CHAPTER IX.

AT INDIAN HOUSE LAKE.

The hollow of the valley, which is filled with that great widening of the George called Indian House Lake, is a mile in width and about twenty in length. On either side of the river rise high rolling ridges, dotted with spruce, willow, and juniper, which grow freely among immense boulders and masses of rock. The whole of the land surface is seamed with the old trails of caribou that have pursued their age-long wanderings in this desolate region.

Tradition gives this place as the spot where, in 1894, an Indian killed the last recorded specimen of the red or barren-ground bear. The whole country is covered with the bones of deer; another noticeable fact is that rarely could one look round the sky without seeing flocks of ravens in the air. The croak of the raven, the cry of the loon, and the howl of the wolf are certainly the three characteristic sounds of the interior of Labrador.

Concerning wolves, I was much interested in trying to discover whether these animals (which, though seldom seen by daylight, are, as I have said, very numerous in Labrador) chase or attack the lonely traveller or hunter, a pastime that, according to report and the illustrated papers, their cousins of Europe undoubtedly indulge in. Who cannot recall a picture of a flying droshki and its bearded driver, with the passenger shooting a revolver over the crook of his arm at the pursuing wolf-pack?

But on the Labrador—near the settlements, at any rate—the wolf bears a fairly good character in this respect. The only instance that I know of, when wolves attacked a man, I have on the authority of Bishop Martin of Nain. A settler had killed some seals on the edge of the ice, and returned to his home. Later on he went back to bring in the carcases, taking with him only a spade, as the place was not far from the station.

While he was engaged in shovelling off the snow which had collected on the bodies of the seals, four wolves came down upon him in a threatening manner. He was rather helpless, having no gun with him, but he defended himself by cutting at the neck of one of the animals with his spade. Then, keeping his face towards them, he held them off with the spade as he retreated in the direction of the shore and the settlement, which he reached without mishap. The fact that they meant to attack seems to be proved by their following him for some distance.

More than ever as I sat beside the camp-fire on the day after our long-desired arrival at the George River, did I regret the unfortunate accident to my ankle. The muscles near the tendon had been badly strained, and I found myself unable to do more than hobble about. Any attempt to travel over the rocky ranges and through the treacherous valleys, choked with boulders and moss, appeared to be absolutely out of the question. Complete rest was my only hope. Yet, although this presented a very pleasant prospect to my weary limbs as well as to my ankle, the outlook was not so bright as it might have been, owing to the fact that we were in the centre of a sterile country, with but four days’ provisions on short rations remaining to us.

[Illustration: Where the Nascaupees clean deerskins.]

[Illustration: Indian House Lake.]

In the morning, it is true, Hardy and Porter had found and fired at a herd of fourteen deer, but these lost no time in leaving the locality, for their forms were later seen by all of us against the skyline of the mighty ridge above Slippery Brook—as we named the torrent by which we were camped. Having passed to windward of us, we knew only too well that the deer would put many a league of safety between ourselves and them, and would follow the herds which had already passed away on their migration. After lunch, my companions again left the camp, Porter to gather wood, and Hardy—having been requested, in the words of the old squaw Nokomis,

“Go, my son, into the forest, Kill for us a deer with antlers”—

had started away into the vast medley of trees, boulders, and marshes that hemmed us in on the north. In order to try and do something towards the general support, I picked up the rod and began to fish the torrent which roared within twenty yards of the camp. On the previous night Hardy had taken six trout from this quick water, but when he sallied out among the mosquitoes at dawn he had failed to get a single rise. I was luckier, as after a few minutes’ fishing I saw a good-sized trout rise, and before the numerous mosquitoes drove me to bury my face in a “smudge” (the smoke of a fire of damp moss and leaves) I had caught him and three of his fellows. After this, though I tried both fly and spoon, I could catch no more. Just as I returned from fishing I heard the report of a rifle, and an hour later Hardy came into camp with the greater part of the meat of a very small caribou.

Soon—very soon—the kidneys, heart and liver were sizzling in the frying pan, with three thin concomitant slices of our now most precious bacon. As we had been a month on rations, and the latter part of it on very short commons—having, indeed, had but two full meals since leaving Sandy Camp, and those on the occasion when I had killed the deer—we did full justice to the meat, and the pan was emptied more than once before pipes were pulled out, filled, and lighted. Then we held a council.

