It rained all night, and in the morning we were forced to get out ina cold, wet dawn. It was a grim start, dismal and portentous,bringing the realities of the trail very close to us. While I rustledthe horses out of the wet bush, partner stirred up a capitalbreakfast of bacon, evaporated potatoes, crystallized eggs, andgraham bread. He had discovered at last the exact amount of water touse in cooking these "vegetables," and they were very good. Thepotatoes tasted not unlike mashed potatoes, and together with theeggs made a very savory and wholesome dish. With a cup of strongcoffee and some hot graham gems we got off in very good spiritsindeed.
It continued muddy, wet, and cold. I walked most of the day, leadingmy horse, upon whom I had packed a part of the outfit to relieve theother horses. There was no fun in the day, only worry and trouble. Myfeet were wet, my joints stiff, and my brain weary of the monotonousblack, pine forest.
There is a great deal of work on the trail,--cooking, care of thehorses, together with almost ceaseless packing and unpacking, and thebother of keeping the packhorses out of the mud. We were busy fromfive o'clock in the morning until nine at night. There were otheroutfits on the trail having a full ton of supplies, and this greatweight had to be handled four times a day. In our case the toil wasmuch less, but it was only by snatching time from my partner that Iwas able to work on my notes and keep my diary. Had the land beenless empty of game and richer in color, I should not have minded thetoil and care taking. As it was, we were all looking forward to thebeautiful lake country which we were told lay just beyond theBlackwater.
One tremendous fact soon impressed me. There were no returningfootsteps on this trail. All toes pointed in one way, toward thegolden North. No man knew more than his neighbor the character of theland which lay before us.
The life of each outfit was practically the same. At about 4.30 inthe morning the campers awoke. The click-clack of axes began, andslender columns of pale blue smoke stole softly into the air. Thenfollowed the noisy rustling of the horses by those set aside for thatduty. By the time the horses were "cussed into camp," the coffee washot, and the bacon and beans ready to be eaten. A race in packingtook place to see who should pull out first. At about seven o'clockin the morning the outfits began to move. But here there was adifference of method. Most of them travelled for six or seven hourswithout unpacking, whereas our plan was to travel for four hours,rest from twelve to three, and pack up and travel four hours more.This difference in method resulted in our passing outfit after outfitwho were unable to make the same distances by their one march.
We went to bed with the robins and found it no hardship to rise withthe sparrows. As Burton got the fire going, I dressed and went out tosee if all the horses were in the bunch, and edged them along towardthe camp. I then packed up the goods, struck the tent and folded it,and had everything ready to sling on the horses by the time breakfastwas ready.
With my rifle under my knee, my rain coat rolled behind my saddle, mycamera dangling handily, my rope coiled and lashed, I called out,"Are we all set?"
"Oh, I guess so," Burton invariably replied.
With a last look at the camping ground to see that nothing of valuewas left, we called in exactly the same way each time, "Hike, boys,hike, hike." (Hy-ak: Chinook for "hurry up.") It was a fine thing,and it never failed to touch me, to see them fall in, one by one. The"Ewe-neck" just behind Ladrone, after him "Old Bill," and behind him,groaning and taking on as if in great pain, "Major Grunt," while atthe rear, with sharp outcry, came Burton riding the blue pony, whowas quite content, as we soon learned, to carry a man weighingseventy pounds more than his pack. He considered himself a saddlehorse, not a pack animal.
It was not an easy thing to keep a pack train like this running. Asthe horses became tired of the saddle, two of them were disposed torun off into the brush in an attempt to scrape their load from theirbacks. Others fell to feeding. Sometimes Bill would attempt to passthe bay in order to walk next Ladrone. Then they would _scrouge_against each other like a couple of country schoolboys, to see whoshould get ahead. It was necessary to watch the packs with worrysomecare to see that nothing came loose, to keep the cinches tight, andto be sure that none of the horses were being galled by theirburdens.
We travelled for the most part alone and generally in completesilence, for I was too far in advance to have any conversation withmy partner.
