CHAPTER VIII.

THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS.

Early in the morning of August 15th each one of us divided his few belongings into two sparse heaps. As we were upon the point of starting from the base-camp on our final effort to reach the George River, it was of the first importance that we should travel light. Thus it had become a matter of pride to cut our personal outfit to the limit. One after another of our small “necessaries” were condemned to the ever-growing heap which was to remain behind. Finally, a canvas sheet, our blankets, an extra pair of skin boots each, a change of underclothing, and a few odds and ends, were all that went into our bundles. It is quite wonderful what a man finds he can do without when he has to march fast, far, and loaded over rock-strewn hills and through league-long marshes.

For food we carried 18lbs. of flour, 5lbs. of bacon, 2lbs. of raisins, eight Lazenby soup-squares, ¾lb. of tea, ½lb. of tobacco, and a bottle of saxine. To this add our cooking gear, a ·350 Mauser rifle with forty rounds of ammunition, and a ·22 with twice as many, two cameras, a liberal supply of films, and some pieces of deer’s meat—enough for perhaps three meals.

[Illustration: Sandy Camp River.]

After making up our loads, we placed all that was to be left behind in the lee of the great rock of Sandy Camp, drew canvas over the heaps, piled stones on top, hoped the wolves would not raid the _cache_ while we were absent, and then, slinging up our packs, turned our faces west.

Far in the distance, through the clear morning air, rose the two ridges over which we must climb. At first it seemed as if we were going to have an unfortunate start, for, in the first stillness of the morning, great clouds of mosquitoes were waked to life, and over each man rose that pillar of flies to which we were becoming as accustomed as we were to our own shadows. But as the sun rose higher a breeze began to blow, which beat down our enemies into the shelter of moss and stone, leaving us free to enjoy the glory of the morning.

And what a glorious morning that was! The sky and the lakes were so blue, the wind so sweet and fresh. On all sides of us stretched out the austere and magnificent landscape, for once smiling and at rest.

During the forenoon we marched steadily forward, until our advance was blocked by a river. This was a contretemps which we had anticipated when we left our canoe behind, but which we had been quite unable to provide against.

There was, therefore, no choice, and we set about wading the river. The task proved a very nasty and difficult business, for the current was strong, and the rocks beneath it were covered with “slob,” and exceedingly slippery. To fall down in such a river, when one has no change of clothes, and is travelling at an altitude of 2,000 feet above sea level in a fireless land, even if one is not swept away or hurt, is, to say the least of it, a disagreeable experience; but when falling means ruining camera and films, too much care cannot be taken. Indeed on this occasion, as on others, the latter were entrusted to Porter, who, thanks to his experience on the ice with the Newfoundland sealing fleet, was by far the most sure-footed of our party.

At length, after over an hour-and-a-half of toil and anxiety, we succeeded in carrying everything safely across the several branching streams, but had not gone very far upon the other side before another wide stream barred our path. While we were looking for a ford across its turbulent waters I came upon a ptarmigan, which I shot, thus providing us with a lunch.

When the two rivers were safely behind us we began once again to make good time, so much so that by sunset we had crossed the first of the great ridges towards which we had been walking all day, and which, at one time, we had hardly hoped to reach.

With the disappearance of the sun the wind fell away, and the mosquitoes returned to harass us. But we travelled on and on far into the gloaming, looking for a patch of dwarf birch to supply us with fuel enough to boil our kettle; but it was nearly dark before we found a sparse growth on the southern slope of a sandhill. Here, so slender were the twigs that it took an hour-and-a-half to prepare our meal.

This of course, was the fault of our outfit. I know now that the proper outfit for such an expedition as ours would be a light mountaineer’s tent with a jointed pole, and a Primus stove, such as Dr. Nansen used in his “Crossing of Greenland.” Such a tent could be pitched and would hold anywhere, and in it one could, to a certain extent, dry one’s clothing and weather out the worst of storms. As to provisions, they should be selected with a view to as little cooking as possible; hard biscuit and dried meat would be best. Instead of this, while admirably outfitted for a country with any wood growth, for these sterile heights we were not prepared. Nor, in the matter of provisions, were we better off. Our chief trouble lay with the flour, which could not be eaten until it had been baked camp-fashion in the frying-pan. On that night, as on others, all hands took a turn at holding that instrument of torture over hysterical fires of leaves that flared up to unapproachable heat at one moment, and went clean out not three minutes after.

[Illustration: Crossing the Lake.]

