolution is shallow and unprotected. A picturesque place this, the shore line dotted with Indian teepees, trader's stores and dwelling houses behind and the large Catholic Mission in the background. Racks with dry and drying fish hanging from them and, everywhere, dogs. White, black, pinto, all sizes and breeds.

When freight is unloaded and business all done, we start for Hay River Post, passing Burnt and Dead Man's Islands, keeping well out in the lake to avoid the rocks near shore. On one of the islands, the Northern Trading Company's boat "Northern Trader" lies wrecked, a stern warning to all, showing what Great Slave Lake can do on occasions. Our channel is clear, but there is still plenty of ice floating about.

Uneventfully we reach the post situated a few hundred yards up the Hay River -- one of the finest harbours imaginable. Only a few people live at this post, although a large number of Indians do their trading here.

During our stay at this post, a man was brought in nearly dead from starvation and naked. He and two companions had tried to run the rapids below the Alexandra Falls on the Hay River. Their canoe had upset and both companions drowned. This man, Ike McLanders, tied the painter of the canoe around his wrist, figuring that they would

most likely upset in which case, the canoe would eventually drift ashore pulling him with it dead or alive. As it turned out, he figured correctly. Traveling for days, he came eventually to where the river forks, about five miles above the Post. Not knowing which fork to take he asked an Indian, whom he unfortunately met, for direction. The Indian, as they often do, directed him wrongly and he took the wrong fork, resulting in more days of useless traveling through thick willow scrub and marshy ground before another Indian found and brought him to the Post. I met Ike fifteen years later at Barkerville in British Columbia where he was mining for gold

A large Church of England Mission situated here does splendid work amongst Indian and Esquimaux children. From Hay River, we steer across the west end of the lake, entering the mighty MacKenzie River at its commencement twenty miles from Fort Providence where we tie up, unload freight and mail, greet acquaintances, etc. As quickly as possible, the gang plank is pulled aboard again and we are on our way to Fort Simpson, just below the junction of the Liard River with the MacKenzie.

There are two posts up the Liard River, Forts Liard and Nelson, which have their freight taken up on a high-powered gas boat and, as there are fifteen miles of rapids to navigate, tracking up with a load is slow work.

Forts Nelson, situated on a tributary of the Liard called the Nelson River, is the starting point of a three-hundred-mile portage across to Fort St. John on the Peace River. Coming around by river would be about one-thousand, five-hundred miles.

Having unloaded freight and mail for Nelson, Liard and Simpson, we move on again, stopping at Fort Wrigley and then Fort Norman. Since finding pitchblende on Great Bear Lake, Fort Norman has become a very important post as the river route for that lake commences here. All freight, etc. is unloaded from the steamers, reloaded on smaller craft and taken up the swift Bear River to Great Bear Lake. It is true that aeroplanes headed for that destination sometimes come this way, but the route generally followed is via Fort Rae on the north arm of Great Slave Lake. The product of the mines is taken out this way, by aeroplane; a small can which one could hold in one's hand being worth about $75,000.

A few miles above Fort Norman, subterranean fires are burning and smoke can be seen at many points. In fact, it is claimed that the area burning runs sixty miles inland. Salt water herring are caught here, four-hundred miles from the sea.

While at most of the forts the banks of the river are high, we have come through country generally low-lying and marshy, sloping gradually up in a series of evergreen and poplar-covered ridges, but now the scenery and nature of the country changes, mountains are close and the banks of the river high and rocky. On our way down the river, we run the Sans Sault Rapids which are not dangerous, although there is quite a large swell. A short way above Fort Good Hope, the banks of the river, at this point one-hundred, fifty to two-hundred feet high, close in abruptly at right angles to the shore line and form a gorge one mile wide where the river boils as the current gets swifter.

These are the "Ramparts". A story is told that on one occasion an enormous ice jam forced at the head of the Ramparts. When it broke in the spring, a fisherman found his small boat pushed up on top of the cliffs by the ice -- one-hundred, fifty feet above the water.

Owing to a late arrival at Fort Good Hope, we get our first glimpse of the Midnight Sun just as we pull in. The passengers go ashore and take delight in photographing an Indian dance, at midnight, without the aid of magnesium flares or any other artificiality. We see an island on the other side of the river and the Indians tell us that long ago a whale came from the sea, two-hundred, fifty miles distant, got stranded in the shallow water behind the island, was captured and provided feasting material for both humans and canines for many moons.

Below Fort Good Hope the river gets much wider and the current slacker until, at Arctic Red River Post, there is practically no current noticeable and we are told that the river is tidal up that far -- one-hundred miles from the sea. This post has since become known as the scene of the man-hunt for the crazed murderer, Johnston. The man who found Johnston for the police was an old friend of mine called "Vervey".

Until recent years, it was considered impracticable and indeed impossible by many to navigate the shallow and tortuous channels of the MacKenzie River Delta, one-hundred miles in width, and the end of the run for all steamboats was at Fort McPherson, sixty miles up the Peel River, a tributary of the MacKenzie and flowing into it a short distance below Arctic Red River. The Peel River is one of the crookedest I have ever traveled, twisting back and forth in the most amazing series of curves and very swift. Navigation is extremely difficult. From the Post commences the five-hundred-mile winter trail to Dawson, Yukon Territory, where the bodies of Inspector Fitzgerald of the R.C.M.P. and the members of his party who lost their lives when caught in a blizzard on that trail lie buried here.

Leaving Arctic Red River we run through the Delta and reach our destination, Aklavik, more than one-thousand miles from Fort Smith but, as we still have the slow return journey ahead of us, we get our business finished as quickly as possibly and start back. The return journey, much slower than coming down, gives us a chance to catch up a little lost sleep and rest. Wearily, we chug along against the current, stopping only at the different posts or places where our fuel is piled in cords. No ice hinders us on Great Slave Lake. The excitement of our arrival at the posts is appreciably less than on our triumphal downward journey. Eventually, weary but still going strong, we give a couple of blasts on the whistle and sidle into our landing wharf at Fort Smith, one month since we left.

CHAPTER 7: GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY

The summer work ended, nothing remained but to pull the boats out of the water and make them snug in their winter quarters. Gravel Point, twelve miles below Fort Smith, was the scene of this operation which consisted of laying long skids from shore out into the water, covering them with grease and with the help of capstans, pulling the boats up them to a place of safety well above high-water mark or rather high-ice mark because, when the river is breaking up, ice piles up many feet high.

Having completed my duties on the boats, I was instructed to proceed to Edmonton, taking my books with me, and stay there till spring. In company with other members of the crew, I found a "gas boat" waiting at Fort Fitzgerald to take us to Fort McMurray by way of Fort Chipewyan on Athabasca Lake. Fall was well advanced and the weather bitterly cold so that it was with a feeling of relief that we arrived at McMurray. From here, a walk of two miles was necessary to the "end of steel", then a twenty-mile ride on a speeder to solid road bed where a train could run. This railroad is completed by now but in those days, one traveled with one's heart continually in one's mouth. The speeder consisted of an automobile with flanged wheels. Attached behind was a trailer nominally for carrying baggage but, on that particular occasion, car and trailer handled thirty people and their baggage. Miraculously, no one was hurt or killed. Our driver, "Gasoline Gus" increased our enjoyment from time to time by passing such remarks as "this is where so-and-so got killed" or "we jumped the track here and so-and-so had three ribs broken" but after a harrowing ride we reached the train in safety. As there were no sleepers on the train or for some other reason, we stopped for the night at Lac La Biche, last stop before our destination, Edmonton. I was playing a game of billiards when the engineer informed me that I was wanted over at the hotel. There I met Mr. Christie, Hudson's Bay Inspector, with written instructions for me to turn back with him and go to Fort Chipewyan for the winter. I was grieved at these orders, having looked forward to seeing my friends in Edmonton again, but a sense of duty, coupled with Mr. Christie's persuasive powers, decided me in favour of returning. Next morning, back we went on the speeder to Fort McMurray.

By this time, it was getting late in the fall and, in order to reach Fort Chipewyan before freeze up, it was imperative that we make as fast time as possible down the river. Ice was already running but only that coming from some of the smaller creeks, the Athabasca River not having started to freeze. After considerable searching, we located a canoe for sale and purchased it, borrowed an outboard motor or "kicker" as they are usually called, and began to collect the necessary outfit for traveling.

The owner of the kicker hung it on a fence, gave the cranking wheel a few turns, and started the motor to show its perfect condition. Neither Mr. Christie nor I knew anything about these engines so we took a lesson and soon felt confident that we could handle it. When everything was ready, we loaded up, rigged the kicker on the stern of the canoe, and pushed off. Mr. Christie was comfortably settled amidship; I, as mechanic, was in the stern. A few turns on the cranking wheel and -- but no, nothing happened.

A few more turns, then more and more and more until I was perspiring freely and my finger nails were mere wreckage. By this time, we had drifted so far downstream that the idea of turning back was repulsive. Noticing a cabin on shore, we landed there and solicited assistance from the Indian owner who, unfortunately, knew nothing more about it than we did, but directed us to another cabin some miles further down where a white trapper lived, who was credited with understanding the tantrums of these devilish inventions. After much paddling, we located the cabin considerably further downstream than we had been led to believe, and shouted for the trapper. One glance at our engine was all he needed before saying "it's frozen up". He took it off the canoe, rigged it up on a log and, without removing the gasoline from the tank even through we expostulated, proceeded to light a roaring fire round the engine. As far as I was concerned, it was alright, as I considered paddling a faster method of progression but Mr. Christie was adamant and finally persuaded our good Samaritan to remove the fire. As soon as the engine was cooled down enough to handle, we replaced it on the canoe, our friend gave the wheel a sharp spin, and jumped ashore as we raced away downstream. This was splendid, but by the time we had made ourselves comfortable, lit cigarettes and passed remarks on what a gorgeous day it was, the engine gave two or three desultory "phuts" and stopped. I really believe I hold the record for wheel spinning. I turned it and turned it until my hands were so sore I determined to stop but, before doing so, as is human nature, I gave one last spin and, of course, the thing started again. That time, we ran a considerable distance and had begun to think the engine would keep going till we reached Chipewyan when suddenly, in a cloud of smoke which totally concealed it from view, it stopped again. Fearing that the gasoline in the tank would explode, a dangerous matter in a canoe, I poured water over the whole thing until it looked fairly safe, took out my paddle and so reverted to our original means of propulsion. Noticing a trapper's cabin on shore, we pulled in and explained our plight. The trapper informed us that we had lost the hose pipe connecting water pump and water jacket, a part which could not be replaced, so we left the engine in his care and continued under our own power.

From that moment, the trip was very pleasant. Cold mornings, but warm and comfortable during the day. Just as we neared Athabasca Lake, which we had to cross in order to get to Fort Chipewyan, an Indian in a canoe joined us, headed for the same destination. As we had done a considerable amount of paddling that day, we decided to camp for the night and sent word by the Indian to the Hudson's Bay Factor to send a gas boat for us next morning, which he did. A wind had got up during the night and the lake was choppy, but without further incident we reached the post.

Having been on the move for so long, it was a relief to live in a house again and in no time, Mr. Christie and I were settled in and at work on the books. The system of bookkeeping used by the Hudson's Bay, the double-entry system, was not difficult to master but the various forms, business transactions with other posts, etc., were difficult to get accustomed to, at first.