It was finally decided that Robert Porter should go back over the trail to bring up a relay of provisions while Hardy and I remained in the camp, where we were to dry the meat of the caribou. But though we tried to carry out this programme we were not very successful as regards one portion of it, for it was necessary that Porter should have a rest before he started; consequently, by the third day, very little was left of Hardy’s deer, which, as I have said, was a small one. We were, moreover, helped in disposing of the meat by foxes and ravens, which found and took toll of the carcass on the night after it was killed and before Hardy could reach it the next morning with his packing-strap. The scanty amount that remained over we dried in a rough and ready fashion upon the flat rocks by the river, but if we left the meat for a single instant or ceased waving branches of leafy birch above it, every piece became black with blow-flies, black-flies, and mosquitoes. While engaged in this pleasant occupation, we for the first time really understood how and why it is not good for man to live alone—especially in the Arctic and sub-Arctic.

[Illustration: Slippery Brook.]

[Illustration: Camp beside Slippery Brook.]

In civilization it is said that a wife does not always add to her husband’s ease or render his life more supportable, but up on the Barren-grounds the worst of wives would be better than none. For on the Labrador, to care for the meat and scare away the flies would certainly be included in the list of a woman’s duties.

There, among the heathen tribes, if a man’s wife dies—provided he be not a polygamist, in which case there is less need for hurry—he often marries again within the week, and even the Christian Eskimo widowers are with difficulty persuaded by the Moravian missionaries to allow six weeks to intervene between the death of a first wife and a second wedding.

Certain it is that on the very day when the six weeks have elapsed the hunter presents himself at the Mission House with a new bride, and asks that the marriage service may be speedily read.

But to return to the process of meat-drying, which led to this digression. We dried some pounds, and would have dried more had it not been that some animal, probably a fox, raided our larder during the night. We imagined that we had placed it in safety by sinking it in the water of the torrent, but when we awoke on the morning of the 21st a great part of it was gone, and as we had practically no flour or other provision left, the loss was a serious one. A great piece of good fortune, however, followed close upon it, for on the same evening, while I was sitting talking to Hardy by the fire as the sun was beginning to sink, a caribou suddenly appeared on the other side of the torrent. Seizing my rifle, I had time to get in a shot just before the deer crossed our wind. It turned out to be a doe, with horns of thirteen points, and soon we had her carcass cleaned and sunk in a deep pool far beyond the reach of even the most cunning of foxes.

The next morning Porter got away early, and Hardy and I were left to draw our belts tight and yet tighter, for we decided that it would be only common prudence to keep the meat of the last deer as a precaution against unforeseen eventualities. In the wilderness only a very thin partition exists between safety and danger, and it has been in consequence of ignoring this fact until it was too late that many have perished.

Day by day the swelling of my ankle was subsiding; the weather was good and everything favourable, though the lack of all farinaceous food affected us considerably at first.

During Porter’s absence, Hardy and I spent most of our time in fishing and hunting. There were very few trout in Slippery Brook, and without a canoe it was difficult to fish Indian House Lake; but Hardy succeeded in taking two fine _namaycush_. These, rather to our surprise, rose in the fast water of the torrent.

Some two miles to the north of our camp we came across an interesting geological phenomenon, which was repeated elsewhere along the valley of the George, though in less marked a manner. This was a beach of clear gravel, elevated at a height of 700 feet (by aneroid) above the present level of the lake. The lake from which the George descends northwards towards Ungava Bay in that succession of terrific rapids and falls so graphically described by Mrs. Hubbard, is itself a very considerable height above sea level. This could not therefore be an example of one of those raised beaches that are so plentiful along the Labrador coast. Hardy suggested that the explanation of the curious phenomenon might be the same as that given for the existence of somewhat similar formations in Scotland, which are known as “The Parallel Roads of Glenroy.”

[Illustration: Hungry Days at Slippery Brook.]

[Illustration: Tracks of Migrating Caribou.]

The theory is that in the past a glacier flowing westward along the line of the esker ridges, which were a marked feature of our route, fell into the George Valley and temporarily dammed up the waters of the lake to the height of the gravel beach, that was left far up on the hill-side when the flood at length receded. At any rate, whatever cause brought about the formation of the raised beaches on the George, the fact of their existence is here mentioned as it may be of interest to those concerned with the geology of Labrador.