On the morning of August 16th we woke to examine our surroundings with eagerness, for, as we had made our bivouac in the gloaming, we were only now able for the first time to see exactly the nature of the country which lay about us. We found that we had slept in the lee of a sandy ridge, hard by a meagre growth of dwarf or maiden birch. Behind us, eastwards, rose the ridge over which we had come on the previous evening; to the south extended swampy land, cut up into many little lakes, and dotted with low outcrops of rocks; northwards lay a larger lake, to the surface of which many fish were rising in the quiet, mosquito-haunted morning. Our way to the west was blocked by the lofty ridge that we had seen ahead for so many miles, and in the valleys and hollows of which the winter snow still lingered in huge patches. Apart from the music of the mosquitoes, which was never still, the vast face of the country lay absolutely silent and apparently lifeless under the dawn, which had risen, as it sometimes does in Labrador, in a wide splash of lemon colour, dispelling the white and rose forelights across the eastern hills.

While Porter prepared a rough breakfast over a dozen consecutive fires of the swiftly-burning dwarf birch, I walked along the ridges in the hope that by good luck I might sight a caribou.

After I had gone a little way I came upon the comparatively fresh tracks of deer, where four animals must have passed during the small hours within a few yards of our sleeping forms. A wolf had been following them, or, at any rate, had recently gone along the same trail.

My walk from the camp proved of no value; the only living thing to be seen in the clear light was a loon that cried incessantly upon the lake away to the north. So clear was the morning that, although the bird was more than a mile off, I could see the disturbance of the water whenever he pitched from one of his short and uneasy flights.

Returning to camp, I ate my ration, and soon after the three of us had put together our small impedimenta and set out once more upon our march. Before long we were toiling up the flanks of the steep, snow-patched ridge, and at the end of a long second “carry”—we divided our day into a number of “carries,” as we called them; each “carry” meant from twenty-five to forty minutes’ march, after which we rested for five minutes—as I say, just when we came to the end of our second carry, a large deer, which must have been lying among the rocks above us, becoming startled by the noise of our advance, or else seeing us from some point of vantage, appeared, running with ungainly strides across our front. He was distant every yard of half a mile, hopelessly out of range for shooting. From time to time he would stop, stand, and stare at the three strange, humped figures which climbed beneath him, invading his solitude.

When we first saw him one of us said at once, “If we could kill him we should be almost sure of reaching the George,” but crouch as we might in the shelter of the rocks, or try as we might to get nearer to him, the deer on the high ground above us was always our master in strategy. No doubt he thought us some new kind of wolf, or an unlucky movement of ours had raised all his suspicions, for allow us to approach him he never did. At length, abandoning even curiosity, he dashed away over the hill.

We pushed forward until we felt the air strike cold from the great valley which, as we came over the high ground, was at last exposed to our view, but in all its area of rock and lake no sign was to be seen of the caribou we had hoped to shoot.

Much of this day was again taken up with picking our way among the great quartzite boulders, which in this district overlie the hills. Now and then a sandy ridge gave us easier going; but for the most part the walking was hard, and, to us who wore thin sealskin boots—by advice of those used to the ordinary aspects of Labrador—at times extremely painful. But when one rises at dawn and pushes on till dark, a surprising amount of ground can be covered.

As we advanced the country to the south of us seemed to grow more and more rugged, a fact which prevented us from swinging in that direction in order to search for wood from the scattered clumps of dwarf birch that always grow on the sheltered side of the larger hills. Although at lunch-time Hardy indefatigably fished the waters of a wide and stony river which we had just crossed, yet his efforts only resulted in the addition of a single insignificant trout to our allowance. Meanwhile, numerous small trout were visible lying in the shallow places, too small to take his fly.

During the whole of that day we saw no sign of ptarmigan, in spite of keeping a constant look-out for them. Indeed, our experience taught us that these birds are extremely difficult to see. Again and again it was only by catching one of its swift movements or hearing its curious croak that we were made aware of the grey bird’s presence, so closely does the coloration of the plumage accord with the tints of rock and stone. Often we would travel through a whole day seeing no more than some shed feathers; and on the morrow, within a few hours a shift of wind would drive all the few ptarmigan in the district out into the open. The traveller over the high ground of Labrador, even if he carries a shot-gun, will be rash to trust to obtaining any supply of these birds. Throughout our marches to and fro we saw but twenty-seven, of which we killed eight. Also, a shot-gun is too heavy, and its ammunition quite out of the question for long portage. We had with us, therefore, a ·22 rifle, and with this we killed such small game as came in our way. It shot with wonderful accuracy, and I do not remember our losing anything we fired at, though down in the valley of the Fraser River it was valueless, except for shooting squirrels, as the birds rose from the thick underbrush of willow and alder, where it was impossible to observe their presence in time to get a sitting shot.

We were travelling on a daily ration of a cupful and a half of flour, a few raisins, and a thin slice of bacon per man, so that it had become a matter of paramount importance to secure a caribou; as should we fail to do so, a time of hunger was probably close upon us. The chance of sighting caribou was extremely vague, as days might elapse before a deer happened to come into our range of vision, for among the ridges and hollows through which we were moving a band of caribou might pass within a hundred yards without our becoming aware of their presence. However, we continued to hope for the best, and Hardy, whose turn it was to shoot with our single heavy rifle, asked me to take any opportunity that might present itself of killing a deer, as he was unaccustomed to the sighting of the weapon, which belonged to me.