The permanent residents of this post -- whiteman, breeds, Cree, and Chipewyan Indians -- number in all between two and three hundred but large numbers of trappers

trade there and, during the season, stores are kept busy. An Indian is judged by his capability as a hunter and is issued with an outfit at the commencement of each trapping season based, as to size, on that capability. When it is time to move to the trapping grounds, he takes what is termed "debt" meaning that he buys his supplies on credit and pays when he brings in his fur. Books must balance and, owing to this debt system, it is a very difficult matter, but the majority of Hudson's Bay Factors are old timers, speaking the Indian languages fluently and past masters in the art of trading.

The Factor at Fort Chipewyan, Mr. John James Loutit, was one of the ablest traders in the North, knew all the tricks of the trade and, most important of all, knew the character and capabilities of each Indian individually. Shrewd as he was, the Indians knew that he was fair and that his word was infallible; consequently, he could show at the end of the season each year an ever-increasing business. Shortly before Christmas, Mr. Christie left us, traveling by dog train to Smith, Resolution and Rae, for the annual inspection of those posts. As a friend and adviser, he had become very dear to me and, until the last moment, I was in hopes we could spend Christmas together, but it was not to be.

Christmas at Chipewyan was a busy time. Indians kept pouring in from all directions, gaily dressed in buck skins with gaudy silk handkerchiefs round their necks. Most of the dogs wore "tapis", individual coats made of buckskin worked with silk or beads. "Standing irons" stood above their collars with floating ribbon streamers, each surmounted by a large, many-colored ball of wool. The whole effect, as each Indian arrived, was picturesque in the extreme. Sometimes, a number from one camp would arrive at the same time, maybe eight or ten trains of dogs pulling sleighs. As there are generally five dogs to each sleigh, a number like that made quite an imposing procession.

Up till this time, our diet had consisted mainly of wild geese and fish, but the Indians brought plenty of moose and caribou meat, both fresh and dried.

After Christmas, when all the trappers had returned to their trap lines, the post was indeed quiet and it was then that I got my chance to look around and wonder at the different things of interest -- the old log buildings, built maybe by the original traders; the sundial, which possibly was placed there in Sir John Franklin's time; the large Catholic Mission, and so on. The inhabitants also were interesting, some of them bearing the names of pioneers who were famous many decades before.

Chipewyan forms the dividing point between northern and southern Indians. One meets Crees representing the south and the prairies, and Chipewyans representing the northern and coast tribes. Traveling north, one encounters Slaveys, who live on the Slave River; Dog Ribs from Great Slave Lake; Yellow Knives from the Coppermine country; Hare Indians, or Rabbit Skins, as they are locally known from the name of the river on which they live; and Loucheux, the most northerly before coming to the Esquimaux. As one goes north, one notices a growing resemblance between these Indians and Esquimaux, and the Asiatics. I remember a Japanese trapper at Fort

Good Hope who was married to a squaw and his features were identically the same as some of the Indians. As a matter of fact he gave me a letter of introduction to his brother who, at that time, was Captain of one of the trans-Pacific liners. Unfortunately, I never had the chance of presenting the letter or making the Captain's acquaintance. The Indians who lead the life which is natural to them, spending most of the time in the bush, hunting, fishing and trapping and who, least of any, come in contact with the many divergent influences of civilization, are indeed a fine people to live and trade with and it was with the greatest regret that I had to leave my amiable and competent superior, Mr. Loutit, and Chipewyan.

Whilst at this post, I made some noteworthy acquaintances, amongst them a man called "Rankin", who had been in the Yukon in "Gold Rush Days" and who was mentioned by "Robert W. Service" in his "Songs of a Sourdough". Rankin was about six feet, four inches in height and I can remember him leaving Chipewyan in his dog sleigh en route for the Fort Norman oil well. Because of his great height and his baggage, he couldn't fit into his "carryall" on the sleigh with the result that his legs rested on the head of the sleigh and his feet were well out over the wheel dog. We would have frozen riding far in that way so I expect he arranged things differently later on. I met him again twenty years later at Lillooet, British Columbia, where he was interested in gold mining. His end came in a car accident on the road to Vancouver, when he was killed.

Another interesting personality met whilst at Chipewyan was a man known through the North as "Wadda the Jap". His first appearance was when he walked into the store and ordered twenty tins of sardines, four tins for each dog. I went out to see them fed. The dogs themselves were commonplace but their harness and decorations were wonderful to behold. Each dog had a "tapis" or coat of black velvet with patterns and flowers worked in fine silk. Over each collar rose a "standing iron" surmounted by a ball of vari-colored wool with many ribbon streamers attached. His dog whip was hand- carved and painted. His own appearance was equally noticeable. His "artigi" or coat of caribou skins, hair on the outside, was beautifully made; back and belly skin alternating in grey and white. His cap was of sealskin while his mucklucks or knee high boots were of whale hide. His mitts were very large, covered with silk patterns and joined, over his shoulders, by a many-colored woolen rope. Numerous stories were told of him and some claimed that he was a Japanese spy. Who knows! Anyway, he was shot in a San Francisco gambling den, years later.

CHAPTER 8: PREPARING FOR SUMMER'S WORK

It was in February, 1921 that I received orders to return to Fort Smith in order to prepare for the position of Purser on the Hudson's Bay boat, "MacKenzie River", as soon as she commenced running. Sufficient men were being sent down to put new "top works" on the boat and I was to travel with them so, when they arrived at Chipewyan, I joined the party. We had altogether eight sleighs; six of them being for the Captain, three carpenters, the cook and me to carry our bedding, etc. and to ride in. The remaining two were loaded with carpenters tools, dog feed, cooking utensils and tents for camping out.

Traveling in a sleigh is, as a rule, very comfortable. What is known as a "wrapper" is hung on two ropes from the head of the sleigh to the "back board". This wrapper is made of moose skin or canvas shaped like a bathtub; roughly two feet high, seven feel long, and the width of the sleigh, about eighteen inches. The back board as its name implies, is a board set at a comfortable angle so that the traveler can lean back against it. Seated on the sleigh and leaning back, when one is warmly wrapped in one's blankets, is as comfortable a way of traveling as can be imagined and as one is so near to the ground, being only separated from it by the width of the sleigh boards, upsetting on an average trail is a rare occurrence but there are times when a trail is so rough that one cannot ride at all.

This particular trip was a bad one. The dog-drawn mail had come up the river two days previously but, owing to the snow have drifted badly, we couldn't see a sign of the trail except here and there. We had brought a "forerunner", an Indian, purposely to break trail with his snow-shoes and as the snow was four feet deep he could tell when he got off the trail which was beaten hard. Yet on the river, owing to wind and thaws, the snow had patches of hard crust scattered all over the place and our sleighs would upset every time they left the crust and broke through into the soft snow.

Another difficulty lay in the fact that every here and there, there was water under the snow, overflow from the river. As soon as one's snow-shoes got wet, the snow would stick to them making walking very unpleasant. To escape this water, we would have to follow the sloping shore ice on which it was extremely difficult to hold the sleigh, especially so with the many large cracks which we had to cross. This trip from Chipewyan to Fitzgerald took us four days, the usual time being two and a half days. Crossing from Fitzgerald to Smith was a luxury as we had a hard and well-beaten trail all the way.

About the beginning of March we moved down to Gravel Point, the Hudson's Bay Company shipyard, twelve miles below Smith. The river was still frozen so we went down by dog team. On arrival, all hands got busy and we soon had our living quarters fixed up, snow cleared away wherever necessary and all the odd jobs done.

As I was not a ship's carpenter and as my duties as Purser could not start till later on, I employed my time hauling wood with the dogs and snaring rabbits for our own table, as we were out of meat. I had thirty snares and my average catch was about six rabbits a day. Then there was a lot of hauling to do with the dogs; groceries, carpenters'

supplies, etc. and, last but not least, two enormous timbers on which to set the engines, the old ones being condemned. Everything had been hauled to a point two miles distant by horse team but the ice was too insecure to cross to our side and the bush too thick for further progress, so we had to fetch it from there. The ice was beginning to get thin and was quite rotten in places but, with care, it was safe enough and everything was brought over without trouble until the very last trip. I was hauling one of the big timbers, as far as I remember about one foot by two feet by twelve feet long. One end rested on the sleigh, the other skidded along on the ice. Owing to the weight and awkwardness of this timber, one of the carpenters had made the trip with me and had been walking along beside the sleigh ready to help if needed but, so far, not necessary. Coming to a bad place where the dogs had to pull very hard, Fred took hold of the timber in order to assist. At that moment, he dropped through the ice. As he was holding onto the timber he pulled himself out in a second but, if he had not been, he would have gone right through into the current and would not have been seen again. As luck would have it, that was our last trip and I was very glad.

Having no more hauling to do and being short of dog feed, I took the dogs back to Smith crossing the river on homemade skis made from boards four feet long. One of the carpenters, not the one who had the other experience, accompanied me as he had to go to the post on business. I returned next day without any trouble, but the carpenter did not come till two days later. While crossing the river, the ice was actually on the move, breaking up. In his hands, held horizontally, he wisely had a long pole so that if he broke through, it would catch on the ice. Breathlessly, we watched him testing each foot of the way with his pole, circling around dangerous looking places, getting ever closer and closer to safety, but slowly going downstream as the ice moved. Luckily the ice had only just broken away from the shore and was moving very slowly, but it was a foolhardy attempt and I am sure would never have been tried at all only that this man had to get back to work and, if he waited for the ice to clear enough for a canoe to cross, it might have taken days. Eventually he landed on shore, much to our relief as well as his. As we all knew, he could never have managed it without his homemade skis which gave him a little more surface to take his weight.

For a few days after this episode, we could neither cross on the ice nor by boat but, eventually, the river clearly sufficiently and even though we had to thread our way round huge cakes of ice, we could go back and forth to the post in our sponson canoe, powered by a gasoline engine.

As I have explained before, one of my jobs was to supply the camp with rabbits. When visiting my snares one day, I found that I had caught two mice. Now I was aware that this particular snare was exceptionally easy to spring but, even so, I knew that someone had played a trick on me and at once suspected the Captain, who was always playing practical jokes on some member of the party and who, incidentally, through this and his everlasting wit and good humor, was the life and soul of the party. Naturally I said nothing and decided to bide my time in an attempt to balance the scales. The Captain was from Nova Scotia and knew all about fishing so, when the ice had cleared out of the river, he got a net ready and set it in an eddy just above where we were camped.

He had done a considerable amount of talking about his capability as a fisherman, besides which we were all very anxious for a feed of fish as a change from our rabbit diet. Consequently, when he went to visit his net for the first time, everyone lined the shore to see how large the catch was. Being sure to do everything in the approved style for our benefit, he began hauling in the net and his amazement can be imagined when he found, as his only "fish", a rabbit. Of course, I had been down during the night and put it there. He knew perfectly well who was guilty and it was a long time before he forgave me.

Some years previously, the Cook on the boat on which our friend was Captain was a "jumper" type of man, not uncommon in this country; very nervous and made more so by other people's practical jokes. A smart jab in the ribs and a shout or some quickly spoken order would make this cook do most anything. On one occasion two ladies, during the trip, asked the Captain if he would give them permission to have a cup of afternoon tea. He told them to go to the galley and ask the Cook's permission, which they did. The Cook was very busy at the moment, so asked the ladies if they would mind making it for themselves, to which they willingly agreed. It so happened that they were working over the stove, standing on either side of the Cook, when the Captain crept into the galley, jabbed the Cook in the ribs and shouted "sic 'em Joe". Joe promptly grabbed each lady by her hair, shook her violently, shouting "the buggers, the buggers, the buggers!" Needless to say, when he got hold of himself, the poor fellow was mortified with shame.