The trail continued wet, muddy, and full of slippery inclines, but wecamped on a beautiful spot on the edge of a marshy lake two or threemiles in length. As we threw up our tent and started our fire, Iheard two cranes bugling magnificently from across the marsh, andwith my field-glass I could see them striding along in the edge ofthe water. The sun was getting well toward the west. All around stoodthe dark and mysterious forest, out of which strange noises broke.
In answer to the bugling of the cranes, loons were wildly calling, aflock of geese, hidden somewhere under the level blaze of theorange-colored light of the setting sun, were holding clamorousconvention. This is one of the compensating moments of the trail. Tocome out of a gloomy and forbidding wood into an open and grassybank, to see the sun setting across the marsh behind the mostsplendid blue mountains, makes up for many weary hours of toil.
As I lay down to sleep I heard a coyote cry, and the loons answered,and out of the cold, clear night the splendid voices of the cranesrang triumphantly. The heavens were made as brass by their superb,defiant notes.
THE WHOOPING CRANE
At sunset from the shadowed sedge Of lonely lake, among the reeds, He lifts his brazen-throated call, And the listening cat with teeth at edge With famine hears and heeds.
"_Come one, come all, come all, come all!_" Is the bird's challenge bravely blown To every beast the woodlands own.
"_My legs are long, my wings are strong,_ _I wait the answer to my threat._" Echoing, fearless, triumphant, the cry Disperses through the world, and yet Only the clamorous, cloudless sky And the wooded mountains make reply.
THE LOON
At some far time This water sprite A brother of the coyote must have been. For when the sun is set, Forth from the failing light His harsh cries fret The silence of the night, And the hid wolf answers with a wailing keen.
CHAPTER VII
THE BLACKWATER DIVIDE
About noon the next day we suddenly descended to the Blackwater, aswift stream which had been newly bridged by those ahead of us. Inthis wild land streams were our only objective points; the mountainshad no names, and the monotony of the forest produced a singulareffect on our minds. Our journey at times seemed a sort of motionlessprogression. Once our tent was set and our baggage arranged about us,we lost all sense of having moved at all.
Immediately after leaving the Blackwater bridge we had a gratefultouch of an Indian trail. The telegraph route kept to the valleyflat, but an old trail turned to the right and climbed the north bankby an easy and graceful grade which it was a joy to follow. The topof the bench was wooded and grassy, and the smooth brown trail woundaway sinuous as a serpent under the splendid pine trees. For morethan three hours we strolled along this bank as distinguished asthose who occupy boxes at the theatre. Below us the Blackwater loopedaway under a sunny sky, and far beyond, enormous and unnamed, deepblue mountains rose, notching the western sky. The scene was soexceedingly rich and amiable we could hardly believe it to bewithout farms and villages, yet only an Indian hut or two gaveindication of human life.
After following this bank for a few miles, we turned to the right andbegan to climb the high divide which lies between the Blackwater andthe Muddy, both of which are upper waters of the Fraser. Like all thehigh country through which we had passed this ridge was covered witha monotonous forest of small black pines, with very little bird oranimal life of any kind. By contrast the valley of the Blackwatershone in our memory like a jewel.
After a hard drive we camped beside a small creek, together withseveral other outfits. O
ne of them belonged to a doctor from theChilcoten country. He was one of those Englishmen who are naturalplainsmen. He was always calm, cheerful, and self-contained. He tookall worry and danger as a matter of course, and did not attempt tocarry the customs of a London hotel into the camp. When an Englishmanhas this temper, he makes one of the best campaigners in the world.
As I came to meet the other men on the trail, I found that somepeculiar circumstance had led to their choice of route. The doctorhad a ranch in the valley of the Fraser. One of "the Manchester boys"had a cousin near Soda Creek. "Siwash Charley" wished to prospect onthe head-waters of the Skeena; and so in almost every case somespecial excuse was given. When the truth was known, the love ofadventure had led all of us to take the telegraph route. Most of theminers argued that they could make their entrance by horse ascheaply, if not as quickly, as by boat. For the most part they wereyoung, hardy, and temperate young men of the middle condition ofAmerican life.