About five o’clock we again struck a continuation of the high, sandy ridge that we had been following in the morning. Along the summit of this we were excited by discovering fresh tracks of deer, that had passed not more than an hour previously. Our feelings can well be imagined as we pushed on after them. A few minutes later, as we were descending the side of a hill towards a long lake, a caribou (which from the horns I took to be a two-year-old stag) suddenly bounded into view.

“Down!” I whispered. “Lie down!”

My two companions, who were walking in front, dropped to the ground. I did the same, in the hope of balancing my pack so as to be able to take aim. The deer meantime remained watching us with evident curiosity, and, in fact, before I got the rifle levelled, had begun to move at a quick pace, evidently with the intention of circling round us to get to windward. As we were but too well aware that a very short distance would give the wind and the alarm, I fired at once, and, though I thought I heard the bullet tell, the deer bounded away out of sight in a second. Tearing off my pack, I took up the chase. Over the next hill-side I saw the caribou going straight from me. I fired twice more, but neither of these shots got home. I was feeling positively sick with the idea that I had missed at such a critical moment of our journey when, as I was about to fire a last despairing bullet, the deer rolled over dead. We found later that the first bullet had cut the side of her heart, for the animal turned out to be a very large barren doe with fair-sized horns.

Soon Hardy and Porter joined me, in a very cheerful frame of mind at the prospect of a good supper. As the sun was still shining, though it was low in the west, I thought I would photograph the deer. Before I could get my camera ready—a matter of a few moments, as it was in the very mouth of my rucksack—the eyes of the deer were completely hidden from sight by crawling swarms of mosquitoes. (See illustration.)

Having gralloched our quarry, we took some of the meat to carry with us, and sank the remainder in the adjacent lake. Shortly after, enlivened by the usual orchestra of mosquitoes, we made a bivouac on the peak of a sandhill.

The doe’s horns I placed on a high rock, intending to carry them off if we chanced to return that way. As a matter of fact, Porter did come back to the very place, but the horns were gone. Tracks on the soft sand about the rock told the whole story. A she-wolf and her cubs had passed evidently on the trail of the migrating caribou. They had found and eaten all that was left of my deer, even the horns, which, as may be seen, were soft and in velvet. Immense numbers of wolves follow the herds, but are rarely to be seen by day. During all our journey only once did we catch a glimpse of one, when, from the top of a ridge I saw a wolf galloping along the valley below. He was in chase of something, but what it was I failed to discover. At night, of course, they move about freely, and almost every morning we came upon numerous tracks, freshly made, and always leading east or south in the direction of the travelling caribou.

[Illustration: The First Caribou.]

[Illustration: This photograph was taken immediately after shooting the Caribou.

(Note the mosquitoes which have settled in the eyes).]

As the lion’s roar to the African traveller so is the howl of the wolf to the solitary wayfarer on the Labrador, where, after sundown, as he sits by his lonely fire, he may listen to the sound, almost the saddest in Nature, of the prolonged and mournful howl of the wolves crying their hunger to the stars.

The shooting of the deer put us all in capital spirits, for not only did it provide us with an ample supply of fresh meat at the time—and how good the heart and kidneys tasted that night to our famishing appetites!—but it would enable us to eke out our scanty ration of flour so as to last longer; and besides, as I have said, it left us a most invaluable emergency supply of food to fall back upon on our return journey to the coast.

We now felt that, bar unforeseen accidents, we could reach the George. We need not, and we would not, turn our backs to the west until we had filled a kettle of tea from its waters.

The following day we made a very long and tiring march, for our packs, loaded with some of the meat of the deer, were heavier than they yet had been. The only incident of the march was that Hardy shot three ptarmigan with the ·22. During the day it rained in occasional but heavy showers, so that before we camped we were wet to the skin; and up there on the roof of Labrador, if a man gets wet, wet he must remain, or if he be cold he must take up his pack and run until he restores his circulation.

These are among the exigencies of travel over any bare and fireless land, and from time to time they bore hardly upon us, since for change of clothes we each carried only an extra garment or two. It is nothing to be wet all day if you can light a great fire in the evening and dry out, but we had no chance of any such good luck. The wind was our best friend. It dried us, it banished the flies, and, perhaps more important than all, it blew away the mists and clouds that in still weather hang thick across the plateau, blotting out all landmarks and making even travelling by compass a hard matter, for owing to the wide, stony tracts and the many lakes and ponds, sight is peculiarly necessary to the traveller over the great central plateau.