Shortly before the ice breaks up, when sun and warmth have thawed all the snow off the river ice, there is a terrible glare which very often causes snow blindness owing to the lack of dark-colored objects to relieve the strain on the eyes. Snow glasses are generally used when traveling at this time and are just ordinary glasses with a dark tint, blue being the most usual. The Esquimaux cut "glasses" out of whale bone, which are like little cups fitting over the eyes with a narrow slit in each but no glass. On one occasion, the Post Manager from Smith arrived at our camp in a rather bad condition. He had been traveling for a long time on the ice and had got snow blind but, to add to his discomfort, he had cut his foot badly with an axe. He could go no further so I had to take him to Smith. After shading his eyes and treating his foot, he soon got alright again. Needless to say, as soon as the ice had gone, work on the boat was rushed so as to get her in the water and up to Smith as quickly as possible. As well as my other duties, I now became Sign Painter. The new top works, everything on the upper or passenger deck, was new; had to be painted and I was detailed to re-paint the ship's name and do all the saloon work, number the cabins, etc. Everything was satisfactorily accomplished except that I spelt "linen" - "linnen" and never noticed it at the time. As far as I know, it has remained that way till this day.

As soon as all the carpentering was completed, skids were run down to the water, well greased and, when everything was ready, the chocks holding the boat were knocked out and she slid slowly into the water. A few days later we steamed up to Smith, blew two or three blasts on the whistle to notify everyone that we were coming, and carefully

sidled into our loading wharf, the onlookers waving handkerchiefs and cheering at this first definite intimation that summer had arrived.

CHAPTER 9: FROM PILLAR TO POST

Although I had intended to stay with the Hudson's Bay Company acting as Purser on their steamboat, I got a tempting offer from the Alberta and Arctic Transportation Company and joined up with them. They had one large steamer, but I was detailed to go on a gas boat named the "Lady Mackworth". She was a tunnel boat powered with two forty-five horsepower engines and handled a large quantity of freight, pushing or towing barges. The crew consisted of captain, engineer, cook and myself. My duties were many. Nominally I was Purser but, besides that, I was part-time pilot, crew, cook, freight handler, or anything else that cropped up. As a matter of fact, we were a well- balanced crowd on board and all did whatever we could to help each other. The cook was a fellow by the name of "Shorty" Beeman who had acted in that capacity some years previously in this same boat when it carried Lord Rhondda's party up the Peace River, one member of the party being Lady Mackworth after whom the boat was named. When our trip was finished, Shorty Beeman and a companion went trapping up the Nahanny River and were never heard of again. Some bodies were located a few years later which might have been theirs, but could not be positively identified. It was presumed that they died of scurvy, a dread disease which has taken many lives in the North and which is generally combated by the use of potatoes or lime juice, both rare commodities in that country. Leaving Fort Smith with a load of freight for Fort Norman and intermediate points, we neared Great Slave Lake without incident but, as there was a moderate gale blowing, we decided to take a short-cut known as the "Sawmill Schny" which cut off about fifty miles and necessitated crossing only a short stretch of the lake. This "Schny" was an offshoot from a side channel, difficult to find, difficult to enter, and difficult to follow as it twisted back and forth in sharp turns and was very narrow although plenty deep enough. We managed everything alright until near the old sawmill, about half a mile above the mouth of the Schny, when we met a small canoe manned by two Indians. As there was not much room to spare, the Captain took the wheel and steered splendidly but forgot to ring down for less speed with the result that our wash left the canoe high and dry amongst the rushes at the side, much to the surprise and annoyance of the Indians.

Passing the sawmill, we pulled out into the lake. I was steering as I had been this way before and knew the channel which, for about two miles, is never more than four feet deep and possibly fifty in width but which is generally marked, by the Indians first thing in the spring, with willows. As they are just stuck in the sand, the first storm after they are set washes some or all of them away but there are generally enough left to give one

some idea as to which way the channel winds. After having gone about a mile through this channel, the Captain decided to put back to the sawmill for shelter as the wind was still strong and anchorage at Resolution was not too good. He took the wheel and, in his attempt to come about, ran aground. We spent the next two and a half hours up to our waists in the water prying her off. Returning to the sawmill, we tied up for the night, dried our clothes out and turned in early to get a well-earned rest but, about 2:00 a.m., a fellow came up in a canoe to tell us that a gas boat belonging to the Imperial Oil Company was aground on the same bar. We ran down in the Mackworth and tried to pull them clear but nearly grounded ourselves three or four times in the attempt and finally had to give it up. They finally got off without damage to their boat. Next day, as the wind had let up, we ran into Resolution, unloaded what freight we had for that post and pulled on again to Hay River Post, which is situated a short distance up the river of that name. It is a splendid harbour and, as the lake was still rough, we were very glad. The Hay River divides into two channels about a mile from its mouth, the post being situated on the eastern one which is fairly easy to locate as a rule although the channel entering it needs careful reading of the water. But when we arrived there, a heavy fog lay on the water and as I was steering and could not pick out a single landmark, everything being distorted by the fog, I steered right past the first channel. Coming to the second, which luckily the fog allowed us to see, I knew it was the wrong one as no landmarks were recognizable and realized that we must put back and feel our way carefully along the shore till we came to the first one. It was ticklish work as the shore line is generally rocky, but we managed it safely and were certainly glad to tie up at the post.

Having crossed the west end of the lake and started down the MacKenzie River, we came to Fort Providence and found our company's big boat, the "Distributor", tied up there. The Distributor had had a lot of trouble that year, everything seemed to go wrong; in fact, one man was lost overboard, a generally fatal happening in the North owing to the strength of the under-current which comparatively seldom gives up a body once it has taken hold. In this particular case, the body was never found. With all we had heard of the "Distributor's" troubles we were not surprised to see her, after leaving Providence, try to pass an island on the wrong side and go aground in the attempt. She got clear immediately and as we passed her, her Captain signaled us to go slow and lead the way across Mills Lake, a widening of the river a few miles further down. Owing to the river widening out into this good-sized lake, there was practically no current to "read" and unless one knew where to steer, there was danger of grounding besides which it would be difficult to find the outlet. I knew the channel perfectly well but, to ease the Distributor Captain's mind, I "sounded" the whole way across, taking the depth with a long pole marked in different colors which he would see through glasses from his bridge. I felt like a pilot fish acting as guide to a whale, our boat was so small compared with the Distributor but we all crossed without any trouble and reached Fort Simpson where we unloaded some more freight.

We had expected to go up the Liard River which empties into the MacKenzie a short distance above Simpson but our orders were changed and we were now told to proceed to Fort Norman or rather to the oil well below Fort Norman and there await the

Distributor. Our run down past Wrigley and Norman was a joy to be remembered; wonderful weather, gorgeous scenery and endless sunshine. As soon as the Distributor arrived, she gave us a load of freight for Fort Good Hope and as her crew had been working day and night unloading freight, loading wood, etc., they were completely played out so the two Captains, the Distributor's Purser and I constituted ourselves as crew and did the transferring.

The oil well at this time was producing, in fact we were lucky enough to be there when she blew in and saw the first gush of oil shooting above the derrick top. The oil was running into huge tanks but there was so much waste on the surface of the water that we were warned to be careful when throwing matches overboard.

Having said good-bye to the Distributor, we started for Fort Good Hope running the Sans Sault Rapids on the way. These rapids are not dangerous if one knows the channel which shoots practically across the river during their passage, but there is quite a swell and a very strong drag towards the right bank which needs watching on account of rocks. Below the rapids, we pulled in to an island and camped for the night. Next morning the cook and I, having noticed bear tracks, had a hunt which proved successful in augmenting our supply of meat which was running low.

After unloading at Fort Good Hope, we returned to Fort Norman where we waited for the Distributor which had gone on to Fort McPherson. We would have returned immediately to Fort Smith for more freight, but our lubricating oil had run out and we had to replenish it from the Distributor's supply. Whilst at Fort Norman, I met Mr. Bassett, Managing Director of the Lamson Hubbard Company, who offered me the position of Trader at their Fort Good Hope post. As the position on the Lady Mackworth would only last till freeze up, I decided to accept and sadly said good-bye to the companions with whom I had spent so many pleasant days.

Getting back from Norman to Good Hope was a problem as by now it was too late for any more boats to go down, but I heard of two men who were leaving next day in a canoe and who very kindly agreed to take me along. It was my first experience in running the Sans Sault Rapids in a canoe and I thoroughly enjoyed it but one of my companions spent the whole time on his knees, praying. Because of his prayers or for some other reason, we came through safely, landed at Fort Good Hope without incident, and I began my first attempt as a Fur Trader. I had learned a certain amount whilst keeping books at Fort Chipewyan but naturally enough Mr. Loutit did the actual trading and my experience in that part of the business was, in consequence, limited.

CHAPTER 10: FUR TRADING

A fur trader's life in the North has so many vicissitudes that it is, even now, hard to say if my woes during that winter were counterbalanced by my joys but I do know that I was awfully glad to leave Fort Good Hope when the boat came down the next summer.

The Post was composed of the following. The Hudson's Bay Company's store, the Northern Trading Company's store and my store, each of which were run by whitemen. Then there was the Catholic Mission which was run by two French priests. This constituted the white population, whilst permanent Indian residents numbered about ten families although many came in from time to time to trade; so many, in fact, that the post was one of the most important on the river.

My first job was to plaster both house and store and get them ready for the winter. Then I had to take stock on completion of which I found that whoever had originally done the purchasing had known very little about it. Amongst the many useless items was a whole case of toy balloons, dozens of tins of pine tar, dry goods which were cheap and not popular with the Indians. I saw immediately that I was up against a tough proposition as the other stores were fully equipped with the most attractive lines of goods and the traders were both experienced and capable. There was no possible chance of getting any more supplies till the next year, so I had to do the best under the circumstances. I had an interpreter by the name of "Ka fwie", which means "Rabbit's head" and after about a month I could understand the Indian language far more easily than his awful attempt at English. Still he was a good fur getter, absolutely trustworthy and reliable, so I kept him on. My cook was an old woman called "Maggie Manoel" who had been married to, or anyway lived with, a whiteman, so she knew something about preparing whiteman's grub; still, as our diet was mainly comprised of meat or fish, her culinary knowledge was never really taxed to the utmost.

The Post was deserted when I arrived there late in the fall and stayed that way until just before Christmas. Now and then a band of Indians would come in for church, but there was very little trading.

As the banks of the river here were a hundred or more feet high, there were steps leading down to the water which made is easier to handle freight and supplies, which was all carried up by the Indians.

The Indians named me the "dichin calay quoin begowry", which means "lumber house boss"; the reason being that when they first saw the initials of my company, "L. H." -- Lamson Hubbard, they thought it stood for "lumber house".

Shortly after my arrival at Fort Good Hope, I made a trip by gas boat to Fort McPherson in company with the Hudson's Bay Trader. The distance was three hundred miles each way so, to increase our comfort en route, we built a canvas top over the boat and rigged up a small oil stove which we were thankful for on many occasions before our return. As this stove only had one burner, whatever we cooked first was cold before the next thing was done so, whenever possible, we made fire on shore. But, as a means of

getting a little warmth, it was invaluable. Our bill of fare consisted mainly of geese and ducks which were plentiful.

