He told Luton that he had come north twelve years before from the District of Saskatchewan when some terrible battle with the English had driven his kind from their lands. Luton was stern in his questioning of Michael as to which Englishmen he had fought, and was greatly relieved when he understood that by ‘English’ the man had merely meant Canadian troops. Michael said that Luton was the first nobleman he had ever met, and in awe of Evelyn’s rank he called him ‘Duke.’ Then he spoke proudly of the noble blood in his own veins, the Indian blood, calling it the important half of his twin heritage. When the three white Canadians suggested that George Michael hurry back to the Gravel to assure the Englishmen that Lord Luton had arrived safely, he was delighted with the prospect of serving a duke and was disappointed when Luton said firmly: ‘No need. They’re all solid chaps. They’ll know in proper time I made it. I’m sure they expected me to.’
Then, with the aid of his hosts, he launched his advanced interrogations regarding the tangled rivers he would soon be attacking, and after listening to them only briefly he said: ‘I think I’ve found the four men in all Canada best qualified to advise me.’
‘First of all, Lord Luton …’
‘Please call me Evelyn, since we’re to be working at this for some spell.’
‘You’re not in a bad position where your camp is now, at the confluence of the Gravel. You’re aware, I’m sure, that when the thaw comes, you can head up the Gravel and portage to the Stewart. Then all’s fair and a soft run home.’
‘I had rather fancied the route just beyond the Arctic Circle.’
The men were not displeased by this rejection of their advice, for his preference brought him into the territory they knew best, but when they were alone one old-timer with the Company asked: ‘Do you think he knows what he’s doing?’ and another said: ‘No Englishman ever does,’ but the third man cautioned: ‘This one may be different, he’s a proper lord.’ The second pointed out: ‘Lords are worst of all,’ but when the third man reminded them: ‘This one did walk near fifty miles right down our river,’ they all agreed that he merited consideration.
In preparation for their next meeting with Luton they drafted a set of maps for him, marking with a heavy line the route that two of them had used in getting from Fort Norman over the crest of the Rockies and down into the important American trading station at Fort Yukon, within easy striking distance of the gold fields. And the men combined to drill into him, thrice over, the important decision points.
‘My lord, there’ll be markers to help you leave the Mackenzie and find your way into the Peel. That’s crucial. Everything depends on your getting out of this river and into the smaller system to the west.’
Another man broke in: ‘Crucial, yes, but the next turn is the one that counts. Many miss it, to their woe. You’ll find the Rat River on your right, not big but the secret to success. Because it’s there you saw your boat in half, and the vital push begins. Up to the headwaters of the Rat, a short portage over the divide, and you’re in the Bell. And then,’ the speaker’s voice relaxed, ‘you’re in a straight run home.’
‘To where?’ Luton asked, and when the man said: ‘The Porcupine, which takes you straight into Fort Yukon, good water all the way.’
‘Oh, no,’ Luton said, drawing himself away from his ardent instructors. ‘I’d really not care to reach my goal through American territory.’
This caused some consternation, two of the men judging such a restriction to be childish, the other two agreeing that it was sensible for a patriotic Englishman to want to keep his money and loyalty within the Empire, but it was George Michael alone who saw the solution to this impasse: ‘Duke, the Porcupine she is no problem. Turn right, you go into America. Turn left you stay in Canada, all way to Dawson.’
Now the others became enthusiastic, applauding Michael’s sensible statement: ‘And what’s better, halfway to Dawson there’s a kind of village, two, three cabins where trappers lay over in storms. Always food there.’ The men agreed with unanimous encouragement that their noble guest should follow that intricate but relatively easy Canadian route to the gold fields.
They were surprised, therefore, when Luton pushed aside their hand-drawn maps and turned to one large one published by the government: ‘I had rather thought we’d stay with the Peel. You can see its headwaters will bring us very close to Dawson.’
