Yet there was
more. The weather was lovely; perfect summer days, and the mosquitoes
were gone, yes, now actually nets and flybars were discarded for
good. On every side was animal life in abundance; the shimmering
lake with its Loons and islands would fit exactly the Indian's dream
of the heavenly hunting-grounds. These were the happy halcyon days
of the trip, and we stayed a week to rest and revel in the joys
about us.
In the morning I took a long walk over the familiar hills; the
various skeletons we had left were picked bare, evidently by Gulls
and Ravens, as no bones were broken and even the sinews were left.
There were many fresh tracks of single Caribou going here and
there, but no trails of large bands. I sent Weeso off to the Indian
village, two miles south. He returned to say that it was deserted
and that, therefore, the folk had gone after the Caribou, which
doubtless were now in the woods south of Artillery Lake. Again the
old man was wholly astray in his Caribou forecast.
That night there was a sharp frost; the first we had had. It
made nearly half an inch of ice in all kettles. Why is ice always
thickest on the kettles? No doubt because they hold a small body
of very still water surrounded by highly conductive metal.
Billy went "to market" yesterday, killing a nice, fat little Caribou.
This morning on returning to bring in the rest of the meat we found
that a Wolverine had been there and lugged the most of it away.
The tracks show that it was an old one accompanied by one or maybe
two young ones. We followed them some distance but lost all trace
in a long range of rocks.
The Wolverine is one of the typical animals of the far North. It
has an unenviable reputation for being the greatest plague that
the hunter knows. Its habit of following to destroy all traps for
the sake of the bait is the prime cause of man's hatred, and its
cleverness in eluding his efforts at retaliation give it still more
importance.
It is, above all, the dreaded enemy of a cache, and as already
seen, we took the extra precaution of putting our caches up trees
that were protected by a necklace of fishhooks. Most Northern
travellers have regaled us with tales of this animal's diabolical
cleverness and wickedness. It is fair to say that the malice, at
least, is not proven; and there is a good side to Wolverine character
that should be emphasized; that is, its nearly ideal family life,
coupled with the heroic bravery of the mother. I say "nearly" ideal,
for so far as I can learn, the father does not assist in rearing
the young. But all observers agree that the mother is absolutely
fearless and devoted. More than one of the hunters have assured me
that it is safer to molest a mother Bear than a mother Wolverine
when accompanied by the cubs.
Bellalise, a half-breed of Chipewyan, told me that twice he had
found Wolverine dens, and been seriously endangered by the mother.
The first was in mid-May, 1904, near Fond du Lac, north side of
Lake Athabaska. He went out with an Indian to bring in a skiff left
some miles off on the shore. He had no gun, and was surprised by
coming on an old Wolverine in a slight hollow under the boughs of
a green spruce. She rushed at him, showing all her teeth, her eyes
shining blue, and uttering sounds like those of a Bear. The Indian
boy hit her once with a stick, then swung himself out of danger up
a tree. Bellalise ran off after getting sight of the young ones;
they were four in number, about the size of a Muskrat, and pure
white. Their eyes were open. The nest was just such as a dog might
make, only six inches deep and lined with a little dry grass.
Scattered around were bones and fur, chiefly of Rabbits.
The second occasion was in 1905, within three miles of Chipewyan,
and, as before, about the middle of May. The nest was much like
the first one; the mother saw him coming, and charged furiously,
uttering a sort of coughing. He shot her dead; then captured the
young and examined the nest; there were three young this time. They
were white like the others.
Not far from this camp, we found a remarkable midden-yard of Lemmings.
It was about 10 feet by 40 feet, the ground within the limits was
thickly strewn with pellets, at the rate of 14 to the square inch,
but nowhere were they piled up. At this reckoning, there were over
800,000, but there were also many outside, which probably raised
the number to 1,000,000. Each pellet was long, brown, dry, and
curved, i.e., the winter type. The place, a high, dry, very sheltered
hollow, was evidently the winter range of a colony of Lemmings that
in summer went elsewhere, I suppose to lower, damper grounds.
After sunset, September 5, a bunch of three or four Caribou trotted
past the tents between us and the Lake, 200 yards from us; Billy
went after them, as, thanks to the Wolverine, we were out of meat,
and at one shot secured a fine young buck.
His last winter's coat was all shed now, his ears were turning
white and the white areas were expanding on feet and buttocks; his
belly was pure white.
On his back and rump, chiefly the latter, were the scars of 121
bots. I could not see that they affected the skin or, hair in the
least.
Although all of these Caribou seem to have the normal foot-click,
Preble and I worked in vain with the feet of this, dead one to make
the sound; we could not by any combination of movement, or weight
or simulation of natural conditions, produce anything like a "click."
That same day, as we sat on a hill, a cow Caribou came curiously
toward us.