The trip down was uneventful as far as the mouth of the Peel River. Fort McPherson is situated sixty miles up the Peel which empties into the MacKenzie just below Arctic Red River and just above the beginning of the Delta. From the mouth of the Peel all the way up to the post, the current is very swift and the channel follows a most amazing series of sharp turns, making navigation extremely difficult especially so as there are huge fallen trees here and there hanging well out over the banks. It was beginning to get dark and before we had gone very far, I couldn't see more than twenty-five or thirty feet on either side or ahead. Still, as we were anxious to reach the Post, we kept going until it became too dangerous, when we camped for the night. Our main object in making this trip was to purchase dogs and dog feed, the latter in the form of dry fish. This did not take long to accomplish and soon we were off on our return journey which, as it was upstream, would take considerably longer than coming down. On the way to Arctic Red River, a piece of packing blew out of the engine allowing fumes to escape with the result that I got very sick, nearly fainted, went purple in the face, and had a bad time but I'm glad to say it didn't last very long.

On leaving Arctic Red River our company increased to six, the additions being the Post Manager from there, an R.C.M. Policeman, and two Indians with their dogs. For three days we ran upstream without mishap but then, unfortunately, the engine stopped and our combined efforts failed to get it going again. The only thing to do was to attach a "tracking" line and pull the boat home -- a task difficult enough as we had about one- hundred mile still to go, but made more so as we had been towing two canoes. Still, there were six of us, so we took it in shifts, two at a time doing the pulling. As we had to follow the shore line, it was necessary to put a "bridle" on our line to prevent the bow continually running aground. "Bridling a line" means arranging it so that the strain comes part way back along the side instead of from the bow. Whenever we came to tributaries, we had to paddle across, resuming tracking on the other side; a wearisome job but we plodded steadily on until we reached the Loon River, twenty miles from home where we left the boat, lashed the two canoes together and tracked them the rest of the way. The going was much easier and wherever the shore line was more or less even, we kept up a jog-trot. On the whole, it was a pleasant trip and well worth the experience.

That fall we were joined by one more whiteman, an astronomer, testing magnetic dip, upper air currents and obtaining scientific data for the Toronto Observatory. We were surely glad to have his addition to our meager company.

Soon winter set in, the river froze up, days got shorter and shorter till by Christmas time we had no daylight at all but, more often than not, a brilliant moon to take its place. Meal hours and bed time came whenever one felt like eating or sleeping. Quite often, having gone to bed about midnight, I would have to get up an hour or two later to trade with Indians who had just come in. Endless darkness became tiresome and affected tempers. Poor lamp light was a continual strain on the eyes. There was nothing much

to do except haul wood and set fish nets to catch ptarmigan which were plentiful. Catching them in this way was simple as they had regular feeding grounds. The net was stretched taught, touching the ground and the ptarmigan would walk right into it and get tangled up. Another method was to make a circle of willow brush about twenty feet in diameter. Several little openings were left and a snare set in each. Ptarmigan always went for the openings and so got caught. I had a few traps out and on one occasion caught a White Fox. Strange to say, while all other foxes are wary and extremely hard to catch, the White Fox will walk into a trap no matter how badly it is set.

Before the river froze up, ice formed along the shore line, composed mainly of large and small blocks frozen together from time to time. This ice was unsafe to walk on and one had to test it before each step. On one occasion, I went down to the river to get two pails of water. When reaching over to dip up the water, this shore ice broke away, plunging me right into the current. Luckily I managed to take hold of the ice but whenever I put any weight on it in an attempt to pull myself out, more would break away. Shouting for help was no good as no one could possibly hear. Great floes of ice kept passing, some of which, swept along by the current, grated the shore ice. If one of these floes caught me, I would be cut in half. On figuring it out, I saw that I had only one chance in a million. If I could get my foot on the next flow which came along, I would get enough assistance so that when I tried to lift myself out, the shore ice might not break away. It was a slim chance, but I could see no other hope. Waiting for that next flow was not pleasant and as it came closer and closer, I must have been busy thinking of many things because at no time did I notice the coldness of the water. At last it was close. Judging how much might be under water, I held my foot about the place where I would first encounter it and again waited. Those two or three seconds were the worst of the whole wait. The flow towered above me, jagged edges sticking out everywhere and I can remember trying to figure from the part above water, what shape it would be underneath. Although my mind was wandering around in all kinds of thoughts, mind and muscle coordinated the moment I felt a touch on my foot. In a fraction of a second, I had tested the floe to find a solid purchase and given the necessary pull on the ice to get me out. The floe, weighing tons, grated along where I had been but a moment before. Having lost one pail, I filled the other and by the time I got up to my house, my clothes were frozen solid and I rattled at each step.

By Christmas time the Fort was full of Indians. As each band arrived, they had to be given presents; tea, sugar, tobacco, etc., sufficient to make a feast. More presents when they brought their fur in to trade and again more presents when they left. This system necessitated one of two things; either showing a loss on the books, or juggling with a pencil to somehow or other cover up the shortage. It is a bad system and leads to a lot of crookedness which is not really crooked.

Trading with an Indian is a work of art; that is, with those Indians who are least civilized and have not come into contact with bad whitemen. The Indian, accompanied by his squaw and children, enters the store and everyone shakes hands. They then stand against the wall or sit on the floor and neither do nor say anything for an indefinitely long period. At length, when the time apparently is ripe, the hunter places all fur to be traded

on the counter and goes back to his original position. When business permits, the Trader sorts and values the catch figuring how much there is left over from the "debt" which was given last time this man traded. There may be much, there may be little, but it makes no difference to the Indian and he neither enquires nor is told how the balance stands. He is absolutely honest himself and figures the Trader is the same. Presently, he walks over to the counter and starts buying what he needs beginning with all things pertaining to the hunt; traps, rifle, ammunition, gilling twine for mending nets, etc., etc. Then comes his comfort; clothes, blankets, etc. Then grub. Tea and sugar, tobacco and matches are about the only items of importance. Fish and meat are his main and most popular diet, all else being something to feast on but not necessary. Weight has to be considered in every purchase as the man may have come, and have to return, hundreds of miles to his hunting grounds. As soon as the buck has attended to his own needs, he buys some dry goods or necessaries for his squaw, some candy for the kids and trading is done. In the meanwhile, the Trader has been watching his account, giving him a free hand if he is a really good hunter, cutting down on the inferior ones, restricting some to a minimum. Everything is valued in "skins", a skin being worth fifty cents. Originally the "made beaver skin" was the medium of exchange, but it is now corrupted and changed in the few places where the system is used.

The "debt" system is the bane of all Traders. Judged on his honesty and his capability as a hunter, each Indian is allowed to buy so much on credit, spoken of as "taking debt", before he leaves on his hunt. He is supposed to pay this before he gets any more. In a good year many Indians pay in full and have a credit, but year by year the catch decreases until at the end of the season, squaring the books is a difficult proposition. Of course there is a double profit, one when the goods are sold and the other when the fur is sold, but an individual trader has very little chance of making a success in competition with the Hudson's Bay and Northern Trading Companies. Another thorn in the Trader's flesh is turned in by the Indians to the missions, who do not have the "debt" business to contend with. After and during each spell of trading, the Indians feast and dance and play their gambling games and by the time they are again ready to pull out for their trapping grounds they, or at least many of them, are virtually "broke". Owing to the daily twenty-four hours of darkness, night and day are the same, eating, sleeping or trading being carried on whenever anyone feels like it.

Christmas Day is a busy one in a fur post. First thing in the morning, the Indians visit each trader in turn, firing their guns, whooping and hollering, knowing that the trader, however much against his will, has coffee and cake waiting for them. Bursts of gunfire take place at intervals but the yelling and shouting goes on practically all the time. In an endeavor to amuse them, I fixed an empty gasoline barrel firmly against the bank, high above and facing towards the river. With a piece of fuse through the bung hole and a long train of powder to add to my safety, I touched it off, not knowing what it would do. Presently there was a roar and an enormous cloud of smoke which mightily pleased everyone concerned. On closer inspection, I found that the top had been blown out cleaner than one could have cut it with a cold chisel and as I needed a water barrel, I was very pleased at the result of my venture.

Christmas and New Year past, the Indians began to leave for their big meat hunt and we were glad to see them go. Not being able to hunt game whilst in the post, they were always wanting more and more grub and one either had to refuse to give it and take a chance on offending them and loosing their trade or give it to them and see their debt steadily mounting. It was a worrying period. Soon they were all gone and we settled down to put in time till they came back at Easter. Gowan, the Hudson's Bay Trader, with his bookkeeper, Dodman and Harris, the Northern Trading Company's Manager, used to come to my house quite often for a game of cards. The arrival of a stranger was always a sure reason for cards. In this way, many pleasant evenings were spent and although we had slight wars over our business, there were never finer men with whom to put in a winter north of the Arctic Circle. Harris had brought his wife in and her kindness to me, even to the extent of helping to fix up my house, putting curtains on the windows, etc. is a joy to remember. I had the pleasure of having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Harris in their home at Fort Resolution fourteen years later.

Days began to lengthen, lamps were not required in the house at midday and finally, about noon on a certain day, shouts and yells proclaimed the return of the sun. It only shone for about an hour on the roof of one of the Hudson's Bay Company's buildings, but every man, woman, and child in the post turned out to see it. Birds began to arrive, in fact a huge flock of them, finding the bush still carpeted with snow, flew back and forth through the Post for days, much to the joy of the Indian children who shot at them with their bows and arrows. My cook caught one in a mouse trap, tied a string on the unbroken leg and gave it to a baby to play with. Needless to say, I put an end to that in a hurry.

The break-up of the ice was a wonderful sight. The whole river did not go out at the same time owing to jams forming from time to time. The stretch in the Ramparts and immediately below, past the Post, went out early but an enormous jam formed at the head of the Ramparts and was the last to break away. In the meanwhile ice from above that jam, passing under it, kept the river full from shore to shore, at intervals, for many days. It looked as if some great unseen giant was playing with the huge floes, pushing them right up out of the water, turning them over and sometimes leaving them stranded high and dry on shore. The crunching, banging and splashing was incessant. Finally, no more ice seemed to be coming and we figured the river was all clear until, one day, about three weeks after the last ice has passed, I happened to be looking up the river when suddenly a white line from shore to shore appeared, moving rapidly downstream. The big jam had broken loose. For days, the river was full again but gradually it cleared and that was the last ice we saw. Everybody, Indians and white, was busy fishing both for human consumption and for dog feed. Boats and canoes kept passing and signs of every kind notified us that winter was over.

About this time, Constable Doak of the R.C.M.P. passed through on his way to a detachment far to the north. The following year, he was killed by an Esquimaux whom he was holding prisoner.

At Easter, the Indians came in again and everyone was busy trading, beaver and rats being the main catch. Soon gardens were planted, especially many potatoes owing to this post being the most northerly where they would grow. At no time of the year did the ground below a depth of about ten feet thaw out but on the surface it was warm and owing to a period of twenty-four hours of sunshine daily, gardens grew just twice as fast as they did further south, balancing thereby the shortness of the season.

About this time, an Indian chief died. The women had been sitting around his bed waiting for his passing for two or three days. When he finally breathed his last, they broke out into the "death wail" which is about the most gruesome noise I have ever heard. As the man had been a chief, we three Traders and the Hudson's Bay Bookkeeper were pall bearers. Everything went well till we began to lower the coffin into the grave. I had been paying no attention to the women, who were still wailing and generally making a noise, but they had crept up close behind me. Letting my end of the rope go hand over hand, I was dumbfounded to find that the rope would not slip through my hands and the others still lowering away, the coffin was already at a sharp angle. I only thought of one word and promptly shouted "Wo" to the priest. He at once realized what was wrong and rectified it. The women, not wanting to allow the chief to be buried, had taken hold of my end of the rope.

