A Trail of Broken Dreams

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  We passed Jasper House in the afternoon, a small, lonely looking, white-washed building with boarded-up windows. Mrs. Schubert was sorely disappointed it was abandoned, as she’d hoped to be able to trade for much needed food.

  August 20, 1862

  Slept last night on the flats near the Athabaska River. The mountain peaks looked beautiful, coloured pink and gold by the setting sun.

  August 21, 1862

  It seems the entire journey I have been wet at least once in the day. We forded the Athabaska River yesterday on rafts the men built, and waded and swam across the Miette River innumerable times today. Every day I wake to the sound of chopping, as the axemen get up at two in the morning to begin clearing the way for us. Joe, with his great strength, is a favourite of the men for this job. But despite their efforts, larger fallen trees block the trail so we cross and re-cross streams constantly to make our way. The water is very cold for it comes from the ice melt from the mountains, and my feet are frequently numb. We camped early, as all are tired and short-tempered. Two of the men had a fistfight over something that no one can remember now. They hammered away at each other for close to an hour! Nobody won. They just got tired and quit.

  August 22, 1862

  Fraser River

  We are at the headwaters of the Fraser River! Here, some of the water flows east, and some flows west. The trees are different too: spruce, pine, poplar and willow to the east, and cedar, hemlock, balsam and soft maple to the west. It was thought the entire journey would take two months, but close to three months have now passed and we are still in the heart of the mountains, with no end in sight. Unfortunately, we only packed food for two months. The Schuberts shot a horse for food, and gave a small amount to the Dyers. Other men killed an ox and dried thin strips of meat over a fire to preserve it. Mr. Dyer hopes not to kill his ox. Some of the men complain of sharp pains in their legs and others’ gums bleed. Talbot showed me a tooth that was loose, then got all embarrassed and snapped his mouth shut. I asked him why and he said, “Because you’re a girl.”

  “So what? You knew I was a girl long before this,” I said. “And you still call me Harry.”

  “It’s just different now that everyone knows,” Talbot said.

  This is an example of the new strangeness between us. I wish he’d stop it!

  August 24, 1862

  I would not have believed it had I not tasted it myself, but skunk makes fine eating. For a creature that stinks so horribly, it sure tastes wonderful. André Cardinal showed us how to cook it, and most of us had a taste. But a bite, unfortunately, was not enough to fill me. Our guide also told us the Indians boiled and ate the black moss that hangs from the trees, mixed with lichen from the cedars. Mrs. Schubert boiled some up. It looked absolutely disgusting and tasted dreadful, but we ate it anyway. Then Joe very kindly brought us some huckleberries he had picked.

  It is Sunday but we continued our journey today — the first Sunday we have travelled since we set out — as our food is so low we had to press on or starve. I worry for Mrs. Schubert. Despite the meat from the horse they killed, she seems very tired. I took the two eldest children to walk with me.

  August 25, 1862

  All are gloomy of thought tonight. But there is no going back now.

  August 26, 1862

  A night and day as I’d never want to repeat. We camped on the steep side of the mountain and I lay awake all night, fearful of rolling down. Then we had to cross a narrow ledge, barely a foot broad, covered with loose slate and once again a sheer drop on one side. The men packed the goods across on their own backs rather than risk the animals. They helped Mrs. Schubert and the children over, and Talbot went to help me, but I pulled my arm away from his hand. It makes me mad he thinks I need help just because I’m a girl. But as soon as I stepped out on that ledge I wished I’d not been so quick to push him away! My heart pounded so loud I was sure the men could hear, but I inched my way across and collapsed on the other side until my heart stilled. Mama was right. I am far too stubborn.

  August 27, 1862

  Tête Jaune Cache

  We lost a horse today. It was so tired of walking it just gave up and died. I know exactly how it feels.

  We arrived at Tête Jaune Cache around four in the afternoon. The men are celebrating our arrival with huckleberry wine provided by a camp of Shuswap Indians we came upon. I don’t know why they are celebrating. There is no sign of a trail or road here to Cariboo as the men at Fort Edmonton said there would be. If I pass by that fort again, I swear I will go in and give them a piece of my mind.

  I’m sitting some ways off with Mrs. Schubert and the children, listening to the toasts and cheers, feeling very annoyed that I’m not in the thick of things. This being a girl is a confounded nuisance. But it does give me time to write in you, dear diary.

  August 28, 1862

  There is good pasturage here for the stock and we are able to trade with the Indians for salmon and berry cakes, so we are staying a few days to rest. Berry cakes are made by mashing berries to a pulp, and spreading the pulp on sticks to dry — very tasty. I traded my thread and needle for some as my clothes are so tattered, no amount of sewing will mend them anyway.

  The men have decided to split up to help with the food problem. One party will build rafts and go down the Fraser River — a dangerous route, the Indians tell us — while a second party will go overland with the animals to the Thompson River — a longer route, but hopefully, safer. It is up to each person which route they want to take. Talbot and Mr. Dyer plan to go the Fraser Route. The Schuberts, the Thompson River Route. Joe and Henry have not yet decided. (They have not, dear diary, entirely made up their quarrel, so neither wants to give in to what the other wants.)