We knew now that we must be approaching the George, if our observations were at all correct, and we climbed to the summit of every ridge with hope and expectation. But ever ahead of us stretched more barrens and more ridges, with no encouraging sign that we were nearing our goal. We would occasionally be elated by finding water flowing west, but nothing can be deduced from the direction of such small rivulets as we came across, and each time our hopes were soon dashed by finding another stream flowing in the contrary direction.

[Illustration: The George River.]

[Illustration: The George at last.]

On August 18th we started the day with a self-denying ordinance, cutting down our ration of flour by a third, by way of precaution. After a rainy night it cleared, and four miles out from camp we again struck an outcrop of sandy esker ridges, such as had befriended our battered feet from time to time. Advancing along these, we could, as usual, find no wood with which to cook our lunch, when Porter espied upon a crag the deserted nest of an osprey. This he carried down wholesale, and, making a fire of it, we boiled the kettle and ate our ration.

We had, on the previous day, come upon slight indications which seemed to promise that we were at length leaving the stony wilderness behind. We had seen more of the dwarf birch among the rocks, though most of it was not above a foot or eighteen inches high and of small use for firewood. The effect of climate upon tree growth can be studied to good purpose in Labrador. For instance, there is a willow very common in most parts of the country which never exceeds the fraction of an inch in height, and for foliage bears but two or three tiny leaves.

Earlier in the day we had come upon pieces of dead spruce of fair size, but in small quantities, which would lead one to suppose that these slopes had once been forested. Below us, at the foot of the ridge, lay a lake, and after our meal we continued upon our way for a mile and a half, only to find that we had reached the end of a point of land, and that a strip of water several yards wide barred our advance. The ridge which we had taken for the south shore of this lake was, in fact, but a promontory thrust out into it. At first it seemed as though we should be forced to turn and walk back some miles of very bad going, right round the south shore of the lake, a spot so grim and bare that Porter said, “If, as they say, Labrador is the land God gave to Cain, this is where Cain must lie buried.” But none of us looked with a kindly eye upon the suggestion of retracing our steps, and ultimately, finding that the lake appeared not to be very deep, we decided to make the attempt to wade across it. We stripped and went down into the water with our clothes tied in bundles to our packs. Fortunately, owing to a high north-west wind, the flies were entirely absent throughout the day. Had they been with us, I shudder to imagine how they would have feasted upon our nakedness.

We were pretty well tired after wading the lake, and so climbed up the opposite rise at a very sober pace. It was low, and its crest promised nothing particularly interesting. But we had hardly topped it when we saw that from this ridge the land fell to a large valley. It was a truly welcome scene that we looked down upon. Half-way down the slope rose a little cluster of spruces, the advance guard of the woods, and beyond them trees gathered thickly in the hollows and upon the hill-sides. Below us shone a silvery gleam of birches, while farther on again lay a great water.

We hurried forward, anxious to make sure that we were not mistaken, but, though we trudged on till it grew dark, the water, which had at first sight seemed so near, still remained in the offing. At length it grew so late that we made up our minds to camp for the night. Hardly had we come to this decision when a stone rolled under my foot; I slipped, fell, and found myself on the ground most unresignedly nursing a strained ankle and tendon. I managed after a bit to hobble on to the camp, and that night we slept not knowing whether we were in truth close to the George River or not.

Next morning my ankle was too stiff and swollen for walking, so I proposed to cook our meal while Hardy and Porter went down to the valley to settle the great question. Hardy took my rifle with him, since we were again—and the more urgently in view of the delay my sprained ankle might bring about—in great need of meat.

Scarcely had Hardy and Porter disappeared, than over against me, on the other side of the torrent by which we had camped, a stag with very fair horns walked into view. He was over 400 yards from me, but in a place where he might easily have been stalked. After moving about for some time, quite unconscious of my presence, he passed away over the hill, and I turned my attention from watching him to my cooking. I also made a list of the provisions that still remained to us. The list was a very scanty one: a little flour, tea, and baking-powder, with about a pound of bacon, and a few pieces of the caribou meat killed at Doe camp.

After I had finished this all too brief task I had nothing left to do but to await the return of my companions. I confess the time seemed very long as I listened for their approach; my impatience was only natural, considering how much depended upon the report which they were bringing. Suppose the large body of water that we had sighted was not the George, but only some lake, round which we should have to walk?

When Hardy and Porter came at length, they brought the best of news. They had made their way to the shores of the water and found that it stretched north and south for miles, and was in places over a mile in width. This made it certain that we had reached that great widening of the George known as Indian House Lake. To add to our assurance, moreover, they had climbed upon an eminence, and from there had seen, set upon tongues of land which jut out from either shore into the water, the deserted lodges or tepees of the Nascaupees or Barren-ground Indians, for it is from these lodges that the lake takes its name.