It was now summer; we had seen the midnight sun and one day all hearts were gladdened by the sound of a steamboat's whistle coming from upstream. Everyone was on hand when the boat edged into shore and tied up. Mail was the most important thing of all. We had only had one mail during the twelve months between the boat's visits and as it was brought by dog train, nothing heavy could be handled. All our Christmas presents and anything we had purchased from "outside" stores was now delivered. Then there were old friends to greet, news to hear and a hundred and one excitements. I decided that I had been in the North long enough and would go "out" on the return journey of the boat. When I notified the Manager, he informed me that the Lamson Hubbard Company had been absorbed, in toto, by the Hudson's Bay Company which would be either closing the stores or placing their own men there to run them and that, naturally, ended my job.

So, books checked and everything handed over, I packed my belongings and took the boat back to Fort Smith -- the first lap of my journey out to civilization. My intentions were to go right through to Edmonton without stopping any longer than was absolutely necessary. I had a good stake and could live comfortably that winter anyway, enjoying civilization to the full but knowing at the same time that I would be heartily sick of it by spring and longing for a return to the North.

CHAPTER 11: TRAPPING

It was a long time before I reached civilization. On arrival at Fort Smith, the first person to greet me was my old friend, Hornby, who was looking for a trapping partner. He had lost everything at the east end of Great Slave Lake, everything except one of our original dogs, "Polar", so remembering his kindness to me and the expense he went to on my behalf on the trip into the country in 1919, I decided to alter my plans and throw in my lot with him again. As he had practically nothing and I had no trapping equipment, we bought a complete outfit; dogs, sleigh and everything.

Our intention was to trap on the Buffalo River about fifty miles west of Fort Smith and as it was then well on in the summer, it was essential that we get out there as soon as possible, build a shack and generally get ready for winter. Consequently, packing essentials on the dogs' backs, about fifty pounds to each of our three dogs and about sixty pounds on each of us, we started off. Our first stop was at the Salt River, twenty miles from Smith, an almost saturated solution of salt and, as I said before, most objectionable when used for making tea. But we knew of no place to find fresh water so had no alternative but to use it. Next day we crossed the Salt Plains and passed the salt spring which as it wells up out of the ground, evaporates, leaving an ever-increasing mound of pure salt which, from time to time, is dug out, packed and shipped to many of the northern posts and missions.

We then hit the bush. Knowing that there was an old trail right through the Buffalo River, we kept a lookout for it and as it turned out, followed it by "blazes" and broken sticks to within five miles of the river but eventually loosing it, we went through as best we could, striking the river at a spot, as we found out later, not a quarter of a mile from where the trail came out. First of all we built a cabin, only just large enough for the two of us, dirt floor and roof but warm and comfortable. When it was finished, we cut trail through the timber both ways from the cabin making it good enough for the use of dogs and sleigh. Of course, at times, we were able to use the creek ice, but a small river like that is constantly thawing or overflowing onto the ice, making traveling bad, with a grave risk of getting one's feet wet and freezing them. Having got our camp and trail in fairly good shape, we walked back to Smith for the balance of our outfit; traps, etc.

On the way in, two of the dogs had packs on them. I was walking ahead, following the trail, then came the dogs and Hornby brought up the rear. At one point, Hornby shouted something to me and not having heard him properly, I turned round to ask what he said. Too late I realized what had happened. One of the dogs had attacked a skunk which had been hiding in a bit of brush close to the trail and before I could get to him, it was too late. The skunk walked away unpursued but the dog went into a series of mingled fits and acrobatics, the like of which I never saw before or since. Suffice it to say that when he finally cooled down a little, the pack, instead of being on his back, was underneath him.

In "packing" a dog, a proper pack is generally used. It is similar to a sack with both ends sewn up with a slit in the middle of one side, forming two pockets. A dog can

carry fifty pounds day in and day out and on many occasions a dog has been wearily panting along behind me, tongue hanging out and apparently played out, when suddenly a rabbit has jumped out of a bit of brush. One realizes how played out he is as he bounds off, pack and all, after the rabbit, banging trees, tearing through scrub, until finally the contents of the pack are strewn all over the place. There is quite a knack in tying a pack onto a dog but one soon gets onto it.

Arrived in Fort Smith, we got everything ready and waited for snow so that we could take our load on the sleigh. It was not a very long wait as snow comes early in that country. Going back to our camp was a pleasant trip. Hornby ran ahead of the dogs most of the way and they worked splendidly.

The first task was to get out a line of rabbit snares as they would constitute our main meat diet and dog food. I set in all about a hundred snares, most of them on "tossing poles". The end of the snare is attached to the small end of a pole balanced in such a way that when a rabbit is caught, the butt falls down, raising the other end, rabbit swinging, up into the air, high enough to keep it out of reach of dogs, foxes or any other meat-eating animals. By spring, I had eaten so much rabbit meat that I was heartily sick of them.

Having fixed the snares and as the river was beginning to freeze over, we began setting traps. Mink tracks were plentiful and we already knew where three beaver lodges were located. Hornby used to visit traps down the river, I looked after those upstream from our cabin. I enjoyed the life in many ways but could never get used to killing animals when caught. After catching our first beaver, we ate the meat and it was a welcome change from rabbits. Beaver meat, although very fat and rich, is decidedly palatable whilst the tail is one of our northern luxuries -- classed with caribou tongue, moose nose and the liver from a fish called "Losh". Beaver and muskrats have dark meat, while lynx is white and tastes very much like chicken. On one occasion we ate a Grey Owl and found it very tasty. These viands would not be so palatable in civilization but, living as we were, they were welcome for a change from rabbits.

By Christmas time we were well satisfied with our efforts, our catch totaling one hundred and fifty mink, some beaver, lynx, one fox, quite a few muskrats, one otter and many weasels (ermine). Otter are queer animals. They have slides where they play, slides from the top of a bank down to the water; going to the top, they slide down, head first. Around these places they are easy to catch. I always felt particularly sorry for beaver; they seemed so fat and happy and led such busy, peaceful lives. The Indians either cut their lodges open, catching them or spearing them as they left or hunted them with dogs along the bank, spearing them as they entered the lodge. Cutting a lodge open is strictly against the law but is done all too often. I never felt such pity for the carnivorous varieties; mink, weasel or lynx. On one occasion when catching dog feed at the "Little Fishery" where there was open water all winter, we set a few traps for mink, catching one which had been caught many times before. Three of his legs were just stumps and half of his tail was missing. He must have spent most of his time in the water, which is unusual.

At Christmas time we went into the post to enjoy that festive season. Our trapping had been very successful so far and we felt that we were entitled to a short holiday. We made the trip, roughly fifty miles, in a little over one day. Owing to the Indians using our trail when hauling fish from the "Little Fishery", going was good and when dogs get on a hard trail, one has to run steadily all the way to keep up. As we had no load, Hornby and I took turns at riding on the sleigh. Christmas at Fort Smith was much more fun than Christmas at Fort Good Hope. Dances were numerous. The mission staged a school children's concert at which I was to be Father Christmas. The sisters (Les Soeurs Grises - Grey Nuns) had made a lovely costume for me but, instead of using cotton batting as a decoration, they had used green, that is freshly-caught, rabbit fur. I had to change at the mission and walk fifty yards or so to the schoolhouse. On the way over I encountered three or four dogs which, being hungry and smelling the fresh rabbit fur, attacked me. Luckily there was a piece of wood handy and I was able to beat them off, but my entrance into the schoolroom was both hurried and unceremonious.

After Christmas we went back to our trap line. Trapping during the cold months of January and February is neither as lucrative nor as pleasant as earlier in the season but, even so, we did fairly well, our main catch being lynx. On one occasion, I was coming back through a small grove of stunted pine trees, comfortably reclining in my sleigh, the dogs traveling fast as the trail was good. Owing to the small trees having caught much drifted snow, it was banked high on each side making it impossible to turn left or right. On rounding a corner, I came face to face with a lynx which was standing right in the middle of the trail. The dogs piled up in a heap on top of him and it took me a considerable time to get them disentangled. But then I understood; Hornby, without saying anything to me about it or telling me his intentions, had set a snare in the trail, a favorite "set" for lynx and sure enough, this one had got caught, frozen solid and been held in a standing position through the narrowness of the trail.

A lynx very seldom puts up a fight when caught. The usual "set" is a kind of pen built of sticks with a snare hung in the opening. Opposite the opening hangs the bait, usually a piece of red cloth because a lynx is very inquisitive and has to investigate anything queer-looking. The end of the snare is attached to a clog, a pole about five or six feet long by two or three inches in diameter, which is not fixed solid. When caught, the lynx, in nine cases out of ten, gives one great spring, taking the clog with him. He then lies down and will stay there till he dies. Occasionally one puts up a fight, carrying the clog a considerable distance. Shooting is the best way to kill him as he is dangerous, beside which he can turn on one or strike with his paw when one strikes at him.

Mink, at this time, were very hard to catch, their runways being between the fall and winter ice on our river, a space of fully two feet caused by the river having gone down after the first ice was formed. Still we got a few of them, some nice foxes, four more beaver and a large number of muskrats and weasels, so we were well satisfied. Off and on during the winter we had made improvements to our shack and trails, intending to return the following winter but our hopes were doomed to disappointment as our

whole trap line was included in the Buffalo Reserve and no one could trap on it except an Indian.

About the latter part of the winter, I was offered a job by the Chief Buffalo Ranger. It appeared that two of the Rangers, wintering in a small shack far out on the Reserve, were nearly out of grub and an emergency trip was necessary to assist them. The Chief Ranger, Willie McNeill and I were to haul the supplies in with our trains of dogs. As trapping was getting pretty slack, I left that end of it to Hornby and started off with Willie. Going was bad, much snow had fallen during the winter and as no one had been over the particular trail we had to follow, it meant breaking trail all the way. Instead of the usual snow-shoes we use in the North which have a good turn up in front, I was using a pair of the flat-nosed kind used by most government officials. As the snow, usually about four feet deep, had quite a crust on the surface, my snow-shoes instead of sliding on top after each step, would slide in under the crust necessitating a powerful lift to break the crust sufficiently to get them clear. The incessant lifting was cruel work and although we took it in turns for one to break trail while the other handled both trains of dogs, I was gradually getting so tired that a night's rest failed to freshen me. For fourteen days we battled our way, camping out each night in the open with the thermometer between 20o and 30o below zero all the time. Finally we arrived at our destination where we had to leave the dogs to haul these men and their equipment, supplies, etc. back to Smith before spring.

The return journey was a nightmare. Snow had drifted into our trail, half filling it from the top of one side to the bottom of the other, making it sidling all the way. My crippled foot played out entirely. It was blowing a gale and snowing, a regular blizzard and bitterly cold. Finally we only had one more night to camp out but that camp was still about ten miles distant when I began to play out. I had got so tired that I couldn't walk fast enough to keep myself warm in the bitter gale and could hardly put my wounded foot to the ground. Through being retarded by my slow progress, Willie was beginning to get cold and I persuaded him to go ahead, make fire and build a good camp. He, being a wonderful traveler, never really realized how bad I was although considerable persuasion was necessary before he would leave me. When at last he was out of sight, I lay full length in the trail in an attempt to ease my feet but, having perspired coming along, I got so cold in a few minutes that I had to proceed again. Alternating in this way, instead of getting rested, I was getting so numb with cold that reasoning became partly fogged. Coming to a place where a big tree leaned across the trail, I decided to sit down under it, put the snow in around me for warmth and try to get some rest. If I had succeeded in this attempt, I would most likely have frozen to death being well into the sleepy stage already. Besides it was the coldest day we had, 66o below zero. Anyway, my attempt to dig in was frustrated by the most wracking cramps I have ever experienced reaching all the way down my legs. They resembled snow-shoe sickness and were most likely brought on by that, but were far more painful; so painful, in fact, that I couldn't stand it and had to get up and start walking again. How long it took me to reach camp, I don't know, but when I got there Willie was just starting back to find me. Luckily he had a roaring fire going, so I piled into bed immediately and after

a while began to warm up but it was months before I ceased recurrence of those terrible muscular cramps.