  Mrs. Schubert says I should continue with her, but the aspens are turning golden, and the ground is white with frost in the mornings, and I feel time pushing at my back. I need to get to the gold fields as soon as possible for I have to find Father before the snows come. I cannot live an entire winter out west alone. And when summer comes Mrs. Owen will take Luella and William away.

  I just don’t know which way to go. The Fraser route scares me, but is faster; the Thompson route is safer. My brain is in a burning turmoil. Either way I choose to go will break my heart, as it means saying goodbye to someone.

  August 29, 1862

  I have decided on the Fraser River route. I expect some people — I mean John and Thomas Drummond — won’t like my decision, so one part of me wants to wait until morning to tell Mr. McMicking, but another part says, “Do it now. Get it over with.” That part won. I’ll tell Mr. McMicking now.

  Night

  There were some protests against my going on the Fraser route — and as I expected, mostly from John and his brother! They make me so angry. They said I’d hold everyone back.

  Henry spoke up and said that he and Joe would be willing to watch out for me. (They finally decided on the Fraser River.) Henry said I’d proven myself a good traveller and I’d grumbled less than some on the journey — and he looked right at Thomas Drummond! I thought Thomas would go for him, but Joe wandered over beside Henry, and that ended that. Then Mr. Dyer and Talbot said I’d be welcome with them also.

  John said, “It’s not proper, her being a girl.”

  Henry said, the way he saw it, out here, proper be damned, “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Schubert.”

  Whether I am a girl or not, no longer matters. We all just wanted to get to Cariboo without starving! It looks like I’m going down the Fraser River. I’m scared to death!

  August 30, 1862

  Today is my birthday. I’m thirteen years old. Kept it to myself.

  September 1862

  September 1, 1862, morning

  Several rafts have been built over the last few days. Mr. Sellar tells me they are 45 feet long and 20 feet broad. My job was to chink the cracks in the rafts with small poles so the cattle would not get their feet caught. “You better do a good job on those,” John said.

/>   I ignored him, but worked doubly hard to prove my worth to the men. There are double oarlocks on each end of the raft, so if the rafts break apart the men will still be able to steer them. Most of the animals will go with the Thompson River party, but we killed some and dried the meat to take with us. (I am heartily sick of dried meat!) A couple of rafts will carry a few oxen, mules and horses in case we need to slaughter them too.

  Canoes were also made, hollowed out of large cottonwood logs. Some men stitched together hides and stretched them over a frame and made a watertight conveyance in that fashion, though it looks to me like it could tip easily. I’ll stick to the larger rafts!

  Now it is time to leave. I am to be on a raft with Joe, Henry, Mr. Dyer and Talbot, among others — two of those others unfortunately being John and Thomas Drummond! It seems God is testing me! My heart is in my throat at the thought of our river journey, but I keep reminding myself that I will soon be in Cariboo and with Father.

  September 2, 1862

  If only the whole journey had been this easy! No trail cutting, no swamps, no bridge making or walking. As we pushed off from shore yesterday I had one moment of panic when I saw the Indians watch us go and sadly shake their heads. One shouted something, but I couldn’t make out his words, so asked Talbot. At first he wouldn’t tell me, but I wheedled it out of him — then wished I hadn’t. “Poor white men no more,” is what the Indian said. I wanted to get off the raft right then and there, because if anyone would know the river it would be the Indians! But as we continue on without mishap, my fears have settled down.

  The worst part was saying goodbye to the Thompson River Route party. We came all this way together, and not one life lost, and now we’re split up. My heart was very heavy to leave the Schuberts. Sometimes it seems like all I do is say goodbye to people — to Father when he left for Cariboo, to Mama when she died, to William. I never did say goodbye to Luella.

  September 3, 1862

  It rains constantly. I am soaked through, but then I don’t believe I’ve been dry more than a couple days the entire journey anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter! We tried to light a fire on the raft to warm some water for the meagre bit of tea we have left, but just as a flame caught, a wave broke over and put it out. Our tea will have to wait until we land for nightfall. At least I get to rest and catch up with my diary writing, though I worry that I am using a lot of pages. I will write smaller. I recall Mama writing a letter one day and when she ran out of paper, she turned it sideways and wrote over her own writing in a slightly larger hand. I will do that if necessary.

  Talbot is talking to Joe. I wish he wouldn’t. It is Joe’s turn to watch the river for gravel bars and he has trouble doing more than one thing at once. It is easy for the raft to catch up on the bars and then we have a time of it getting free. Most of the others are napping. It is hard to sleep at night, the ground onshore being cold and wet and hard. Every night I thank Mrs. Sinclair for giving me the buffalo skin as I spread it between me and the ground. I guard it with my life!

  It has kept out

  Later

  Sorry I left so abruptly, dear diary, but it was as I feared. Joe was talking with Talbot and missed seeing the gravel bar. “You don’t use the few brains the Lord gave you, you daft ox,” Henry yelled. I could see Joe’s mind turning over and over, but all he could come up with was, “Don’t call me an ox, you … you mule.”