At length Porter returned, bringing with him a pack of a few pounds of flour and bacon. He had gone and come at the rate of twenty-five miles a day—a fine performance over such a country. We were at this time very thin, and more than a little run-down, and therefore decided that we had better indulge in a couple of days of full rations, even though that might mean real hunger later. I have always been strongly of the opinion that men working hard _for a long period_ can overdo the ration-cutting business, and that the party who start strong and live upon what the Red Gods send can win out better than the party who never have a full meal, and eke out a small supply of provisions over endless days. But the party that eats its food must be composed of men used to every aspect of the wilderness life, and must be _certain_ of a minimum game supply. It is a very good rule—I know of none better—to estimate the amount of fish and game one expects to secure and then divide the expectation by four. If the answer to that sum is enough to take the party to safety, well and good; if not, it is common sense to be very careful of the food in hand.

Hardly had Porter arrived—certainly he had not been in camp above two hours—when a tremendous storm began to blow from the south-east. It clean blew away our fire, though protected by a break-wind of boulders, and as it brought one or two trees near by crashing to the ground, we thought it wiser to cut down those which overhung the camp. Had this gale—one might in other latitudes call it a tornado—caught Porter upon the bare and shelterless plateau he would have had a miserable, if memorable experience.

All night long the wind howled and roared, banishing sleep; then, shortly before dawn, it shifted and partially carried away our lean-to. We rose and changed the position of our camp until it was once more back to wind—a bleak business.

On August 29th we broke the camp by Slippery Brook, which we had occupied since the 18th, and set out for the southern end of Indian House Lake. My ankle, though stiff and apt to swell after a long day, did not retard our speed very much.

All the morning we travelled over the ridges, and it was late in the afternoon before we reached the level of the lake at a point about a dozen miles south of our camp. Skirting the shore we found each promontory set with the remains of the deserted Indian camps from which this reach of the river takes its name, for it is here that the tribe of Nascaupee Indians make their annual killing of the deer, which, in migration, cross the narrows of the lake in immense herds. Their course is not always the same—if it were, the problem of existence would be easily solved by the Indian—for in some seasons the migration passes elsewhere, along some other and perhaps distant route.

As it grew dark we came to an Indian camp which had only recently been deserted. All about it were scattered the bones and hair of deer, which, from appearances, seemed to have been killed a month or so previously. The Indians had departed, it being the season when they make their summer journey to the coast.

It was with great interest that we examined the deserted camp and the various devices for dressing skins, and while Hardy and I were doing this Porter went on over a hill to prospect. As he crossed the brow of the ridge an eagle rose suddenly, and, going to the place, he found that it had killed and partly eaten a young black fox. The month being August, of course the skin was worthless, but, had it been December, the skin of this fox, small as it was, would have been worth some hundreds of dollars. Poor Porter!

When Porter returned it was growing late, and we went up from the deserted Indian camp into the twilight of the woods, where, as it was bitterly cold, we made a large fire, by the light of which we set up our camp.

Later, we took stock of our provisions, and it was almost a shock to discover the diminished amount our hunger had left to us. There was a single full meal of caribou venison, with two or three small pieces, which we meant to keep over. This shortage did not prevent our enjoying a fair supper of meat and flour, as that night was the last we should spend in the timber, for, owing to the provisions being at so low an ebb, we had determined to set out in the morning upon the march back to the coast. Therefore, the next dinner time would find us once more upon the bare plateau, where we could hope for no fuel more adequate than the leaves and stems of the dwarf birch. So the motto was _carpe diem_, which we fully carried out, and afterwards sat long by the camp-fire smoking and discussing the journey that lay before us.

Before very long, however, the talk, as usual, veered round to the all-important topic of food. How well one knows those conversations of hungry men! Lead the talk where you will, back it turns, like a magnet to the Pole, to the various dishes one would order were one in such-and-such a restaurant. Nearly all one’s desires are towards plenty of fat, plenty of sweet, and plenty of rather heavy, solid bread: true hunger abhors kickshaws and seasonings! Fat mutton, strawberry jam, bread and baked potatoes—that is the meal which tempts a man when he is really hungry!

From time to time I have known hunger, and, as a matter of personal experience, I have found that the desire of eating reaches its height before one begins to starve. Starvation, indeed, like other disagreeable things, is painful, and it is impossible to feel as hungry when one is suffering spasms of pain and emptiness as in the earlier stages, when the only feeling is the intense craving for food.

On this night, however, after the first comfort of our dinner had passed off, we were just in the mood to discuss what we would eat an we had it. It was late when at last we rolled ourselves in our blankets and turned in.