Hornby was in Fort Smith ahead of us, having decided to give up trapping until time for the spring beaver and muskrat hunt, so I had a good chance to rest up. We then decided to walk out to our shack and bring in our supplies and whatever equipment, traps, etc. was left. It was fifty miles each way, but we decided to do it slowly and in easy stages. The trip out was uneventful but just as we arrived at the shack, I got influenza. Owing to a shortage of grub, an immediate return was necessary, so carrying everything on our backs and although I felt very sick, we began the return journey at once. Hornby was a smaller man than I but, owing to my condition, he took a pack of about seventy pounds while mine was only about forty. Even so, it was too much for me to carry and at the mission, twenty miles from Smith, he took practically everything, leaving me just the difficult job of dragging myself along.

Eight miles from Smith we were lucky enough to meet a band of Indians with their sleighs so we loaded our kit, etc., I climbed into one sleigh and rode but although Hornby had packed the whole load on his back those last twelve miles, he refused to ride, running ahead of the dogs and beating them into the post by fifteen minutes. He was one of the best travelers in the North and on one occasion challenged a man to a race from Smith to the "Little Fishery" and back, one hundred miles altogether, the whole to be done WITHOUT A STOP!

CHAPTER 12: EIGHT-HUNDRED MILES ON SNOW-SHOES

Fort Smith was quiet, it being that most objectionable period in the North between winter and spring. Traveling with dogs was bad, walking worse; still, on the fourth of April, I began a journey of eight-hundred miles, doing practically every foot of that distance on snow-shoes and completing it in six weeks.

A party of surveyors had come in from outside and intended a protracted survey of Great Slave Lake and the Barren Lands. The first part of the undertaking would be done with dogs, the latter by schooner and canoe. The government dogs had been borrowed and Mr. McDougall, the Government Agent, asked me would I drive them, very kindly making the remark that he offered me the position as he knew his dogs would be well cared for. I agreed to, little thinking that I would have gone through many wonderful experiences before I again saw Fort Smith.

The survey party consisted of Mr. Russell, from Ottawa, in charge, Walter Jewett, chainman, and Charlie MacDonald, rodman, both from Edmonton University, a cook

and myself. As none of the other fellows had been in the country before except Mr. Russell, who had only been in once, I was instructed on the quiet to keep an eye open for all emergencies and do my best to make things as easy as circumstances would permit. The first stage of our journey was from Smith to Resolution, one hundred and fifty miles and, as river traveling when taking cut-offs (known as portages) is often difficult not to mention the fact that the river ice is sometimes piled up in heaps, we took four trains of dogs to haul the equipment, instruments, bedding, grub, etc.

Traveling was certainly bad. The three Indians and I who were driving the dogs had our hands full, sliding in the snow, acting as a brake at one time, pulling and lifting with all our might at another. It was cruel work and we went very slowly, our biggest day being only thirty-five miles. The other members of the party had no snow-shoes and were continually slipping and sliding off the trail into four feet of soft snow. They were certainly plucky and wherever we could manager it we gave them a ride on our sleighs. We drivers had a hard trip. Apart from the running and work in getting our sleighs over or around bad places, we were using corn meal and edible tallow for dog feed. This necessitated quite a procedure each night. First, a fire was built and snow was melted for water. When this had been watched and continually packed down to prevent it scorching, it finally formed sufficient water which, when boiling, had cornmeal and tallow mixed in to the required consistency. This then had to be stirred till cooked, after which it had to cool sufficiently before it could be fed. Then one had to watch the dogs while they were feeding or they would fight. As we were traveling from daylight till dark, "spelling" occasionally for a rest and something to eat, our days were very long and by the time we were finished watching the dogs, we didn't get much sleep before time to start again.

Anyway, we eventually got to Resolution without mishap, paid off our Indians and began sorting the outfit so that it could all be carried on two sleighs pulled by five dogs each. I was to drive one sleigh, Charlie MacDonald the other. Our first stop from Resolution, and the real starting point of the survey, was Stony Island, twenty-five miles from Resolution and, as Charlie and I had about one-thousand, five-hundred pounds of stuff to move with our ten dogs, we knew we would have to do some fast traveling until the load dwindled down in weight. Consequently we hauled two loads out immediately and were ready to accompany the rest of the part when they left, with the balance. From then on, we had to keep back-tracking and going ahead in order to keep up with the survey.

Our first jump was from Stony Island right across the lake, seventy-five miles at this point, to Gros Cap, following a chain of islands. Leaving Stony Island at about 9:00 p.m., Charlie and I started for the first island, Gros Goulet, with two sleigh loads. I was ahead but my lead dog, "Mervin", a half wolf, was stubborn and sulky, not liking to leave camp. Besides, the trail was very little used and hard to follow. So I asked Charlie to go ahead and feel the trail while I drove both trains of dogs. He could generally tell when he got off the hard trail into the deep snow but at times it was impossible and we just had to search around until we found it again. A good lead dog will feel an old trail more than a foot under fresh snow and Mervin could have done it if she wanted to, but

she was very stubborn and hard to drive at times. We reached the Island but found that there wasn't a stick of wood growing on it, so had to dig under the snow around the edge of the lake for driftwood before we could make a fire. In the end we got enough to boil a kettle for tea, so stayed there that night. Next day we returned, picked up the balance of the outfit and moved ten miles ahead of Gros Goulet. In this way, we kept up with Mr. Russell all the time.

On one occasion we took our loads ahead, notifying Mr. Russell where we had left them and went back for more. On returning late in the evening, we naturally expected to find the rest of the party camped there but somehow they had missed our "cache" and were nowhere to be seen. From where we were down on the ice, we could see nothing, so we climbed up the island and, sure enough, saw a big fire on an island about three miles further on. As we had all the bedding and grub, we had to go on again and were received with much jubilation by the hungry, though patient, party.

Passing High, Caribou and Wilson Islands, we came to Gros Cap, having crossed the lake on the ice, then Matonabbee Point where we intended to start across the north arm of the lake to Gypsum Point. Coming across in the shelter of the islands traveling had been good but, between Matonabbee Point and Gypsum Point, we could see big pressure ridges. Anyway, we had to cross so on April 28th we started, camping that night on the ice in preparation for which we had brought enough wood to boil our kettle.

Before leaving Resolution we had instructed the Indians to haul extra supplies, grub for ourselves and the dogs, to Gypsum Point where we were informed there was a trapper's cabin. So, on nearing shore, we kept a sharp lookout for a trail but nothing was visible until we noticed a line of spruce boughs running out onto the lake ice. Upon investigation, we found that these boughs marked a trail leading to a cabin which we would never have seen or guessed the presence of from the lake. Our supplies were there waiting for us.

On the way across Jewett had a narrow escape from drowning, but first I would say a few words in explanation. Years previously, he had been in Prince Rupert on business or pleasure but was "shanghaied" and found himself one morning on waking up aboard a "windjammer" heading out to sea. Being one of those plucky, excitement-loving people, he thought he might as well see the world and did so, not returning home for over two years. Well, whilst crossing the lake, we came to a pressure ridge about fifteen feet high and I told the fellows to wait with the dogs while I went ahead to test with my axe and find a suitable place to cross. Jewett, nothing daunted by such a small thing, decided to try it on his own. He got up one side but, in stepping over, the snow covering the crack at the apex broke away, letting him down into the crevice. Luckily the crack was only just wide enough to admit his body and he spread his arms over each side, saving himself from certain drowning. We pulled him out, crossed with the dogs and had no further trouble.

Mr. Russell had taken measurements from Stony Island to Gypsum Point and now decided, as the weather was warming up rapidly, to travel to Fort Rae at the head of the

north arm, without delay, doing the necessary measuring on the return journey. Consequently, loading supplies, bedding, dog feed, etc. on the sleighs we started, going by Waite Island where we experienced a phenomenal change from winter to spring. So far the ice had been good but after passing this island, we were continually breaking through; a most unpleasant happening, partly from the danger of drowning and party from wet feet causing an added risk of freezing. Consequently everyone carried a long pole with which to test the ice and as a safeguard from falling right through if it broke away, the pole straddling the ice and helping one to wriggle to a firmer spot. For further safety, from this point as far as Fort Rae, I led the way with the dogs, tying the head line of the sleigh firmly around my wrist so that, whenever I began to break through, the dogs pulled me out before I went right in. In this way I could safely point out the bad places to the remainder of the party, but my shins were black and blue and bleeding after a short-distance. Although there was still plenty of ice, we saw quite a number of ducks in the pools of water along the shore line.

Traveling got harder and harder owing to the rottenness of the ice but eventually we arrived at Fort Rae where we made arrangements for the return trip as quickly as possible. As we had to travel at night, we rested during the day. Returning by sleigh was out of the question owing to the open water, going by boat was impossible, so we combined the two and put steel runners under a small flat-bottomed boat which we pulled with dogs. We also took a short sleigh for emergencies. Leaving Fort Rae, we had nine dogs pulling the skiff and two on the sleigh. As a matter of fact, owing to the needle points of the badly candled ice, the dogs' feet were in bad condition and most of the time I had one and sometimes two dogs riding in the skiff to ease their feet. I also made shoes for them out of canvas.

On our way back, we passed a place where twelve sleighs has gone through the ice at the same moment. Apparently they were all going to a dance and most of the sleighs had a dog driver and a passenger, there being five dogs to each sleigh. The meant sixty dogs and anyway twenty people, if not more. The whole area of ice gave way precipitating men, dogs and sleighs into the icy lake without the slightest warning. Everyone was saved except one whiteman and his little daughter. He was Frank Camsell, Hudson's Bay Trader and brother of the Minister of Mines. He was the only whiteman in the party. When we passed there were still gruesome relics of the tragedy; two dead dogs, handkerchiefs, gloves and other articles scattered around on the ice. It was a warning to us and made us doubly careful.

Traveling without incident, surveying as we went, we reached Gypsum Point on May 22nd and began preparations for crossing the lake, a distance of sixty miles. We still carried poles for safety, testing the ice all the way and it was lucky we did as we found many weak places. The skiff broke through many times but, naturally, our bedding, grub, etc. remained dry. By this time, the ice had thawed to such an extent that even the sleigh, light as it was, was unsafe so we lashed a canoe onto it for added safety. In this way, on May 26th, at 2:00 a.m., we left for Fort Resolution, laying our course by compass as we had no trail to follow. The ice was so rotten that we could stick our poles through it almost anywhere, but was still thick enough to carry our weight.

Passing Hardisty Island, we headed straight out "into the blue", spelling occasionally to give the dogs a rest. We had brought wood to boil our kettle but were very careful with it, not using a stick unnecessarily. All went well for about twenty miles. Mr. Russell and Jewett were ahead testing the ice, Charlie and I were driving the dogs. The ice, although unsafe, was good for traveling and we kept up a steady trot. Here and there we came to cracks, some small but some large enough to make crossing extremely difficult. Finally, twenty miles from our starting point, we came to a stretch of open water roughly two hundred yards across. As we were traveling practically straight towards the mouth of the Slave River, we figured it might be responsible and, if so, there would be far more open water as we neared Resolution. The Slave River would be open by this time and naturally the temperature of that water would be higher than the lake water. So we stopped for a consultation. Mr. Russell was very anxious to get across but, being a good general, put it up to us. Whilst we were debating, we saw a curious phenomenon which was later explained. Away to the east, by Matonabbee Point, maybe twenty miles from us, we saw what looked like huge blocks of ice being pushed up on shore. We knew perfectly well that it was a mirage, but what could be the explanation? We were soon to find out.