This arrogant dismissal of their reasoned advice, and the proposal of a route completely contrary to what they had been advising, caused a hush, but then one of the Canadians inspected the map closely and said dryly: ‘What I see is that you’d be heading into one of the highest passes in this part of the Rockies,’ and another seasoned traveler warned: ‘That would be foolhardy, sir.’ Even George Michael agreed: ‘Duke, I travel on the Peel one time with the current helpin’ me. Very swift. Hills each side river, they are close, close. To go your way, against current, those tight spots, they will cause you much trouble, you bet.’
It was obvious that their arguments against staying with the Peel had not dissuaded him, and it was also clear that as a member of the nobility and leader of his expedition, he did not care to prolong the argument. The Fort Norman men saw that he had made up his mind and they knew that extreme hardship and perhaps tragedy would ensue, but that would be his problem, not theirs.
But when Luton was away working on his notes, one of the three French Canadians asked: ‘What makes Englishmen so stubborn … so blind to facts,’ and the oldest man, who had tangled with them many times in various parts of Canada, said: ‘Maybe that’s what makes ’em Englishmen. They’re born to do things their way,’ and the other one admitted grudgingly: ‘Maybe he’s right. We know we can go Rat-Bell route. Maybe he’ll find a better way startin’ with the Peel,’ and the experienced man warned: ‘In a game, never bet against an Englishman,’ and the third one said: ‘But this isn’t a game,’ and the oldest said: ‘For them it is. Else why would he walk down the Mackenzie in coldest winter? To prove he could do it. He’ll go up the Peel just to prove we were wrong,’ and they burst into laughter.
Apart from those differences of opinion regarding routes, the six-day visit had been a respite, appreciated by everyone, and the Canadians were regretful when Luton said: ‘Tomorrow I must head back and get our team prepared for the thaw.’
They asked if he had any conception of what happened to a frozen river when the ice broke up, and he replied: ‘I’ve heard it can be somewhat daunting.’
‘Unbelievable,’ they said, ‘and on this river, the worst of all.’ Taking him to their front porch atop the rise, they explained a peculiarity of the Mackenzie: ‘It runs from mountains in the south to very flat land in the north. When the sun starts back in March, it melts the headwater ice first and starts those waters flowing. Then it melts the high plateaus, setting free whole lakes of water, and every warming day it releases more and more water far to the south, while our part of the river up here in the north remains frozen tight. And what happens?’ the men asked, looking to see if Luton had understood.
‘Stands to reason, the waters flood in under the ice and dislodge it.’
‘Dislodge is not the word. It explodes the ice from below. It throws it about like leaves in a storm. Chunks bigger than you could ever imagine are thrown up as if they weighed no more than sheaves of straw. Believe me, sir, stand well back when the Mackenzie breaks its bonds. But it is a sight no man should miss.’
Next morning when he proposed to start his fifty-mile journey back to the Gravel, he was surprised to find that the Hudson’s Bay men were united in insisting that George Michael accompany him: ‘Common sense dictates it. As head of your expedition you dare not risk an accident.’
‘I made my way here. I can certainly …’ When they refused to alter their plan, he asked: ‘But how’s he to get back?’ and the Métis said with a big smile: ‘No trouble. I will walk,’ and Luton thought: To give me comfort he’ll walk near a hundred miles. With great reluctance he allowed George Michael to acco
mpany him.
As the two men climbed down the wooden stairway to where the frozen river waited, the Canadians gave them three cheers and fired volleys in the air. Lord Luton turned and raised his hand in salute to them and their flag, a heroic outpost in this frozen wilderness.
It was providential that George Michael accompanied Luton back to the Gravel, for as soon as they arrived at the tent-cabin he cried: ‘Oh, Duke! You ’ave made terrible mistake!” In the dim light of day he ran about identifying scars on rocks and trees, and pointing in dismay toward the Gravel, the Mackenzie and the cabin.
Seeing his agitation and having had proof of George Michael’s good sense, Luton stopped the man’s running about and asked: ‘What is it, Michael?’ and the Métis replied, with fear clouding his face: ‘You are in great danger, Duke. When thaw comes, ice here in Gravel and ice out there in Mackenzie, she will crash, sweep everything away.’ Then he kicked at the upturned Sweet Afton and with wild gestures indicated huge blocks of ice coming down the Gravel and battering the Sweet Afton and the cabin into small kindling: ‘Then what you do? No boat? No cabin? What in hell you goin’ do?’
