The Long Labrador Trail Part 8

After we had eaten, Stanton asked: "How'd you like the partridge, Richards?"

"It was fine," said he. "Guess it was a piece of a young one you gave me, for it wasn't as tough as they usually are."

"Maybe it was young, but that partridge was _owl_." "I'll be darned!"

exclaimed Richards. His face was a study for a moment, then he laughed. "If that was owl they're all right and I'm a convert. I'll eat all I can get after this."

After leaving Lake Desolation the owls had begun to come to us, and Richards was one of the best owl hunters of the party. At first one or two a day were killed, but now whenever we halted an owl would fly into a tree and twitter, and, with a very wise appearance, proceed to look us over as though he wanted to find out what we were up to anyway, for these owls were very inquisitive fellows. He immediately became a candidate for our pot, and as many as six were shot in one day. The men called them the "manna of the Labrador wilderness." Pete's disinclination to eat them was quickly forgotten, for hunger is a wonderful killer of prejudices, and he was as keen for them now as any of us.

An occasional partridge was killed and now and again a black duck or two helped out our short ration, but the owls were our mainstay. We did not have enough to satisfy the appet.i.tes of five hungry men, however; still we did fairly well.

The days were growing perceptibly shorter with each sunset, and the nights were getting chilly. On the night of August twenty-fifth, the thermometer registered a minimum temperature of twenty-five degrees above zero, and on the twenty-sixth of August, forty-eight degrees was the maximum at midday.

During the forenoon of that day we reached the largest of the lakes that the scouting party had seen three days before, and further scouting was now necessary. At the western end of the lake, about two miles from where we entered, a hill offered itself as a point from which to view the country beyond, and here we camped.

We were now out of the burned district and the scant growth of timber was apparently the original growth, though none of the trees was more than eight inches or so in diameter. In connection with this it might be of interest to note here the fact that the timber line ended at an elevation of two hundred and seventy-five feet above the lake. The hill was four hundred feet high and there was not a vestige of vegetation on its summit. The top of the hill was strewn with bowlders, large and small, lying loose upon the clean, storm-scoured bed rock, just as the glaciers had left them.

What a view we had! To the northwest, to the west, and to the southwest, for fifty miles in any direction was a network of lakes, and the country was as level as a table. The men called it "the plain of a thousand lakes," and this describes it well. To the far west a line of blue hills extending to the northwest and southeast cut off our view beyond. They were low, with but one high, conical peak standing out as a landmark. Another ridge at right angles to this one ran to the eastward, bounding the lakes on that side. I examined them carefully through my binoculars and discovered a long line of water, like a silver thread, following the ridge running eastward, and decided that this must be the Nascaupee River, though later I was convinced that I was mistaken and that the river lay to the southward of the ridge. To the cast and north of our hill was an expanse of rolling, desolate wilderness. Carefully I examined with my gla.s.s the great plain of lakes, hoping that I might discover the smoke of a wigwam fire or some other sign of life, but none was to be seen. It was as still and dead as the day it was created. It was a solemn, awe-inspiring scene, impressive beyond description, and one that I shall not soon forget.

We outlined as carefully as possible the course that we should follow through the maze of lakes, with the round peak as our objective point, for just south of it there seemed to be an opening through the ridge: beyond which we hoped lay Michikamau.

The next day we portaged through a marsh and into the lake country and made some progress, portaging from lake to lake across swampy and marshy necks. It was Sunday, but we did not realize it until our day's work was finished and we were snug in camp in the evening.

Monday's dawn brought with it a day of superb loveliness. The sky was cloudless, the earth was white with h.o.a.rfrost, the atmosphere was crisp and cool, and we took deep breaths of it that sent the blood tingling through our veins. It was a day that makes one love life.

Through small lakes and short portages we worked until afternoon and then--hurrah! we were on big water again. Thirty or forty miles in length the lake stretched off to the westward to carry us on our way.

It was choked in places with many fir-topped islands, and the channels in and out amongst these islands were innumerable, so Pete called it Lake Kash.e.s.h.ebogamog, which in his language means "Lake of Many Channels."

As we paddled I dropped a troll and before we stopped for the night landed a seven-pound namaycush, and another large one broke a troll.

The "Land of G.o.d's Curse" was behind us. We were with the fish again, and caribou and wolf tracks were seen.