So after due deliberation, we decided that crossing would be too dangerous; men, dogs or instruments might be lost and the best thing to do was to return to Gypsum Point. Jewett and I offered to go across in the canoe, pulling and carrying it across the patches of ice, but Mr. Russell would not permit it although I could tell that he wanted to go himself. As it turned out, he was wise in his decision. Going back, we found that conditions had altered considerably; new cracks had opened up, some so large that we had to ferry across them on big floes of ice. We could not understand it but, with as much speed as possible, headed back for the mainland. By the time we got close to Hardisty Island, it was getting late in the day and as traveling was so bad, it would be long after dark before we reached the mainland, so we decided to camp for the night on Hardisty Island. Swinging over in that direction traveling became even worse and finally, just at the approach to the shore, I went in. It happened in this way. As there was no trail, Charlie had been walking ahead while I handled both trains of dogs. His dogs knew and followed him but my leader, Mervin, kept leaving the faint trail made by the leading team. Just as we neared the shore she swung off again and I ran up from my place behind the sleigh to put her back on the trail. Just as I reached her, the ice broke. At the first crack, the dogs jumped back onto good ice. Scrambling around I managed to get hold of the traces and with my back on the ice, pulled myself hand over hand, clear of the weak place. Too much weight on the ice would have kept breaking it away. Shouting to the dogs to "cha", go to the left, we moved on with the greatest care but, as the dogs got onto firm ground, the skiff broke through into the shallow water at the edge. We all got wet before we got the skiff out but as we were on shore, we didn't mind. Having made a roaring fire, built a good camp and changed our clothes, we had supper and rolled wearily into bed. We had done forty miles that day and the mental and physical strain had been severe

Next morning on waking, we saw two miles of open water where we had crossed. No wonder we had so much trouble. The ice had actually been breaking up while we were on it and the mirage we had seen was a picture of an actual happening. A strong west wind was pushing the whole ice bed down the lake. Our position was now critical. True we were on firm ground, but we were practically out of grub for ourselves and had only sufficient dog food for two days. Crossing to the mainland where we had left our surplus supplies cached was out of the question either with dogs or by canoe. We were marooned on this island.

There was enough grub to last us, using everything sparingly, for possibly a week but we would have to rustle dog feed immediately or shoot them. First of all we made a tour of the island to see if there was any game on it. We found a fox's den and saw one rabbit track, but nothing more. Then, just by chance, we made a find. Coming along the shore of the lake we noticed some large jack fish in a kind of "ice-locked" pool. Big cakes of ice had stranded, forming the pool, and luckily, as the water was quite shallow, we had a good supply of trapped fish if we could only catch them. First we tried shooting them, but were not very successful and realized that our ammunition would all be gone long before we could get off the island. What could we do? At last, we had a brain wave. Taking long poles, we fixed copper wire snares on the ends and snared the fish. This method was successful and helped out considerably but sufficient fish could not be caught to supply us and the dogs. In the end, in one way and another, we managed to get along alright. Two loons went into the pot, one of which was not too tough but although we cooked the other for about twenty-four hours, one might as well have been eating leather. They tasted like rotten fish. Partly hatch sea gull's eggs were another delicacy. Owing to the fact that they were party hatched, to the extent of blood streaks anyway, they were not rotten and helped out considerably, but the birds themselves were fishy and not very palatable.

I might mention that there is an island off Fort Resolution called Egg Island where the residents sometimes get their supply of eggs. If the lake breaks up early enough to allow travel by canoe and gas boat, there is a regular pilgrimage from the Fort as by that time in the spring eggs are a luxury; last year's supply having long since been exhausted. The island is literally carpeted with eggs, thousands of seagulls covering every foot of space and one can hardly take a step without treading on eggs or young birds. Hundreds of dozens of eggs are collected here when ice conditions make the trip possible. But, to return to the story.

Added to our larder was the one rabbit whose tracks we had seen. In this way, economizing wherever possible, we kept eating until one day the lake looked clear enough of ice for Mr. Russell and Jewett to make a daring attempt at reaching the mainland where our supplies were cached. The ice had been blown down the lake and, unless the wind changed, it would be safe enough but if the wind changed, blowing the ice back, they would have to stay. Luckily, they were able to manage it and returned safely with what few supplies we had "cached".

Shortly after this we decided to attempt moving everything across. The lake was clear, although a stiff breeze was blowing, making it choppy. Charlie and I were in an eighteen-foot canoe with the dogs lying on the bottom of it. All, or nearly all, northern dogs are used to canoe travel and have sufficient sense to lie still, knowing that the slightest move earns a smack with the paddle but, on this occasion, wind and waves combined to shoot spray over the dogs which naturally wanted to stand up and shake themselves. It was an exciting journey as will be realized by anyone why has portaged eleven dogs under similar conditions, but we managed it safely and made camp some distance from our "cache" on the shore of a large bay.

The entrance to this bay was comparatively narrow and we figured that a net placed there might catch some fish which were badly needed as by this time we were out of everything but tea. But we had no net, although we had plenty of gilling twine used for making nets. Having, as a boy, learned to make hammocks, I attempted a net which proved so successful that from then till we were "rescued" there was plenty for everyone, although boiled fish as a diet becomes anything but appetizing, especially without salt. Fishing was quite exciting. Our main catch was a species of lake trout weighing around fifty pounds and one of these kicking about in a small canoe could easily upset it if one wasn't careful.

One day a flock of geese flew past. They were a long way off but, taking my rifle, I blazed away at the leader. Our joy can be imagined when we saw one fall, I think it was the fifth or sixth from the one I aimed at, so I won't take credit for good marksmanship but that didn't alter the taste. Meanwhile, Mr. Russell and Jewett were surveying along the coast. Then came the memorable day when our "rescue" ship hove into sight.

CHAPTER 13: GREAT SLAVE LAKE

There is always discussion as to which is the larger; Great Slave or Great Bear Lake, the former being long and narrow, roughly 250 miles long by sixty miles across, while the latter is almost square. At the particular place where we intended to cross, the distance was about sixty miles with no islands to set a course by until within a few miles of Fort Resolution so that steering had to be done by compass.

On leaving Resolution at the commencement of our journey, Mr. Russell had left word as to the course we intended to follow so that, as we had not returned while it was possible to travel on ice, our position on the lake was more or less easy to judge. Mr. Blanchette, who was to absorb our party and take a larger one on a further trip during the summer months, had arrived at Resolution and, not finding us there, had set out in his schooner at the first possible moment to search for us expecting to find us in difficulties. The schooners used in the North are generally forty to sixty feet in length, powered with a gasoline engine, but more often sailed to save gasoline. Having crossed the lake past Hardisty Island, using extreme caution as there were still many huge floes of ice floating about, this party noticed our camp and pulled into shore. Everything was promptly loaded aboard the schooner. The canoes were lashed on deck and the dogs were lashed to the canoes. When all was ready, a compass course was set and we headed out. It was a miserable day with a heavy mist falling, almost rain in fact. Visibility was bad and from time to time Mr. Blanchette came up from below, where everyone was sitting, to check our course.

There was very little room below and several members of the party, including Mr. Blanchette, were sitting beside the engine with their feet on the timbers on which the engine rested. I was steering. On one occasion Mr. Blanchette came up to take his compass reading and, as was his custom, stepped up onto the deck. Owing possibly to the wet deck or maybe oil on his rubbers from sitting with his feet under the engine, he slipped and before he could save himself went overboard into the icy water. As he went, thinking of the churning propeller, he threw himself as far clear as he could and then, as all through this unfortunate accident, he showed the greatest presence of mind and cool and clear thinking. I had a double choice as to my actions; either to bring the schooner about and come alongside him or to attempt the rescue by canoe. Speed was all important as he had on oilskins and hip boots which would drag him down and the water was cold enough to numb him quickly. Not knowing the schooner, having only steered since leaving shore, I was doubtful about her and so I decided on taking a canoe. Shouting "man overboard", I shut off the engine and jumped for the smallest canoe and began loosening the dogs. Mr. Russell was right behind me with an axe cutting the canoe lashings and had it free while I was still struggling with one dog which was tied by a chain. I couldn't waste anymore time so I threw the canoe into the water taking the dog with it. Grabbing paddles, we headed back as fast as we could. There was sufficient way on the schooner when I shut off the engine to carry us quite a distance and I realized that I had made a mistake by not throwing her into reverse immediately. Anyway, we paddled as hard as we could and reached Mr. Blanchette as he was going down for the third time. Sticking my paddle out, I jammed him hard on

his chest, electrifying him into instant effort. He grabbed the paddle and in a second we had hold of him. With the weight of his hip boots full of water, extra clothes all wet and oil skins, we couldn't get him into the canoe so Mr. Russell held him while I paddled back to the schooner. There he was pulled on board and, after he had got rid of most of the water swallowed, put to bed and given a stiff peg of brandy. He soon revived and it was then that he proved his ability to carry on cool and clear thinking under the worst conditions imaginable. Whilst in the water, he had first figured out how long he could stay afloat, then checked off each move made by us, where we gained or lost a second, tabulating everything. When revived, he was able to remember and tell us all about it.

Having got the canoe back on board and retied the dogs securely, we continued our way to Resolution. Steering without a compass was possible so long as one watched the flight of the seagulls because Egg Island lay on our port side and they were continually flying back and forth, hundreds and hundreds of them. Having passed Burnt Islands, dangerous water owing to rocks, we reached Resolution without further mishap.

Immediately everything was bustle and rush in preparation for the long summer trip to the Barren Lands at the east end of Great Slave Lake. The dogs were sent back to Fort Smith in the care of an Indian. Supplies were purchased, sorted and loaded, canoes lashed on deck, clothing and equipment checked, and finally all was in readiness for the start. The party consisted of Mr. Blanchette and Charlie MacDonald's brother, who intended to leave us later on and make a dash right through in an attempt to reach the headwaters of the Coppermine River; an attempt which proved successful. The remaining five of us were to make a survey of a chain of lakes running out into the Barren Lands with Mr. Russell again in charge of the party. I was canoeman and general factotum.

After leaving a clump of trees called the "Last Woods" on Artillery Lake we would have no more wood, so gasoline and gasoline stoves were taken along for culinary purposes, much to the dislike of the cook. Finally all was in readiness and we pulled out. Owing to the limited space on the schooner, it was necessary to go ashore for meals and sleeping but we had a wood stove on board for supplying warmth.

Scudding along in the schooner with the engine functioning to perfection was far more pleasant than going with dogs and the trip to Fort Reliance was a joy to be remembered. Fort Reliance, an old deserted post, had vanished except for a few rotting logs but its site marked the beginning of a series of lakes which had to be traversed, packing everything over the linking portages until one came to Artillery Lake, the first of a chain which could be followed for many days by canoe.

On arrival at Fort Reliance, everything was unloaded from the schooner which returned to Resolution. A good camp was erected and we began making bundles of everything suitable for packing on our backs across the portages. Each pack weighed about sixty pounds but before we had gone far we began to get hardened to the work and carried

ninety pounds with ease. Our method of packing was the use of a "tump line", a leather strap over the forehead. Attaching the "tump line" to the pack and adjusting it to a comfortable fit were the first steps. This first pack would be a box or bundle weighing about forty pounds if one intended to take a full pack of, say, sixty pounds. As soon as this first part of the pack was in place, a second and lighter bundle was placed on top of it. This second part was high on the back and consequently easier to pack and also, by resting on both sides of the tump line, raised the first pack considerably. Up to a certain point, the higher the pack rests on the back, the easier it is to carry. Needless to say, after a day or two, we began to harden to our work but the beginning was responsible for many sore backs and blisters.

