CHAPTER VI.

OVER THE GREAT PLATEAU.

It is a wonderful place, this roof of the Labrador. Ridge on ridge, some of considerable height, roll away seemingly to the world’s end. In the valleys and cups of the hills lie thousands of nameless lakes. The winds, during the greater part of the year, rage over it. It is sheer desolation, abysmal and chaotic. Of dominant notes there are but two, the ivory-coloured reindeer moss and the dark Laurentian stone. On the flanks and on the peaks of the mountains, in the beds of the brooks, on the shore of the lakes all over this huge tableland, are strewn the grey Laurentian boulders in their infinite millions—gigantic and glacier-born seeds sown in the dawning of the world. When the sun shines, to quote Saltatha, the Yellowknife Indian, “the lakes are sometimes misty, and sometimes blue, and the loons cry very often.” Then it is a land of stern and imposing beauty, perhaps unlike any other on earth, where sky and clouds are mirrored in the shallow lakes, and the lazy, monster fish rise among the ripples in the red and gold of evening. But when the clouds ride it, and the wind and rain, sleet and snow rave over it, as they do nearly all the year round, a desolation more appalling cannot be conceived. There is no shelter for him who travels it; hardly one of the glacier-driven stones is more than four feet high; every lake is whipped into wrath and thunders on its shores; the loon may cry out there in the storm, but no human ear could hear him. Lucky the man if he can find a rock beneath which to creep, and in that cold refuge shiver as he peers out and watches the elemental Spirit of the Tempest rejoicing in what seems to be the very heart of his kingdom.

[Illustration: “Tired and Irritable.”]

We could not help, realising, however, on our first sight of these upland barrens, that in one respect our calculations had been deficient. From any ridge or mound that rose above the general level the land could be seen stretching away interminably in every direction, a stony wilderness, with here and there some coarse grass growing in the marshes, dotted profusely with ponds and lakelets, but without a bush or tree of any kind to break the monotonous and dreary prospect. This was something quite different from the experience of any of the former travellers in Labrador with which our reading had acquainted us, and there followed from it, two, if not three, inconveniences. In the first place we could procure no poles for our tents and had no obvious means of shelter should bad weather assail us. Secondly, fire for warmth was an utter impossibility, and for the simplest cooking a problem. Diligent search revealed here and there a straggling growth of dwarf birch, a foot or two in height at the outside, and the stems of these shrubs did not exceed a finger’s thickness. This was the only obtainable fuel, and even that was very far from plentiful. Thirdly, we felt that any obstruction from intervening lakes or rivers might, after the canoe was abandoned, present quite unanticipated difficulties. Relying on timber of some kind we had vaguely planned to negotiate such obstructions with extemporised rafts, tied with spruce root or twisted alder, such as we had used in other places, but here the necessary materials were wholly and unexpectedly absent.

On that evening we realised perhaps for the first time how difficult a task we had undertaken, and how it happens that the coast-dwelling settlers and Eskimo fear, as they certainly do, the grip of this vast wilderness, on whose verge they live.

While Porter began to cut twigs and roots of dwarf birch for the fire, Hardy and I took rifle and rod and went off into the last half hour of daylight to prospect. The same thought was in both our minds, as we walked together along the margin of the upland lake: “Can any life exist in the heart of this incredible barrenness?” In the answer to these words lay the success or failure of our advance. Many miles’ travel to the westward was our goal—the George River, or River of the Barren-grounds. To reach it we must live the life of the nomadic savage, facing the same conditions as those under which he exists in ever-decreasing numbers. We must find game and kill it.

Just as we passed the head of the Lake, Hardy whispered to me that he could see a ptarmigan among the stones. It was a moment before I espied the beautiful bird, which, although we were quite close, remained perfectly still, evidently in the hope that we would overlook it.

But that was not to be, and soon Hardy was running back to camp for the little ·22 rifle, while I sat down upon a rock to keep what we hoped would be our morning meal in view. Presently, thinking that the coast was clear, the ptarmigan darted away among the rocks, and was nearly out of sight before Hardy returned.

Then once more the ptarmigan “froze.” Hardy crept up within range, for, tame as these birds sometimes are, we were in no mood for taking chances, and a moment later we were admiring the wonderful coloration of the first game with which the plateau had provided us.

As dark fell we walked back to camp. Arrived there we ate our ration beside a tiny fire of green twigs and leaves, and then lay down beneath the stars. There was a splendid display of Northern Lights, the “searchlights of God,” all across the heavens; but we could not watch them, for between us and the sky with its melting loops and rays of light, danced and whirled ever thickening legions of mosquitoes, lean and grey. We drew our blankets over our heads and spent a most miserable night.