The next day found us on our way early. A fine wind sent us spinning before it and at the same time kept us busy with a rough sea that was running on the wide, open lake when we were away from the shelter of the islands. At one o'clock we boiled the kettle at the foot of a low sand ridge, and upon climbing the ridge we found it covered with a ma.s.s of ripe blueberries. We ate our fill and picked some to carry with us.

At three o'clock we were brought up sharply at the end of the water with no visible outlet. The nature of the lake and the lateness of the season made it impracticable to turn back and look in other channels for the connection with western waters. Former experience had taught me that we might paddle around for a week before we found it, for these were big waters. Five miles ahead was the high, round peak that we were aiming for, and I had every confidence that from its top Michikamau could be seen and a way to reach the big lake. I decided that it must be climbed the next morning, and selected Pete and Easton for the work. A fall the day before had given me a stiff knee, and it was a bitter disappointment that I could not go myself, for I was nervously anxious for a first view of Michikamau. However, I realized that it was unwise to attempt the journey, and I must stay behind.

That night Stanton made two roly-polies of the blueberries we picked in the afternoon, boiling them in specimen bags, and we used the last of our sugar for sauce. This, with coffee, followed a good supper of boiled partridge and owl. It was like the old days when I was with Hubbard. We were making good progress, our hopes ran high, and we must feast. Pete's laughs, and songs and jokes added to our merriment.

Rain came, but we did not mind that. We sat by a big, blazing fire and ate and enjoyed ourselves in spite of it. Then we went to the tent to smoke and every one p.r.o.nounced it the best night in weeks.

On Wednesday rain poured down at the usual rising time and the men were delayed in starting, for we were in a place where scouting in thick weather was dangerous. It was the morning of the famous eclipse, but we had forgotten the fact. The rain had fallen away to a drizzle and we were eating a late breakfast when the darkness came. It did not last long, and then the rain stopped, though the sky was still overcast.

Shortly after breakfast Pete and Easton left us. I gave Pete a new corncob pipe as he was leaving. When he put it in his pocket he said, "I smoke him when I see Michikaman, when I climb hill, if Michikamau there. Sit down, me, look at big water, feel good then. Smoke pipe, me, and call hill Corncob Hill."

"All right," said I, laughing at Pete's fancy. "I hope the hill will have a name to-day."

It was really a day of anxiety for me, for if Michikamau were not visible from the mountain top with the wide view of country that it must offer, then we were too far away from the lake to hope to reach it.

A mile from camp, Richards discovered a good-sized river flowing in from the northwest and set the net in it. Then he and Stanton paddled up the river a mile and a half to another lake, but did not explore it farther.

With what impatience I awaited the return of Pete and Easton can be imagined, and when, near dusk, I saw them coming I almost dreaded to hear their report, for what if they had not seen Michikamau?

But they had seen Michikamau. When Pete was within talking distance of me, he shouted exultantly, "We see him! We see him! We see Michikamau!"

CHAPTER XI

THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU

Pete and Easton had taken their course through small, shallow, rocky lakes until they neared the base of the round hill. Here the canoe was left, and up the steep side of the hill they climbed. "When we most up," Pete told me afterward, "I stop and look at Easton. My heart beat fast. I most afraid to look. Maybe Michikamau not there. Maybe I see only hills. Then I feel bad. Make me feel bad come back and tell you Michikamau not there. I see you look sorry when I tell you that. Then I think if Michikamau there you feel very good. I must know quick. I run. I run fast. Hill very steep. I do not care. I must know soon as I can, and I run. I shut my eyes just once, afraid to look. Then I open them and look. Very close I see when I open my eyes much water.

Big water. So big I see no land when I look one way; just water. Very wide too, that water. I know I see Michikamau. My heart beat easy and I feel very glad. I almost cry. I remember corncob pipe you give me, and what I tell you. I take pipe out my pocket. I fill him, and light him. Then I sit on rock and smoke. All the time I look at Michikamau.

I feel good and I say, 'This we call Corncob Hill.'"

And so we were all made glad and the conical peak had a name.

Pete told me that we should have to cut the ridge to the south of Corncob Hill, taking a rather wide detour to reach the place. A chain of lakes would help us, but some long portages were necessary and it would require several days' hard work. This we did not mind now. We were only anxious to dip our paddles into the waters of the big lake.

At last Michikamau, which I had so longed to see through two summers of hards.h.i.+p in the Labrador wilds, was near, and I could hope to be rewarded with a look at it within the week.