He would not delay even half a day, for the safety of this expedition led by a man he had grown to like and respect was of vital importance to him, and from long experience he knew that in these parts the preservation of the boat was paramount. Showing the men how to construct rollers from driftwood tree trunks, he marshaled all the ropes they could provide, used their shovel to smooth a pathway to higher ground, and with all hands pushing and hauling he tore the Sweet Afton away from her snug position as part of the cabin and dragged her to a spot well above where the crashing ice might be expected to reach.
Tireless, he then began the removal of the entire living area, even the latrine, to higher ground, and as he and Carpenter started to move the beds he stopped and said dramatically: ‘You stay down here, some night soon when you asleep, the ice she come and we don’t see you never no more.’ Two nightfalls later the expedition was finally housed in a barely adequate substitute for the original cabin but one at a safer elevation. His task done, Michael sat heavily upon a rock, leaned back to allow the weak sun to reach his face, and said: ‘I very hungry. We eat?’
At the first resting period Lord Luton made a proposal that surprised the others: ‘Harry, take the shovel and scar out an exercise track for us up here next to our new cabin,’ and Philip protested: ‘The one down there’s perfectly good. No trouble to run down for our daily spin.’
‘Ah!’ Luton said with some force. ‘A great deal of trouble. Minus-forty and stiff breeze, which of us will want not only to run our circuits but also to run down that hill and back to do so? You, Philip, would be the first to demur. I can hear you arguing with me: “But, Uncle Evelyn! It’s bitter cold out there!” And the exercise you miss could well be the one that would doom you. Harry, mark it close to the shack.’ When it had been delineated, Evelyn was the first to utilize it, but George Michael, watching him run in the bitter cold, told the others: ‘He must be crazy. Nobody in Fort Norman run in the cold … summer neither,’ and Harry said quietly: ‘I’m sure they don’t.’
The Métis remained with the Englishmen a full week, during which he helped them complete the reconstruction of their living quarters and went hunting with Fogarty, whom he recognized as a kindred spirit. They were a pair of highly skilled hunters and brought a large moose to the far shore of the Mackenzie—Fogarty told the others: ‘He did it, not me’—and next morning after profuse thanks from Luton plus a gold sovereign he was gone, a lone figure striking out for the north, rifle slung across his back, right down the middle of the great river.
With George Michael gone and the camp, thanks to his assistance, at a safe elevation, life returned to its routine, with Lord Luton giving only the most fragmentary report on his extraordinary visit to Fort Norman: ‘We studied the maps and they copied several for us, so we’re in firm shape,’ and he displayed them briefly. Carpenter quickly saw that Luton had apparently decided to follow the Peel into some rather high terrain, and he asked quietly: ‘Wouldn’t picking our way through those smaller rivers and that lower pass be preferable? I was told in Edmonton …’
‘Strangers can be told anything,’ Luton snapped as he took back his maps.
One morning, apropos of nothing that had been said before, he told the men: ‘At Fort Norman, I felt absolutely naked. Those huge men with their beards as big as bushes. Said they never shaved after the fifteenth of October—tradition, they assured me.’ Then, looking about the cabin, he pointed to Trevor Blythe, whose beard was so skimpy and faded-straw in color that it made a poor show: ‘I say, Trevor, want to borrow my razor and scrape that foolish thing off?’ but the younger man parried the suggestion by admitting, with some embarrassment: ‘I simply abhor shaving. At home I allow Forbes to do it for me, and I wish he were here now.’
But in some ways it was Blythe who accommodated most perfectly to the winter isolation, for he was attuned to the changes of nature and relished what he was witnessing: ‘Have you ever seen more heavenly pastel colors than those out there? I feared the night would be perpetual, but these midday hours are superb. Just enough light to bathe the world in beauty.’
