On June 22 we set out to explore this. Preble, Billy, and myself,
with our canoe on a wagon, drove 6 miles back on the landing trail
and launched the canoe on the still water above Mountain Portage.
Pelican Island must be approached exactly right, in the comparatively
slow water above the rocky island, for 20 feet away on each side
is an irresistible current leading into a sure-death cataract. But
Billy was a river pilot and we made the point in safety.
Drifted like snow through the distant woods were the brooding birds,
but they arose before we were near and sailed splendidly overhead
in a sweeping, wide-fronted rank. As nearly as I could number them,
there were 120, but evidently some were elsewhere, as this would
not allow a pair to each nest.
We landed safely and found the nests scattered among the trees and
fallen timbers. One or two mother birds ran off on foot, but took
wing as soon as clear of the woods - none remained.
The nests numbered 77, and there was evidence of others long
abandoned. There were 163 eggs, not counting 5 rotten ones, lying
outside; nearly all had 2 eggs in the nest; 3 had 4; 5 had 3; 4 had
1. One or two shells were found in the woods, evidently sucked by
Gulls or Ravens.
All in the nests were near hatching. One little one had his beak
out and was uttering a hoarse chirping; a dozen blue-bottle flies
around the hole in the shell were laying their eggs in it and
on his beak., This led us to examine all the nests that the flies
were buzzing around, and in each case (six) we found the same state
of affairs, a young one with his beak out and the flies "blowing"
around it. All of these were together in one corner, where were a
dozen nests, probably another colony of earlier arrival.
We took about a dozen photos of the place (large and small). Then
I set my camera with the long tube to get the old ones, and we went
to lunch at the other end of the island. It was densely wooded and
about an acre in extent, so we thought we should be forgotten. The
old ones circled high overhead but at last dropped, I thought, back
to the nests. After an hour and a half I returned to the ambush;
not a Pelican was there. Two Ravens flew high over, but the Pelicans
were far away, and all as when we went away, leaving the young to
struggle or get a death-chill as they might. So much for the pious
Pelican, the emblem of reckless devotion - a common, dirty little
cock Sparrow would put them all to shame.
We brought away only the 5 rotten eggs. About half of the old
Pelicans had horns on the bill.
On the island we saw a flock of White-winged Crossbills and heard
a Song-sparrow. Gulls were seen about. The white spruce cones littered
the ground and were full of seed, showing that no Redsquirrel was
on the island.
We left successfully by dashing out exactly as we came, between
the two dangerous currents, and got well away.
CHAPTER XVII
THE THIRD BUFFALO HUNT
The Indians are simply large children, and further, no matter how
reasonable your proposition, they take a long time to consider it
and are subject to all kinds of mental revulsion. So we were lucky
to get away from Fort Smith on July 4 with young Francois Bezkya
as guide. He was a full-blooded Chipewyan Indian, so full that he
had knowledge of no other tongue, and Billy had to be go-between.
Bezkya, the son of my old patient, came well recommended as a good
man and a moose-hunter. A "good man" means a strong, steady worker,
as canoeman or portager. He may be morally the vilest outcast unhung;
that in no wise modifies the phrase "he is a good man." But more:
the present was a moosehunter; this is a wonderfully pregnant phrase.
Moose-hunting by fair stalking is the pinnacle of woodcraft. The
Crees alone, as a tribe, are supposed to be masters of the art;
but many of the Chipewyans are highly successful. One must be a
consummate trailer, a good shot, have tireless limbs and wind and
a complete knowledge of the animal's habits and ways of moving and
thinking. One must watch the wind, without ceasing, for no hunter
has the slightest chance of success if once the Moose should scent
him. This last is fundamental, a three-times sacred principle. Not
long ago one of these Chipewyans went to confessional. Although a
year had passed since last he got cleaned up, he could think of
nothing to confess. Oh! spotless soul! However, under pressure of
the priest, he at length remembered a black transgression. The fall
before, while hunting, he went to the windward of a thicket that seemed
likely to hold his Moose, because on the lee, the proper side, the
footing happened to be very bad, and so he lost his Moose. Yes!
there was indeed a dark shadow on his recent past.
A man may be a good hunter, i.e., an all-round trapper and woodman,
but not a moose-hunter. At Fort Smith are two or three scores of
hunters, and yet I am told there are only three moose-hunters. The
phrase is not usually qualified; he is, or is not, a moose-hunter.
Just as a man is, or is not, an Oxford M.A. The force, then, of
the phrase appears, and we were content to learn that young Bezkya,
besides knowing the Buffalo country, was also a good man and a
moose-hunter.