One of the Manchester men had been a farmer in Connecticut, anattendant in an insane asylum in Massachusetts, and an engineer. Hewas fat when he started, and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds.By the time we had overtaken him his trousers had begun to flaparound him. He was known as "Big Bill." His companion, Frank, was asinewy little fellow with no extra flesh at all,--an alert, cheery,and vociferous boy, who made noise enough to scare all the game outof the valley. Neither of these men had ever saddled a horse beforereaching the Chilcoten, but they developed at once into skilfulpackers and rugged trailers, though they still exposed themselvesunnecessarily in order to show that they were not "tenderfeet."
"Siwash Charley" was a Montana miner who spoke Chinook fluently, andswore in splendid rhythms on occasion. He was small, alert, seasonedto the trail, and capable of any hardship. "The Man from Chihuahua"was so called because he had been prospecting in Mexico. He had thebest packhorses on the trail, and cared for them like a mother. Hewas small, weazened, hardy as oak, inured to every hardship, and verywise in all things. He had led his fine little train of horses fromChihuahua to Seattle, thence to the Thompson River, joining us atQuesnelle. He was the typical trailer. He spoke in the Missourifashion, though he was a born Californian. His partner was a quietlittle man from Snohomish flats, in Washington. These outfits weretypical of scores of others, and it will be seen that they were forthe most part Americans, the group of Germans from New York City andthe English doctor being the exceptions.
There was little talk among us. We were not merely going a journey,but going as rapidly as was prudent, and there was close attention tobusiness. There was something morbidly persistent in the action ofthese trains. They pushed on resolutely, grimly, like blind wormsfollowing some directing force from within. This peculiarity ofaction became more noticeable day by day. We were not on the trail,after all, to hunt, or fish, or skylark. We had set our eyes on adistant place, and toward it our feet moved, even in sleep.
The Muddy River, which we reached late in the afternoon, was silentas oil and very deep, while the banks, muddy and abrupt, made it ahard stream to cross.
As we stood considering the problem, a couple of Indians appeared onthe opposite bank with a small raft, and we struck a bargain withthem to ferry our outfit. They set us across in short order, but ourhorses were forced to swim. They were very much alarmed and shiveredwith excitement (this being the first stream that called forswimming), but they crossed in fine style, Ladrone leading, his neckcurving, his nostrils wide-blown. We were forced to camp in the mudof the river bank, and the gray clouds flying overhead made the landexceedingly dismal. The night closed in wet and cheerless.
The two Indians stopped to supper with us and ate heartily. I seizedthe opportunity to talk with them, and secured from them the tragicstory of the death of the Blackwater Indians. "Siwash, he die hy-u(great many). Hy-u die, chilens, klootchmans (women), all die. Whiteman no help. No send doctor. Siwash all die, white man no care bellymuch."
In this simple account of the wiping out of a village of harmlesspeople by "the white man's disease" (small-pox), unaided by the whiteman's wonderful skill, there lies one of the great tragedies ofsavage life. Very few were left on the Blackwater or on the Muddy,though a considerable village had once made the valley cheerful withits primitive pursuits.
They were profoundly impressed by our tent and gun, and sat on theirhaunches clicking their tongues again and again in admiration, sayingof the tent, "All the same lilly (little) house." I tried to tellthem of the great world to the south, and asked them a great manyquestions to discover how much they knew of the people or themountains. They knew nothing of the plains Indians, but one of themhad heard of Vancouver and Seattle. They had not the dignity andthinking power of the plains people, but they seemed amiable andrather jovial.
We passed next day two adventurers tramping their way to Hazleton.Each man carried a roll of cheap quilts, a skillet, and a cup. Wecame upon them as they were taking off their shoes and stockings towade through a swift little river, and I realized with a sudden pangof sympathetic pain, how distressing these streams must be to such asgo afoot, whereas I, on my fine horse, had considered them entirelyfrom an aesthetic point of view.