He attracted the admiration of everyone by an astonishing accomplishment. The men were surprised that even in the remotest and coldest parts of the arctic, ravens appeared, huge black creatures with an ugly cry. ‘What do they live on?’ Blythe asked. ‘In this frozen waste what can they possibly find to eat?’ In time, the ravens were eating scraps which he provided and shortly one of the more daring was coming close to his feet and snatching crumbs from the snow. To the other men, all ravens looked alike, but Trevor found in this one some identifying sign, and whenever the bird appeared, Trevor lured it always closer. Othello, he called it, and it seemed as if the raven recognized its name and responded to it.
One morning while Trevor was outside feeding Othello, the men in the cabin heard a soft cry: ‘I say, come here. But quiet.’ And when they opened the door slowly they saw the raven perched on Trevor’s left arm eating crumbs which the young man offered with his right hand.
‘Remarkable!’ Luton cried, whereupon the bird flew off with a slight beating of its black wings, but on subsequent days it returned, and grew bolder, until finally it elected Blythe’s left shoulder as an assured resting place. When the others saw this extraordinary spectacle of a young man swathed in arctic clothing, flaxen hair exposed, with a raven perched on his shoulder, all silhouetted against the blazing white of the snow, they tried to lure the bird, but Othello, sensing that Blythe was the one to trust, stayed with him.
The men had agreed back in Edmonton, when it became obvious that they must spend a winter in the far north, that they would keep a record of how extreme cold and prolonged night affected them, and they learned to their relief that any healthy man who did, as Luton insisted, ‘observe the niceties,’ survived rather well. ‘There is disruption,’ Luton conceded in his notes. ‘We eat less, seem to require more water, and have to guard against constipation. We also suffer minor eye irritation from incessant lantern light. But we can detect no negative mental effects, and as the worst part of winter approaches, we have no apprehensions.’
Fogarty in the meantime was scouring the countryside for game, and sometimes the men would see him approaching the far side of the deeply frozen Mackenzie at the conclusion of some foray to the east, and they would watch his distant figure grow larger. They would study closely to see if he signaled for them to cross over and help him drag home a side of caribou, and if he did wave his arms in triumph, they would pile out, cross the river, and grab hold of whatever it was he had dragged behind him, and that night their cabin would be rich with the smell of roasting meat.
As January waned, Carpenter warned his companions: ‘February is the testing time. No part of the year colder than February.’ In 1898 it was especially bitter along the Mackenzie, with the spirit thermometer staying below forty for days at
a time, but when the cold was most oppressive Carpenter would say: ‘When it breaks, we’ll have summer in winter!’ and he was right, for in late February the cold mysteriously abated and the men had a respite as lovely and as welcome as any they had ever known.
The thermometer rose to four-below, and since there was not even a whisper of wind, it was indeed like summer. Harry and Philip actually ran their laps with shirts off, chests bare, and experienced no discomfort. Othello made two turns of the snow-packed course on Blythe’s shoulder, and Carpenter accompanied Fogarty on a long excursion to the other side of the Mackenzie, where they bagged a moose.
This reassuring respite heightened the spirits of the men, who restudied their maps and made plans for when the spring thaw would allow them to resume their journey to the gold fields. ‘What those bearded ones at Norman reminded me,’ Luton said, ‘is that when we have to saw our boat in half, it might well be at a spot where there’s no timber to be had to shore up the open end. So what we must do on our way downriver, as soon as it’s ice-free, is bring on board any logs that look as if they might be sawn into short planking.’
‘And where do you calculate the site for sawing the Sweet Afton apart might come?’ Carpenter inquired, not in unduly curious fashion but merely to prepare his thinking, and Luton pointed almost automatically to a spot well up the Peel River. Carpenter was about to launch one final protest against taking a route which was sure to be perilous, but before he could voice his objections, Lord Luton anticipated them, swept up his maps, and disappeared before Harry could force the issue.
So the vital decision was never submitted to an honest criticism and evaluation. When Harry studied his own maps in secret they reinforced his apprehensions about the inherent dangers in trying to force a way up the Peel: The entire trip on the river is against a current which has to be swift. The rapids cannot be easy to portage if there’s no path to walk on shore. And those damned high mountains at the end. Not promising, not promising at all.
Journey Page 11
