Part 16 (1/2)
”Sure enough, the morning dawned with a wind and we got away after the regular sullen grumbling. About 10.20 the usual gla.s.sy calm set in and Weeso asked me for a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote something in Chipewyan on the sheet I gave, then returned the pencil and resumed his pilotic stare at the horizon, for his post was at the rudder. At length he rolled the paper into a ball, and when I seemed not observing dropped it behind him overboard.
”'What is the meaning of that, Billy?' I whispered.
”'He's sending a prayer to Jesus for wind.' Half an hour afterward a strong head-wind sprang up, and Weeso was severely criticised for not specifying clearly what was wanted.
”There could be no question now about the propriety of landing.
Old Weeso took all the Indians off to a rock, where, bareheaded and in line, they kneeled facing the east, and for half an hour he led them in prayer, making often the sign of the cross. The headwind died away as they came to the boat and again we resumed the weary rowing, a labour which all were supposed to share, but it did not need an expert to see that Beaulieu, Snuff, and Terchon merely dipped their oars and let them drift a while; the real rowing of that c.u.mbrous old failure of a sailboat was done by Billy Lout.i.t and Yum Freesay.”
CHAPTER XXV
CROSSING THE LAKE--ITS NATURAL HISTORY
All day long here, as on the Nyarling, I busied myself with compa.s.s and sketch-book, making the field notes, sketches, and compa.s.s surveys from which my various maps were compiled; and Preble let no chance go by of noting the changing bird and plant life that told us we quit the Canadian fauna at Stony Island and now were in the Hudsonian zone.
This is the belt of dwindling trees, the last or northmost zone of the forest, and the spruce trees showed everywhere that they were living a life-long battle, growing and seeding, but dwarfed by frost and hards.h.i.+ps. But sweet are the uses of adversity, and the stunted sprucelings were beautified, not uglified, by their troubles.
I never before realised that a whole country could be such a series of charming little j.a.panese gardens, with tiny trees, tiny flowers, tiny fruits, and gorgeous oriental rugs upon the earth and rocks between.
I photographed one group of trees to ill.u.s.trate their dainty elfish dwarfishness, but realising that no one could guess the height without a scale, I took a second of the same with a small Indian sitting next it.
Weeso is a kind old soul; so far as I could see he took no part in the various seditions, but he was not an inspiring guide. One afternoon he did something that made a final wreck of my confidence.
A thunderstorm was rumbling in the far east. Black clouds began travelling toward us; with a line of dark and troubled waters below, the faint breeze changed around and became a squall. Weeso looked scared and beckoned to Freesay, who came and took the helm. Nothing happened.
We were now running along the north sh.o.r.e of Et-then, where are to be seen the wonderful 1,200-foot cliffs described and figured by Captain George Back in 1834. They are glorious ramparts, wonderful in size and in colour, marvellous in their geological display.
Flying, and evidently nesting among the dizzy towers, were a few Barn-swallows and Phoebe-birds.
This cliff is repeated on Oot-sing-gree-ay, the next island, but there it is not on the water's edge. It gives a wonderful echo which the Indians (not to mention myself) played with, in childish fas.h.i.+on.
On Sunday, 21 July, we made a new record, 6 meals and 20 miles.
On July 22 we made only 7 meals and 11 miles and camped in the narrows Tal-thel-lay. These are a quarter of a mile wide and have a strong current running westerly. This is the place which Back says is a famous fis.h.i.+ng ground and never freezes over, even in the hardest winters. Here, as at all points, I noted the Indian names, not only because they were appropriate, but in hopes of serving the next traveller. I found an unexpected difficulty in writing them down, viz.: no matter how I p.r.o.nounced them, old Weeso and Freesay, my informants, would say, ”Yes, that is right.” This, I learned, was out of politeness; no matter how you misp.r.o.nounce their words it is good form to say, ”That's it; now you have it exactly.”
The Indians were anxious to put out a net overnight here, as they could count on getting a few Whitefish; so we camped at 5.15. It is difficult to convey to an outsider the charm of the word ”whitefish.”
Any northerner will tell you that it is the only fish that is perfect human food, the only food that man or dog never wearies of, the only lake food that conveys no disorder no matter how long or freely it is used. It is so delicious and nouris.h.i.+ng that there is no fish in the world that can even come second to it. It is as far superior in all food qualities to the finest Salmon or Trout as a first-prize, gold-medalled, nut-fed thoroughbred Suss.e.x bacon-hog is to the roughest, toughest, boniest old razor-backed land-pike that ever ranged the woods of Arkansas.
That night the net yielded 3 Whitefish and 3 Trout. The latter, being 4 to 8 pounds each, would have been reckoned great prizes in any other country, but now all attention was on the Whitefish.
They certainly were radiantly white, celestial in color; their backs were a dull frosted silver, with here and there a small electric lamp behind the scales to make its jewels sparkle. The lamps alternated with opals increased on the side; the bellies were of a blazing mother-of-pearl. It would be hard to imagine a less imaginative name than ”white” fish for such a s.h.i.+ning, burning opalescence. Indian names are usually descriptive, but their name for this is simply ”The Fish.” All others are mere dilutes and cheap imitations, but the Coregonus is at all times and par excellence ”The Fish.”
Nevertheless, in looking at it I could not help feeling that this is the fat swine, or the beef Durham of its kind. The head, gills, fins, tail, vital organs and bones all were reduced to a minimum and the meat parts enlarged and solidified, as though they were the product of ages of careful breeding by man to produce a perfect food fish, a breeding that has been crowned with the crown of absolute success.
The Indians know, for the best of reasons, the just value of every native food. When Rabbits abound they live on them but do not prosper; they call it ”starving on rabbits.” When Caribou meat is plenty they eat it, but crave flour. When Moose is at hand they eat it, and are strong. When Jack-fish, Sucker, Conies, and Trout are there, they take them as a variant; but on Whitefish, as on Moose, they can live with out loathing, and be strong. The Indian who has his scaffold hung with Whitefish when winter comes, is accounted rich.
”And what,” says the pessimist, ”is the fly in all this precious ointment?” Alasl It is not a game fish; it will not take bait, spoon, or fly, and its finest properties vanish in a few hours after capture.
The Whitefish served in the marble palaces of other lands is as mere dish-water to champagne, when compared with the three times purified and ten times intensified dazzling silver Coregonus as it is landed on the bleak sh.o.r.es of those far-away icy lakes. So I could not say 'No' to the Indian boys when they wanted to wait here, the last point at which they could be sure of a catch.