CHAPTER XLII

FORT SMITH AND THE TUG Here again we had the unpleasant experience of sleeping indoors, a miserable, sleepless, stifling night, followed by the inevitable cold. Next day we rode with our things over the portage to Smith Landing. I had secured the tug Ariel to give us a lift, and at 7 P. M., October 5, pulled out for the next stretch of the river, ourselves aboard the tug, the canoe with a cargo towed behind. That night we slept at the saw-mill, perforce, and having had enough of indoors, I spread my, blankets outside, with the result, as I was warned, that every one of the numerous dogs came again and again, and passed, his opinion on my slumbering form. Next night we selected an island to camp on, the men did not want to stay on the mainland, for "the woods are full of mice and their feet are so cold when they run over your face as you sleep." We did not set up our tents that time but lay on the ground; next morning at dawn, when I looked around, the camp was like a country graveyard, for we were all covered with leaves, and each man was simply a long mound. The dawn came up an ominous rose-red. I love not the rosy dawn; a golden dawn or a chill-blue dawn is happy, but I fear the dawn of rose as the red headlight of a storm. It came; by 8.30 the rain had set in and steadily fell all day. The following morning we had our first accident. The steamer with the loaded canoe behind was rushing up a rapid. A swirl of water upset the canoe, and all our large packs were afloat. All were quickly recovered except a bag of salted skins. These sank and were seen no more. On October 9 we arrived at Fort Chipewyan. As we drew near that famous place of water-fowl, the long strings and massed flocks of various geese and ducks grew more and more plentiful; and at the Fort itself we found their metropolis. The Hudson's Bay Company had killed and salted about 600 Waveys or Snow Geese; each of the Loutit families, about 500; not less than 12,000 Waveys will be salted down this fall, besides Honkers, White-fronts and Ducks. Each year they reckon on about 10,000 Waveys, in poor years they take 5,000 to 6,000, in fat years 15,000. The Snow and White-fronted Geese all had the white parts of the head more or less stained with orange. Only one Blue Goose had been taken. This I got; it is a westernmost record. No Swans had been secured this year; in fact, I am told that they are never taken in the fall because they never come this way, though they visit the east end of the lake; in the spring they come by here and about 20 are taken each year. Chipewyan was Billy Loutit's home, and the family gave a dance in honour of the wanderer's return. Here I secured a tall half-breed, Gregoire Daniell, usually known as "Bellalise," to go with me as far as Athabaska Landing. There was no good reason why we should not leave Chipewyan in three hours. But the engineer of my tug had run across an old friend; they wanted to have a jollification, as of course the engine was "hopelessly out of order." But we got away at 7 next day--my four men and the tug's three. At the wheel was a halfbreed--David MacPherson--who is said to be a natural-born pilot, and the best in the country. Although he never was on the Upper Slave before, and it is an exceedingly difficult stream with its interminable, intricate, shifting shallows, crooked, narrow channels, and impenetrable muddy currents, his "nose for water" is so good that he brought us through at full speed without striking once. Next time he Will be qualified to do it by night. In the grove where we camped after sundown were the teepee and shack of an Indian (Chipewyan) Brayno (probably Brenaud). This is his hunting and trapping ground, and has been for years. No one poaches on it; that is unwritten law; a man may follow a wounded animal into his neighbour's territory, but not trap there. The nearest neighbour is 10 miles off. He gets 3 or 4 Silver Foxes every year, a few Lynx, Otter, Marten, etc. Bellalise was somewhat of a character. About 6 feet 4 in height, with narrow, hollow chest, very large hands and feet and a nervous, restless way of flinging himself about. He struck me as a man who was killing himself with toil beyond his physical strength. He was strongly recommended by the Hudson's Bay Company people as a "good man," I liked his face and manners, he was an intelligent companion, and I was glad to have secured him. At the first and second camps he worked hard. At the next he ceased work suddenly and went aside; his stomach was upset. A few hours afterwards he told me he was feeling ill. The engineer, who wanted him to cut wood, said to me, "That man is shamming." My reply was short: "You have known him for months, and think he is shamming; I have known him for hours and I know he is not that kind of a man." He told me next morning, "It's no use, I got my breast crushed by the tug a couple of weeks ago, I have no strength. At Fort McKay is a good man named Jiarobia, he will go with you." So when the tug left us Bellalise refunded his advance and returned to Chipewyan. He was one of those that made me think well of his people; and his observations on the wild life of the country showed that he had a tongue to tell, as well as eyes to see. That morning, besides the calls of Honkers and Waveys we heard the glorious trumpeting of the White Crane. It has less rattling croak and more whoop than that of the Brown Crane. Bellalise says that every year a few come to Chipewyan, then go north with the Waveys to breed. In the fall they come back for a month; they are usually in flocks of three and four; two old ones and their offspring, the latter known by their brownish colour. If you get the two old ones, the young ones are easily killed, as they keep flying low over the place. Is this then the secret of its disappearance? and is it on these far breeding grounds that man has proved too hard? At Lobstick Point, 2 P. M., October 13, the tug turned back and we three continued our journey as before, Preble and Billy taking turns at tracking the canoe. Next day we reached Fort McKay and thus marked another important stage of the journey.