  Talbot told me he feels bad for distracting Joe and I told him he should! It took hours to get off the gravel bar, which didn’t help anyone’s temper, especially with Thomas grumbling at Joe every darn minute.

  September 4, 1862

  I can’t stop crying. A tragedy has struck us! Early today the canoe with Mr. Warren, Mr. Robertson and Mr. Douglas overtook us on the river. We waved gaily at each other. A couple of hours later we came upon a small gravel bar mid-river and there sat Mr. Warren and Mr. Douglas, but Mr. Robertson was nowhere to be seen! We rescued them and they told us that they’d hit rapids and overturned. The canoes run the rapids considerably faster than we do on our rafts, and overturn easily as well. Mr. Robertson had struck out for shore with the idea he’d get help, while the others clung to the canoe. Eventually they made their way to a gravel bar, but there was no sign of Mr. Robertson. We searched the shores for hours, but could not find him, so presume he is drowned. He was a very nice man, Mr. Robertson, not one of those that grumbled.

  Moments later

  John just walked by and said. “Crying, just like a girl.”

  “But I AM a girl,” I yelled at him. Then I called him a word that girls aren’t supposed to know. Joe and Talbot’s mouths nearly dropped to the ground, though I thought I saw Mr. Dyer smile. “Begging your pardon,” I said.

  When he finally got his mouth closed, Talbot said to not mind John, as we’ll soon be at the gold fields and well away from him. But I look at Talbot, Mr. Dyer, Joe, Henry and the others on the raft, and I wonder if they will arrive safely at Cariboo — and will I?

  September 5, 1862

  We are all unwell with a bowel complaint. And a raft is not the best place for that! I fear we’ve eaten bad meat.

  September 6, 1862

  Most of the men sleep, so I am taking advantage of the quiet to write in you, dear diary. It is beautiful country that slides past us. I don’t know why people call rock grey. It is really made up of wondrous colours: warm brown, pink, black. Today lowering clouds have softened the stark ridges and swallowed the uppermost spires of evergreens. We pass tree-filled gullies and thickets that

  Later

  Another mishap, though no lives were lost in this one. As I was writing I heard a tremendous roar of water over rock! The men poling the raft shouted to wake those who were sleeping. Everyone rushed to the oars to make our way to shore, but then over the water’s thunder I heard Talbot shout, “Man overboard!”

  I whipped around and saw Joe plunging into the water. At first I thought it was he fallen over, but soon realized it was Henry! I saw Joe’s head go down, up, then down again, and finally he surfaced with Henry in his grasp. They bobbed towards the rapids, but no one could help as everyone strained at the oars to bring the raft ashore. Without thinking I grabbed a knife and slashed the rope holding the rail together, wrestled the pole free and held it out to Joe. Just then Talbot and Mr. Dyer came up and grabbed the pole also and we were able to pull Joe in. He hoisted Henry onto the raft.

  Once Henry had coughed up what looked like a bucket of river water, he began to feel better.

  Evening

  Shore of the Fraser River

  Joe is quite the hero, though a bewildered one. Every time he passes him, Henry, much recovered, thumps Joe on the back. Joe grins widely. They’re best of friends again. I told Joe he was very brave to jump into the river and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He turned beet red, then said, “Of course I jumped in, it was Henry.” I guess that says it all. Mr. Dyer said I was very quick-thinking. I was just glad that for once my brain was not in a burning turmoil.

  I am sitting onshore while the men discuss how to proceed. We have come to a place in the river where it narrows drastically in a canyon and is full of rapids. The water rushes and swirls in a circle at one spot. A whirlpool, it is called.

  It is decided that there is nothing for it but to try to take the rafts through the rapids and whirlpool. Either that or we starve where we are. Some are to take provisions to lighten the raft and walk around the rapids, including myself and Talbot, as it is considered safer for the youngsters. Talbot’s face has been set in a scowl all morning at being lumped together with me as a “youngster” and needing to be kept safe. Joe and Henry will go on the raft, Joe because his strength is needed, and Henry because he has a calm head.

  September 7, 1862

  Back on the raft. My heart was in my throat watching the men take the raft through the rapids yesterday. Once the current got hold of it, the raft swept rapidly into the narrow canyon. Water broke against rocks all around it in huge sprays of white
foam. At one point the raft went underwater, and we all groaned with dismay, but it resurfaced, all the men safe. They rounded the sharp bend towards the whirlpool and we lost sight of them, but a few minutes later we heard a loud cheer above the water’s roar, so knew they had made it safely.

  September 8, 1862, evening

  Fort George

  We have arrived at Fort George, though it is a sad arrival. Mr. Pattison died. Dr. Stevenson said it was diphtheria and nothing could be done. He was ill with a sore throat when we started down the Fraser, and was shipwrecked for two days with no provisions or shelter when their canoe broke up in the rapids. We also hear of another canoeist drowned, though I did not know him very well.