The sun was not yet up when I was awakened from the only couple of hours’ rest the mosquitoes allowed me by a cry from the little lake upon the margin of which we had made our bivouac. Looking out of my blankets I saw a sight that filled me with delight. Hardy, in the canoe, on the bosom of the lake, was fast in what looked like a big fish. Just as I joined him he landed a _namaycush_, as the huge lake trout of the Labrador is called. We were very pleased, as—breakfast apart—both of us had the strongest ambition to catch the fabled _namaycush_. Soon we had four handsome fellows—the largest of which, a 3½ pounder, rose to almost my first cast—in the bottom of the canoe. They were, however, but relatively small fish, as in the larger lakes the _namaycush_ often reaches 30 lbs., and occasionally scales even up to 40 lbs. and more in weight.

While we were fishing the mosquitoes swarmed over us, nor as the sun rose higher did it bring any relief from, but rather a reinforcement to, the hosts of Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies. We had grown used to them in the valley of the Fraser, and suffered, as we then believed, almost to the limit of endurance, but we had buoyed ourselves with the hope that the wind and the chill of the high ground would rid us of the bloodthirsty battalions. Far from it. We soon discovered that the mosquitoes of the river valley were but sluggish and incompetent regiments as compared with the armies of these hardy mountaineers, whose vanguard stabbed as with red-hot needles sent well home. As to their numbers, I am hopeless of giving any idea of them. Suffice it to say that when Hardy put his military blanket out to air, phalanxes three or four deep settled upon it, until its colour changed from brown to grey—a seething and loathsome mass of insects; and presently, as we moved about, above each of us rolled a pillar of mosquitoes, revolving and buzzing, and thousands strong.

Having breakfasted royally on two of the _namaycush_, well spread with mosquitoes, we loaded up the canoe and passed on, threading our way south-west through a series of small lakes, and making several portages. As we advanced the character of the country grew yet more barren. Again we realised that we were in a land that bore little likeness to the accepted Labrador described in the various books of travel. This, of course, was owing to the fact that all Labrador exploration has hitherto been carried on largely by way of the river valleys, where timber is plentiful, but here, on the high ground, 2,000 feet above the sea, we learnt what the entire lack of wood means in wilderness travel.

[Illustration: Hardy prepared against the Mosquitoes.]

[Illustration: Over the Plateau.]

With our veils and thick gloves, we were at first fairly proof against the mosquitoes, but their sibilant song as they beat against our defences was like the music of a nightmare. And, alas! gloves must be removed for many purposes, and one cannot pack in a veil, nor eat one’s meals; and over the portages, of which we made five, they stabbed and thrust abominably. At the mid-day halt, I took over fifty from my tea. These had committed suicide in the interval between its being poured out hot into the billy and the moment when it became cool enough to drink. Nor could we cook cake or fish, but flies were enshrined within it close as currants. We must devour them or starve; and indeed, we hardly heeded them, for at any rate these were dead, and the living claimed all our attention. They thrust through thick tweeds and underclothing wherever these were stretched tight against the body; they found every seam of one’s clothes, and pierced a crimson pattern on the flesh beneath. Loaded as we were, they had the tactical advantage, and cruelly they pressed that advantage home. To kill them was useless, even childish; to endure them all day was trying; but when night after night they drove sleep away and sent us smothering under our blankets as a partial defence, thoughts of murder filled our souls as we positively cowered and wilted under the plague.

But man can become used to most things, even to one of the plagues of Egypt, and during the day we made about eight miles, camping in the late afternoon upon the shore of apparently the last of the little series of navigable ponds and lakes.

Immediately on our arrival at the camping place, we climbed a ridge near by, but from its height saw no sign of navigable water in the direction in which we had hoped to find it. To the south, it is true, a chain of lakes extended, but all the western horizon was filled in with rolling barrens leading to gigantic rock-strewn ridges. We therefore decided that the next day must be spent in scouting.

Rain and storm came with the dark, when, soaked to the skin, and not a little dispirited—for we had seen no game all day—we drew the tent-sheet over the upturned canoe, anchored it with large stones laid upon its edge and crept into shelter. Above us the rain and the mosquitoes beat upon the tent-sheet; inside we lit our pipes, and lying in our blankets discussed the situation.

The morning broke fine and clear after the rain of the night, and the sun had hardly risen before Hardy had caught a 5½ lb. _namaycush_, which provided us with an excellent breakfast and saved any further inroad upon our provisions.

After breakfast we all went off on the day’s work, not meeting again until dark, when round our evanescent little camp fire of leaves we held a council.

The question was, should we, figuratively speaking, burn our boats—in other words, leave the canoe so early in the trip? Sooner or later we knew we must do so. It was the actual foundation of our plan for reaching the George River. But after the canoe had been carried with such toil up on to the plateau we had hoped it would ease our journey over many a further mile. Instead of this, but half a day’s march from the start, we had reached the end of the chain of lakes from which we had hoped so much.