In my estimation the hardest thing of all to pack was a case of gasoline, two four-gallon cans to each case. Going over rough ground the gasoline would splash around continually putting one off balance. Canoes were packed by resting them, upside down, on paddles which in turn rested on our shoulders. One man could easily handle a small canoe in this way but it took two men, one under the bow and the other under the stern, to manage our big twenty-foot freight canoe.

The distance from Fort Reliance to the nearest point of Artillery Lake is about twenty miles and in the distance we crossed ten lakes, a portage being necessary between each. The portages varied in length, the longest being over a mile and the shortest about one hundred yards. On arrival at a lake we would load the canoes, paddle to where the next portage commenced, unload, shoulder our packs, and carry everything to the next lake. In this way we continued on till we reached Artillery Lake at its west end. Here, two Swedish trappers had a cabin and a garden. One of them proudly invited us to see his garden which turned out to be comprised of twenty or thirty young carrots and one radish. More may have come up later but, as there was still plenty of ice in the lake, they had reason to be proud of their horticulture.

CHAPTER 14: THE BARREN LANDS

It was July 16th when we began our trip by canoe from the west end of Artillery Lake and two days later, July 18th, we chopped our way through ice, cutting a channel for the canoes but that was the last ice seen during the trip. It was very rotten and had been blown down by the wind, blocking our passage temporarily. On that same day, we passed a clump of stunted pine trees known as the "Last W oods" after which, until our return to the same spot on August 28th, we never saw a stick of wood; nothing but rock covered with Caribou Moss and had to rely entirely on our gasoline stoves for warmth and cooking.

The disposition of the party was as follows. Mr. Blanchette, with his companion Mr. MacDonald, had gone on ahead in a small canoe. Mr. Russell with Jewett were in one canoe, Charlie MacDonald and I in a second, while the draughtsman and cook brought up the rear in the big canoe. On account of carrying on the survey, it was necessary to follow the shore line all the way. Charlie and I would go ahead to the required distance where the rod would be held up for a reading. We would then go ahead, Mr. Russell moving up to the place we had just vacated. Delaying like this made it possible for the cook and draughtsman to go ahead, make camp, and have supper ready for us each evening.

I have never seen as many mosquitoes as there were along the shore of this lake although, for some reason or other, they didn't bother us. Clouds of them arose from every point, spiraling up into the air like smoke. Each morning the lake was covered with them, forming a thick carpet extending quite a distance out from shore. I presume this was a particular breeding ground and was very glad to get away from it before the biting stage was reached. At the east end of Artillery Lake and joining it to the next one named "Clinton-Colden" was a fast-running stream with sufficient fall to make several impassable rapids necessitating more packing but, as these portages were short, there was not much time lost. Reaching the lake, we would again load up and continue as before.

To allow us time to fetch everything across the portage, we had decided to camp for the night. It was a good camping ground and we were all spread around the fire thoroughly enjoying life. Mr. Russell, after the cramped position in the canoe, felt like stretching his legs and wandered off towards the lake to pick a good place for loading up. We noticed him returning and, to our astonishment, he had two dogs following him. As he got close we saw to our horror that they were not dogs at all, but huge white Barren Land Wolves. Before we could get a rifle, something had frightened them and they disappeared. I have often heard of wolves following humans but that was the first time I had seen it.

Next day we loaded our outfit in the canoes and started along the shore of Clinton- Colden Lake. We soon noticed caribou and, as we were short of meat, tried to get the first one we saw but failed and were a little downhearted not yet realizing that the time was coming when we could get as many as we wanted. About half way along the lake

we came to a narrows where countless numbers of caribou cross on their annual migration. Caribou have their young on the coast about mid-summer and shortly after begin the long trek south as far as Athabasca Lake, about one-thousand miles, reaching there about mid-winter when they immediately turn back, completing the round-trip annually. While grazing on Caribou Moss, their main feed, they naturally spread out but at certain places lakes have to be crossed and as they seldom change their general direction, they close in, picking the narrowest spot for swimming. One such crossing comes, as I said, about half way along Clinton-Colden and here the rocks were worn by countless hooves, making a cut down to the lake roughly fifteen feet deep, in the solid rock.

Numerous little cairns of stones, some only four or five stones high, marked places where Indians had lain in wait to get a supply of meat sufficient for themselves and their dogs, as the caribou passed in a body. Although I have never seen them, I have been told that what is known as "the big pass of the caribou" when they are all bunched up at a lake crossing, takes three days to go by a given spot, animals closely bunched, a mass of horns as far in depth as one can see. From this can be judged the annual toll taken by Indians, who often killed numbers solely for their tongues, considered a delicacy. By a people who live on a straight meat diet -- no bread, jam or any other whiteman's grub -- a caribou weighing between one hundred and one hundred-fifty pounds would only last a family of, say, five, with a train of dogs, about two weeks at the outside, not allowing for wastage. This only applies to a main camp. A hunter or traveler would kill when and where meat was wanted.

If the Indians had taken them with such consideration, numbers would not have been so terribly depleted but their method was to keep shooting while ammunition and caribou lasted and then take what they needed. The resultant slaughter, year after year, ended in the government trying to re-stock with a supply of reindeer from Alaska; reindeer being almost identically the same as these Barren Land Caribou, which must not be confused with the considerably larger Wood Caribou.

One time when camped near another narrows on this lake waiting for a strong wind to subside, we noticed a lone caribou swimming across towards us. Charlie MacDonald jokingly offered to ride it if we would catch it for him. Jewett and I promptly took him up, not giving him a minute to change his mind. Jumping into a canoe, we went after him. He never changed his course but put on such speed that we were forced to paddle hard to catch up to him. Using the "tracking line" for a lasso, I roped him around the nose and held on, not daring to risk his escape, in an attempt to get a better hold. Paddling was unnecessary and he pulled us ashore almost as fast as we could have gone without him. Being a comparatively small animal, I had no difficulty in holding him with the rope when he reached shore and began to plunge but, having an insecure hold, he shed the rope off his nose as soon as he faced us and was gone in a second. Just what would have happened if that hope had held, I don't know, but if Charlie had fulfilled his end of the contract and ridden him I believe it would have been a near approach to the sensation of flying.

From Clinton-Colden to the next lake, "Aylmer", we followed another fast stream where portaging our equipment and supplies was again necessary. On one occasion we tried burning Caribou Moss to see what would have happened without our gasoline stoves. With an exceptionally long draught tunnel, we eventually worked up to a cloud of smoke but there wasn't enough heat to bake a potato and even at that one needed four or five hands to push in sufficient moss without stopping the draught.

One night we camped on some rocks right at the edge of the lake and about ten feet above the water. Our tents were of that lovely silk variety which have a ground sheet attached so that one's bedding will not get wet. It was a gorgeous night, no wind, a clear sky and gave us every indication that we could go to bed in peace, which we did. Our grub and everything had been unloaded and piled beside the tents clear of the water. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I awoke suddenly to find myself lying in a considerable pool of water which, naturally, could not run away owing to the ground sheet being attached to the tent. During the night the wind had got up and was now blowing a gale. On looking out I was horrified to see good-sized waves on the lake and a case of apples bobbing gaily around on them. As these apples were of the dried variety originally, our only chance was to go after the case and salvage what we could. Paddling around in a canoe in the middle of the night, in pyjamas and soaking wet, with a gale blowing spray over one was not pleasant. Having retrieved the apples we then, still in pyjamas and bare feet, had to pack all the supplies further back out of danger. Not having any way of drying our clothes that night, there was nothing to do but sleep, or try to anyway, with them wet.

Paddling along one day, we saw a musk ox but he was quite a distance away. A queer animal; like a cow, but short and stocky and covered with long hair. Killed off by Indians and Esquimaux year after year, they have decreased in numbers until now very few are left and they are preserved.

Game, with the exception of caribou, was scarce. We saw one White Fox, a few wolves and many Ivory-Billed Loons, a rare species. One day Charlie had gone on shore; as usual, the bow of the canoe was pulled up on shore and I was sitting in the stern of the canoe skinning one of these loons. The skin is very tough and, when properly dried and fashioned, makes a serviceable bag.

Busy at my task and not moving about much I did not notice the approach of a caribou until Charlie shouted. The caribou was standing right at the bow intently watching me. Reaching down, I carefully grabbed the paddle and suddenly rapped a can of gasoline which was at my feet. The caribou, frightened by the noise, reared straight up on his hind legs turning away from me in the same movement and gave a mighty leap which carried him possibly fifteen feet. Next moment, he was away like a shot but soon stopped and stood watching me. Several bands passed within a hundred feet of us and, although they watched us, they did not show signs of exceptional fear.

These Ivory-Billed Loons made a queer series of noises. From barking like a dog, they would change to a woman's scream, followed by a spell of whistling. Weird noises until one got used to them.

At a certain point on Aylmer Lake we found a cairn of stones with a tin can containing a statement that Mr. Ernest Seton Thompson, the naturalist and writer, had reached that point many years previously.

Crossing overland for a short distance from the lake at this point, a portage leads to the headwaters of the Back River which one can follow into the Thelon River which flows into Hudson's Bay at Fort Churchill.

Leaving Aylmer Lake, we followed another stream into MacKay Lake. Going up this stream there was a considerable distance where we could track the canoes. One time I was on the end of the tracking line when the canoe I was pulling, in which the draughtsman was steering, hit a rock a stuck fast. Owing to the water being swift, I had been leaning well forward, putting considerable strain on the tracking line. When the canoe stuck I half straightened up to see what was the matter, lessening my purchase on the rope which, catching me off balance, pulled me over backwards off the rock onto which I had just stepped and into the water. I was not hurt but was soaked from head to foot, much to the amusement of the others. Meanwhile, the draftsman was hard aground on the rock but we soon got him off and continued our way.

Up as far as MacKay Lake caribou had been plentiful and we had managed to keep ourselves well supplied with meat but there were none in sight here and our supplies were beginning to get low, so there was rejoicing when Mr. Blanchette suddenly returned and instructed us to begin our return journey.

Since leaving the "Last Woods" we had traveled well over four hundred miles. The return journey was made very quickly. Favoured by a strong breeze and not having to stop to survey, we sailed all the way back, running most of the rapids we had had to track the canoes up. The last series of rapids, those between Clinton-Colden and Artillery Lakes were the worst, the first chute being in the shape of an "S" with a number of big waves at the bottom. Charlie and I ran down in our canoe and waited at the bottom to see the others. Mr. Blanchette's canoe was the smallest and, in crossing from one wave to another, it seemed to leave the water entirely for a moment. By the time we reached Artillery Lake the wind had freshened and the lake was quite rough but, as it was blowing in our favour, we were able to continue sailing. Swishing along on the crest of a large wave one had the feeling of jumping off into space, coming to a sudden stop when down in the trough. Back to the portages; but now we had much less to pack, having used up most of our supplies and gasoline.

On arrival at Great Slave Lake, the schooner was waiting to carry us back to Resolution. It was here I met Jack Hornby for the last time. He was on his way to spend a winter in the Barren Lands and the last I saw of him was starting across the portage with an enormous pack on his back. His main idea at that time was most likely

to make a preliminary exploration for the fulfillment of his ambition -- the trip across to Fort Churchill -- but it was not until two years later that he finally met his end.

The return trip to Resolution was accomplished uneventfully.

THE END