CHAPTER XL

OLD FORT RELIANCE TO FORT RESOLUTION All night the storm of rain and snow raged around our camp on the south shore of Artillery Lake, but we were up and away in the morning in spite of it. That day, we covered five portages (they took two days in coming out). Next day we crossed Lake Harry and camped three-quarters of a mile farther on the long portage. Next day, September 11, we camped (still in storm) at the Lobstick Landing of Great Slave Lake. How tropically rich all this vegetation looked after the "Land of little sticks." Rain we could face, but high winds on the big water were dangerous, so we were storm-bound until September 14, when we put off, and in two hours were at old Fort Reliance, the winter quarters of Sir George Back in 1833-4. In the Far North the word "old" means "abandoned" and the fort, abandoned long ago, had disappeared, except the great stone chimneys. Around one of these that intrepid explorer and hunter-Buffalo Jones-had built a shanty in 1897. There it stood in fairly good condition, a welcome shelter from the storm which now set in with redoubled fury. We soon had the big fireplace aglow and, sitting there in comfort that we owed to him, and surrounded by the skeletons of the Wolves that he had killed about the door in that fierce winter time, we drank in hot and copious tea the toast: Long life and prosperity to our host so far away, the brave old hunter, "Buffalo Jones." The woods were beautiful and abounded with life, and the three days we spent there were profitably devoted to collecting, but on September 17 we crossed the bay, made the short portage, and at night camped 32 miles away, on the home track. Next morning we found a camp of Indians down to the last of their food. We supplied them with flour and tobacco. They said that no Caribou had come to the Lake, showing how erratic is the great migration. In the afternoon we came across another band in still harder luck. They had nothing whatever but the precarious catch of the nets, and this was the off-season. Again we supplied them, and these were among the unexpected emergencies for which our carefully guarded supplies came in. In spite of choppy seas we made from 30 to 35 miles a day, and camped on Tal-thel-lay the evening of September 20. That night as I sat by the fire the moon rose in a clear sky and as I gazed on her calm bright disc something seemed to tell me that at that moment the dear ones far away were also looking on that radiant face. On the 21st we were storm-bound at Et-then Island, but utilised the time collecting. I gathered a lot of roots of Pulsatilla and Calypso. Here Billy amused us by catching Wiskajons in an old-fashioned springle that dated from the days when guns were unknown; but the captured birds came back fearlessly each time after being released. All that day we had to lie about camp, keeping under cover on account of the rain. It was dreary work listening to the surf ceaselessly pounding the shore and realising that all these precious hours were needed to bring us to Fort Resolution, where the steamer was to meet us on the 25th. On the 23d it was calmer and we got away in the gray dawn at 5.45. We were now in Weeso's country, and yet he ran us into a singular pocket that I have called Weeso's Trap--a straight glacial groove a mile long that came to a sudden end and we had to go back that mile. The old man was much mortified over his blunder, but he did not feel half so badly about it as I did, for every hour was precious now. What a delight it was to feel our canoe skimming along under the four paddles. Three times as fast we travelled now as when we came out with the bigger boat; 5 1/2 miles an hour was frequently our rate and when we camped that night we had covered 47 miles since dawn. On Kahdinouay we camped and again a storm arose to pound and bluster all night. In spite of a choppy sea next day we reached the small island before the final crossing; and here, perforce, we stayed to await a calmer sea. Later we heard that during this very storm a canoe-load of Indians attempted the crossing and upset; none were swimmers, all were drowned. We were not the only migrants hurrying southward. Here for the first time in my life I saw Wild Swans, six in a flock. They were heading southward and flew not in very orderly array, but ever changing, occasionally forming the triangle after the manner of Geese. They differ from Geese in flapping more slowly, from White Cranes in flapping faster, and seemed to vibrate only the tips of the wings. This was on the 23d. Next day we saw another flock of seven; I suppose that in each case it was the old one and young of the year. As they flew they uttered three different notes: a deep horn-like "too" or "coo," a higher pitched "coo," and a warble-like "tootle-tootle," or sometimes simply "tee-tee." Maybe the last did not come from the Swans, but no other birds were near; I suppose that these three styles of notes came from male, female, and young. Next morning 7 flocks of Swans flew overhead toward the south-west. They totalled 46; 12 were the most in one flock. In this large flock I saw a quarrel No. 2 turned back and struck No. 3, his long neck bent and curled like a snake, both dropped downward several feet then 3, 4 and 5 left that flock. I suspect they were of another family. But, later, as we entered the river mouth we had a thrilling glimpse of Swan life. Flock after flock came in view as we rounded the rush beds; 12 flocks in all we saw, none had less than 5 in it, nearly 100 Swans in sight, at once, and all rose together with a mighty flapping of strong, white wings, and the chorus of the insignificant "too-too-tees" sailed farther southward, probably to make the great Swan tryst on Hay River. No doubt these were the same 12 flocks as those observed on the previous days, but still it rejoiced my heart to see even that many. I had feared that the species was far gone on the trail of the Passenger Pigeon. But this is anticipating. We were camped still on the island north of the traverse, waiting for possible water. All day we watched In vain, all night the surf kept booming, but at three in the morning the wind dropped, at four it was obviously calmer. I called the boys and we got away before six; dashing straight south in spite of rolling seas we crossed the 15-mile stretch in 3 3/4 hours, and turning westward reached Stony Island by noon. Thence southward through ever calmer water our gallant boat went spinning, reeling off the level miles up the river channel, and down again on its south-west branch, in a glorious red sunset, covering in one day the journeys of four during our outgoing, in the supposedly far speedier York boat. Faster and faster we seemed to fly, for we had the grand incentive that we must catch the steamer at any price that night. Weeso now, for the first time, showed up strong; knowing every yard of the way he took advantage of every swirl of the river; in and out among the larger islands we darted, and when we should have stopped for the night no man said "Stop", but harder we paddled. We could smell the steamer smoke, we thought, and pictured her captain eagerly scanning the offing for our flying canoe; it was most inspiring and the Ann Seton jumped up to 6 miles an hour for a time. So we went; the night came down, but far away were the glittering lights of Fort Resolution, and the steamer that should end our toil. How cheering. The skilly pilot and the lusty paddler slacked not--40 miles we had come that day--and when at last some 49, nearly 50, paddled miles brought us stiff and weary to the landing it was only to learn that the steamer, notwithstanding bargain set and agreed on, had gone south two days before.