Porter, who had scouted all day to the south-west, reported some lake extensions; but their trend was too southerly to aid us greatly, and the first and nearest of them lay across a very long and rough portage.

[Illustration: Canoe Camp.]

[Illustration: Sandy Camp.]

Still there was much to be said in favour of taking the canoe, and Porter volunteered to carry it across if I wished him to do so.

On the other hand the argument was, “We are strong now—certainly stronger than we shall be after living a week or more on half rations—we can now make long marches with light packs, and we ought to be almost certain of killing a caribou on the way to the George.” Upon this there followed an animated discussion concerning the general “cussedness” of the caribou herds, which have a knack of being conspicuous by their absence when their flesh means salvation, and often plentiful when the traveller has no particular need of their presence.

Yet there were certainly deer on the country, for not only had Porter seen seven, but both Hardy and I had come upon fresh tracks, and at one of the fords quantities of hair (the caribou shed their winter coats in July, and even as late as early August), where the migration had crossed a little earlier in the season and the animals had shaken the water from their coats. Yet all the tracks led, and all the deer seemed to be travelling steadily south-east; which meant that if, as we imagined, the migration had already passed, it was probable that in a few days there would not be a caribou in our section of the country.

This was the fact which finally decided us. If the caribou were travelling away, it seemed to be a case of now or never. A day’s march over the long ridges to the south-west, Porter had come to a district which he described as “a more civilised country, where a man can get alderwood.”

To this place we decided that we would go on the morrow with light packs, and that there, if all seemed well, we would make our base from which to start on our final march to the George.

The dawn had hardly begun to whiten when we were afoot; and while Porter and I made our morning sally out among the mosquitoes to gather enough of the sparsely growing dwarf birch to make a fire, Hardy, the indefatigable fisherman, had pulled two _namaycush_ from the lake. Both these he saw lying in-shore, and dropped a salmon fly above each with the best results. One was immediately fried; and then, after lashing the canoe so that it would be safe even against one of the three-day storms which at every season visit the tableland, we set out for the line of ridges over which our hopes lay.

At first the mosquitoes tortured us horribly, flying into our eyes and noses, and covering us with countless stings. Our fly-dope, the pleasant mixture of Stockholm tar and oil, of which we had carried up a good supply, kept them off for a few minutes after application; but a shower of rain, or even the heat of hard work, always caused it to run into our eyes, and rendered it a nuisance. All the forenoon we had toiled onwards and upwards into a great wilderness of stones, where for long stretches the boulders lay so close together that in order to progress we had to leap from one to the other. A more inhospitable country than this great barren would be difficult to imagine. It is hardly too much to say that at times our advance was like a battle in a dream; for whenever the wind dropped, or our way led into shelter, the lean myrmidons of grey closed down upon us. Bleeding and swollen, with nerves on edge, we stumbled along until at last, after four hours’ marching, we gained the highest point of the ridges, and in the face of a clean sweet wind which swept our persecutors away for the moment, we began to descend upon the other side.

We had not long enjoyed this delightful contrast when suddenly I saw something move below me among the rocks, and the next instant a caribou dashed out. The deer had seen us, and was galloping across, doubtless to get the wind and so learn more of us. As the deer paused to stare, the bullet went on its way, and the caribou, hit in the chest, collapsed. She was dead before we came up.

Although this deer was both poor and thin, without, indeed, a particle of fat on her whole body, we were rejoiced at our good fortune. If only we could succeed in killing others! What a vista the thought opened up! We would sink the carcases in the ice-cold lakes, one for every two days’ supply. This would enable us to reach the George, even should we use the last of our provisions in doing so, and on our journey back we could live on the meat of the submerged carcases—for under water the flies could not reach it and it would keep good for weeks.

The plan with all its possibilities gave us food for conversation until, just after sunset, utterly tired out, and overloaded with great slabs of venison as well as our packs, we walked down the last slope to the “civilised place” where we were to camp. It was situated at the end of a deep lake from which a stream flowed away to the west. Upon the banks there grew a few clumps of alders. On both sides of the river and the lake there ran from east to west a series of high sandy ridges which formed the only variation from the other innumerable ridges covered with grey quartzite.

After gathering wood and arranging our bivouac, Hardy and I left Porter frying a pan of deer’s meat, and climbed to the top of the highest cone-shaped sandhill near by. From its summit we looked out to the west. On the other side of a vast marsh dotted with lakes and ponds which glimmered like milk in the twilight, there rose two lines of hills, the last a mere outline of snow-patched blackness—vague and half seen. Hardy took a bearing. These hills lay due west, and the crossing of them would mark the next stage of our march.