We had been on the road from Quesnelle a week, and had made nearlyone hundred miles, jogging along some fifteen miles each day,camping, eating, sleeping, with nothing to excite us--indeed, thetrail was quiet as a country lane. A dead horse here and there warnedus to be careful how we pushed our own burden-bearers. We were deepin the forest, with the pale blue sky filled with clouds showing onlyin patches overhead. We passed successively from one swamp of blackpine to another, over ridges covered with white pine, all preciselyalike. As soon as our camp was set and fires lighted, we lost allsense of having travelled, so similar were the surroundings of eachcamp.
Partridges could be heard drumming in the lowlands. Mosquitoes weredeveloping by the millions, and cooking had become almost impossiblewithout protection. The "varments" came in relays. A small grayvariety took hold of us while it was warm, and when it became toocold for them, the big, black, "sticky" fellows appearedmysteriously, and hung around in the air uttering deep, bass noteslike lazy flies. The little gray fellows were singularly ferociousand insistent in their attentions.
At last, as we were winding down the trail beneath the pines, we camesuddenly upon an Indian with a gun in the hollow of his arm. Sostill, so shadowy, so neutral in color was he, that at first sight heseemed a part of the forest, like the shaded hole of a tree. Heturned out to be a "runner," so to speak, for the ferrymen atTchincut Crossing, and led us down to the outlet of the lake where agroup of natives with their slim canoes sat waiting to set us over.An hour's brisk work and we rose to the fine grassy eastern slopeoverlooking the lake.
We rose on our stirrups with shouts of joy. We had reached the landof our dreams! Here was the trailers' heaven! Wooded promontories,around which the wavelets sparkled, pushed out into the deep, clearflood. Great mountains rose in the background, lonely, untouched byman's all-desolating hand, while all about us lay suave slopesclothed with most beautiful pea-vine, just beginning to ripple in thewind, and beyond lay level meadows lit by little ponds filled withwildfowl. There was just forest enough to lend mystery to thesemeadows, and to shut from our eager gaze the beauties of other andstill more entrancing glades. The most exacting hunter or trailercould not desire more perfect conditions for camping. It was God'sown country after the gloomy monotony of the barren pine forest, andneeded only a passing deer or a band of elk to be a poem as well as apicture.
All day we skirted this glorious lake, and at night we camped on itsshores. The horses were as happy as their masters, feeding in plentyon sweet herbage for the first time in long days.
Late in the day we passed the largest Indian village we had yet seen.It was situated on Stony Creek, which came from Tatchick Lake andemptied into Tchincut Lake. The shallows flickered with the passingof trout, and the natives were busy catching and drying them. As werode amid the curing sheds, the children raised a loud clamo
r, andthe women laughed and called from house to house, "Oh, see the whitemen!" We were a circus parade to them.
Their opportunities for earning money are scant, and they live upon avery monotonous diet of fish and possibly dried venison and berries.Except at favorable points like Stony Creek, where a small streamleads from one lake to another, there are no villages because thereare no fish.
I shall not soon forget the shining vistas through which we rode thatday, nor the meadows which possessed all the allurement and mysterywhich the word "savanna" has always had with me. It was like goingback to the prairies of Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa, as they weresixty years ago, except in this case the elk and the deer wereabsent.
YET STILL WE RODE
We wallowed deep in mud and sand; We swam swift streams that roared in wrath; They stood at guard in that lone land, Like dragons in the slender path.
Yet still we rode right on and on, And shook our clenched hands at the sky. We dared the frost at early dawn, And the dread tempest sweeping by.
It was not all so dark. Now and again The robin, singing loud and long, Made wildness tame, and lit the rain With sudden sunshine with his song.
Wild roses filled the air with grace, The shooting-star swung like a bell From bended stem, and all the place Was like to heaven after hell.
The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse Page 4