But with the joy of it there was also a sadness, for I must part from three of my loyal companions. The condition of our commissariat and the cold weather that was beginning to be felt made it imperative that the men be sent back from the big lake.

The possibility of this contingency had been foreseen by me before leaving New York, and I had mentioned it at that time. Easton had asked me then, if the situation would permit of it, to consider him as a candidate to go through with me to Ungava. When the matter had been suggested at the last camp on the Nascaupee River he had again earnestly solicited me to choose him as my companion, and upon several subsequent occasions had mentioned it. Richards was the logical man for me to choose, for he had had experience in rapids, and could also render me valuable a.s.sistance in the scientific work that the others were not fitted for. He was exceedingly anxious to continue the journey, but his university duties demanded his presence in New York in the winter, and I had promised his people that he should return home in the autumn. This made it out of the question to keep him with me, and it was a great disappointment to both of us. That I might feel better a.s.sured of the safety of the returning men, I decided to send Pete back with them to act as their guide. Stanton, too, wished to go on, but Easton had spoken first, so I decided to give him the opportunity to go with me to Ungava, as my sole companion.

That night, after the others had gone to bed, we two sat late by the camp fire and talked the matter over. "It's a dangerous undertaking, Easton," I said, "and I want you to understand thoroughly what you're going into. Before we reach the George River Post we shall have over four hundred miles of territory to traverse. We may have trouble in locating the George River, and when we do find it there will be heavy rapids to face, and its whole course will be filled with perils. If any accident happens to either of us we shall be in a bad fix. For that reason it's always particularly dangerous for less than three men to travel in a country like this. Then there's the winter trip with dogs. Every year natives are caught in storms, and some of them perish. We shall be exposed to the perils and hards.h.i.+ps of one of the longest dog trips ever made in a single season, and we shall be traveling the whole winter. I want you to understand this."

"I do understand it," he answered, "and I'm ready for it. I want to go on."

And so it was finally settled.

It was not easy for me to tell the men that the time had come when we must part, for I realized how hard it would be for them to turn back.

The next morning after breakfast, I asked them to remain by the fire and light their pipes. Then I told them. Richards' eyes filled with tears. Stanton at first said he would not turn back without me, but finally agreed with me that it was best he should. Pete urged me to let him go on. Later he stole quietly into the tent, where I was alone writing, and without a word sat opposite me, looking very woebegone.

After awhile he spoke: "To-day I feel very sad. I forget to smoke. My pipe go out and I do not light it. I think all time of you. Very lonely, me. Very bad to leave you."

Here he nearly broke down, and for a little while he could not speak.

When he could control himself he continued:

"Seems like I take four men in bush, lose two. Very bad, that. Don't know how I see your sisters. I go home well. They ask me, 'Where my brother?' I don't know. I say nothing. Maybe you die in rapids.

Maybe you starve. I don't know. I say nothing. Your sisters cry."

Then his tone changed from brokenhearted dejection to one of eager pleading:

"Wish you let me go with you. Short grub, maybe. I hunt. Much danger; don't care, me. Don't care what danger. Don't care if grub short. Maybe you don't find portage. Maybe not find river. That bad.

I find him. I take you through. I bring you back safe to your sisters. Then I speak to them and they say I do right."

It was hard to withstand Pete's pleadings, but my duty was plain, and I said:

"No, Pete. I'd like to take you through, but I've got to send you back to see the others safely out. Tell my sisters I'm safe. Tell everybody we're safe. I'm sure we'll get through all right. We'll do our best, and trust to G.o.d for the rest, so don't worry. We'll be all right."

"I never think you do this," said he. "I don't think you leave me this way." After a pause he continued, "If grub short, come back. Don't wait too long. If you find Indian, then you all right. He help you. You short grub, don't find Indian, that bad. Don't wait till grub all gone. Come back."

Pete did not sing that day, and he did not smoke. He was very sad and quiet.

We spent the day in a.s.sorting and dividing the outfit, the men making a cache of everything that they would not need until their return, that we might not be impeded in our progress to Michikamau. They would get their things on their way back. Eight days, Pete said, would see them from this point to the cache we had made on the Nascaupee, and only eight days' rations would they accept for the journey. They were more than liberal. Richards insisted that I take a new Pontiac s.h.i.+rt that he had reserved for the cold weather, and Pete gave me a new pair of larigans. They deprived themselves that we might be comfortable.