Many A Tree Has Happened To Stand On The Very Crack That Is The
Upmost Limit Of The Slide And Has In Consequence Been Ripped In
Two.
Many an island is wiped out and many a one made in these annual
floods.
Again and again we saw the evidence of some island, continued
long enough to raise a spruce forest, suddenly receive a 6-foot
contribution from its erratic mother; so the trees were buried to
the arm-pits. Many times I saw where some frightful jam of ice had
planed off all the trees; then a deep overwhelming layer of mud
had buried the stumps and grown in time a new spruce forest. Now
the mighty erratic river was tearing all this work away again,
exposing all its history.
In the delta of the Slave, near Fort Resolution, we saw the plan of
delta work. Millions of tons of mud poured into the deep translucent
lake have filled it for miles, so that it is scarcely deep enough
to float a canoe; thousands of huge trees, stolen from the upper
forest, are here stranded as wing-dams that check the current and
hold more mud. Rushes grow on this and catch more mud. Then the
willows bind it more, and the sawing down of the outlet into the
Mackenzie results in all this mud being left dry land.
This is the process that has made all the lowlands at the mouth
of Great Slave and Athabaska Rivers. And the lines of tree trunks
to-day, preparing for the next constructive annexation of the lake,
are so regular that one's first thought is that this is the work
of man. But these are things that my sketches and photographs will
show better than words.
When later we got onto the treeless Barrens or Tundra, the process
was equally evident, though at this time dormant, and the chief
agent was not running water, but the giant Jack Frost.
CHAPTER XXIX
PIKE'S PORTAGE
Part of my plan was to leave a provision cache every hundred
miles, with enough food to carry us 200 miles, and thus cover the
possibility of considerable loss. I had left supplies at Chipewyan,
Smith, and Resolution, but these were settlements; now we were
pushing off into the absolute wilderness, where it was unlikely
we should see any human beings but ourselves. Now, indeed, we
were facing all primitive conditions. Other travellers have made
similar plans for food stores, but there are three deadly enemies
to a cache - weather, ravens, and wolverines., I was prepared for
all three. Water-proof leatheroid cases were to turn the storm,
dancing tins and lines will scare the ravens, and each cache tree
was made unclimbable to Wolverines by the addition of a necklace of
charms in the form of large fish-hooks, all nailed on with points
downward. This idea, borrowed from, Tyrrell, has always proved a
success; and not one of our caches was touched or injured.
Tyrrell has done much for this region; his name will ever be
linked with its geography and history. His map of the portage was
a godsend, for now we found that our guide had been here only once,
and that when he was a child, with many resultant lapses of memory
and doubts about the trail. My only wonder was that he remembered
as much as he did.
Here we had a sudden and unexpected onset of black flies; they
appeared for the first time in numbers, and attacked us with a
ferocity that made the mosquitoes seem like a lot of baby butterflies
in comparison. However, much as we may dislike the latter, they at
least do not poison us or convey disease (as yet), and are repelled
by thick clothing. The black flies attack us like some awful
pestilence walking in darkness, crawling in and forcing themselves
under our clothing, stinging and poisoning as they go. They are,
of course, worst near the openings in our armour, that is necks,
wrists, and ankles. Soon each of us had a neck like an old fighting
bull walrus; enormously swollen, corrugated with bloats and wrinkles,
blotched, bumpy, and bloody, as disgusting as it was painful. All
too closely it simulated the ravages of some frightful disease, and
for a night or two the torture of this itching fire kept me from
sleeping. Three days, fortunately, ended the black fly reign,
and left us with a deeper sympathy for the poor Egyptians who on
account of their own or some other bodies' sins were the victims
of "plagues of flies."
But there was something in the camp that amply offset these annoyances;
this was a spirit of kindness and confidence. Old Weeso was smiling
and happy, ready at all times to do his best; his blundering about
the way was not surprising, all things considered, but his mistakes
did not matter, since I had Tyrrell's admirable maps. Billy, sturdy,
strong, reliable, never needed to be called twice in the morning.
No matter what the hour, he was up at once and cooking the breakfast
in the best of style, for an A 1 cook he was. And when it came to
the portages he would shoulder his 200 or 250 pounds each time.
Preble combined the mental force of the educated white man with
the brawn of the savage, and although not supposed to do it, he
took the same sort of loads as Billy did. Mine, for the best of
reasons, were small, and consisted chiefly of the guns, cameras,
and breakables, or occasionally, while they were transporting the
heavy stuff, I acted as cook. But all were literally and figuratively
in the same boat, all paddled all day, ate the same food worked
the same hours, and imbued with the same spirit were eager to reach
the same far goal. From this on the trip was ideal.
We were 3 1/2 days covering the 8 small lakes and 9 portages (30
miles) that lie between the two great highways, Great Slave Lake
and Artillery Lake; and camped on the shore of the latter on the
night of July 31.
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