Читать книгу River Rough, River Smooth - Anthony Dalton - Страница 12

CHAPTER 3 Norway House

THERE WAS NO ONE TO meet me on arrival at Norway House, but I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long for transport: I had been assured someone would collect me. Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes of kicking my heels, Irv Swanson, the economic development officer for the band, pulled up in a pickup truck followed by a cloud of dust to drive me to Ken’s furniture workshop.

As we walked in, Charlie and a few of the crew were hard at work, smoothing and painting their oar blades. Supplies for the expedition were stacked haphazardly around the floor. Sawdust and wood shavings added to the general air of chaos. The scene was familiar to me. Most of my own expeditions had started the same way: one room of wherever I lived being strewn with apparently random mounds of supplies waiting to be loaded or shipped out. Irv made the introductions amid a hubbub of voices, all speaking in the Cree language. Hesitantly, perhaps shyly, the young men in the workshop put down their tools and greeted me one by one, each reaching out to shake my extended hand.

With the introductions out of the way, Albert Tait, a Métis who would not be going with us, sat on a chair in the middle of the room and told a crude joke about a parrot, a cord of wood, and a bald guy. I suspect it was told to see how I would react, in view of my own shiny pate. It was funny and I laughed loudly with the rest of them. Albert then said the joke was much funnier in Cree and told it again in his own language. If anything the guys all laughed even louder this time. I could only assume it really was funnier in Cree.

Ken McKay was nowhere to be seen and no one seemed to know where he was. The crew weren’t doing much in the way of work so, as there didn’t seem to be much point in my hanging around also doing nothing, Irv drove me to the small motel on the south side of the community. I checked in for one night, dumped my gear in the room, and went visiting.

Irv introduced me to the present manager of the department store, now called the Northern store.¹ That worthy showed me the old jail and original HBC buildings, both dating from the mid 1800s. The tiny, old, whitewashed jail, with its massively thick stone walls, had never contributed much to the history books. According to Norway House records, the jail only ever had one inmate. He, according to the story, was incarcerated for beating his wife. The old Hudson’s Bay Company post, known locally as the Archway Warehouse, is pristine white with red-and-black trim. Close by is a full-size York boat replica on the lawns beside the Nelson River. A plaque leaning against the hull tells its own story:

This York boat was built in 1974 by Norway House residents under the supervision of Charles Edward Campbell. Charlie modelled his own York boat after one he had seen in Lower Fort Garry and then returned to Norway House to teach others how to build York boats. Charlie chose to leave the legacy of York boat building with Ken McKay and the annual York boat races have evolved from this.

The C.E. Campbell York boat on display at Norway House is named for Charlie Campbell, long-time HBC employee and boat-builder.

This original HBC storage building next to the Nelson River in Norway House dates from the early nineteenth century.

It was comforting to have physical evidence, at last, of Ken McKay’s boat-building background. He obviously had benefited from a talented teacher. Even though I still hadn’t seen the expedition York boat, I was confident she would be sturdy and hoped she would prove to be watertight. Charlie Campbell had, apparently, been inspired by the same York boats I had seen at Lower Fort Garry a few days before.

A plaque on a white-washed wall of the old HBC building also commemorates the celebrated Charlie Campbell who, it says, worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company for forty-four years (1924–1968).

On the way back to Irv’s office I saw Ken McKay’s York boat for the first time, tucked into the reeds close to a house, which, I later learned, was Charlie’s home. It certainly looked impressive with its mast and crosstree moving slightly in the breeze, giving it the appearance of being ready for anything.

Irv gave me a photocopy of a slim book on the history of Norway House,² and a dictionary³ of Swampy Cree terms translated into English. Both items were extremely useful for my research and a thoughtful gesture, although the Cree language would not be easy to learn.

There are forty syllabic characters with twelve final consonants in Cree, whereas we who use the Roman orthography have but twenty-six characters in our alphabet. Cree syllabics, or Pepipopa,⁴ were developed in the early nineteenth century by Methodist missionary James Evans⁵ so that the Cree could read the scriptures. Anthropologist Alan McMillan⁶ described syllabic writing as differing “from that using an alphabet by having one character for the whole syllable (minimally, a consonant and a vowel combination).” More recent epigraphers have suggested that the symbols used by Evans may have already been known in ancient times in Europe. Be that as it may, James Evans was the man who taught the Cree to read and write in their own language. Eventually, due to his dedication and intelligence, the complete Holy Bible was translated into Cree.

The stone monument to the Reverend James Evans, creator of the Cree syllabic dictionary, stands on Church Point in Norway House.

There is no doubt that the Reverend Evans was a highly talented man and a dedicated linguist. During a long stint in Upper Canada he had worked with the Ojibway, even devising a written version of their language. He actually translated some of his own works into Ojibway for them. The hard-working missionary was also capable with his hands. While at York Factory he fashioned a canoe from sheets of tin. Evans is said to have covered thousands of miles in his shiny craft, making any en-route repairs with a soldering iron. Because it reflected sunlight and ripples on the water, the Cree called Evans’s tin canoe the “Island of Light.”⁷ It is certain that Evans followed the route we were about to take, at times by Cree canoe, sometimes in his tin tub, and possibly by York boat. Evans and his family eventually went back to England, where he died of a heart attack not long after while lecturing to raise money for the missions. In 1955, over a century after his death, his ashes were finally returned to Norway House.⁸ They rest, as perhaps they should, close to the lovely little white church on a grassy knoll. There, on Church Point, a monument celebrates his exemplary work and his life’s achievements.

The Cree have lived and hunted in this area since sometime after their ancestors crossed the land bridge over the Bering Strait, between Alaska and Siberia. Being nomadic hunters and seasonal gatherers they travelled constantly in search of sustenance. The Cree settled in a vast land of forests, rivers, and lakes: a land where food was plentiful.They named each of those rivers and each of the lakes in their own language. They soon found all the best fishing spots, the most productive hunting grounds, and discovered the most comfortable places to set up their wigwams.

The land was different then; the Cree knew it belonged to the Great Spirit.The rivers were pure, the forests and plains rich in game. The Cree lived wherever they wished, though there were some potential restrictions. Their distant neighbours, the Chipewyan in the north and west were their enemies and to be avoided if at all possible. In the south, however, the Assiniboine were their friends.

Occasionally the Cree and the Assiniboine would join forces to hunt buffalo on the grasslands of the prairies. Sometimes the young men of the tribe went to war against the Sioux with the Assiniboine;⁹ though most historians agree that, in general, the Cree have always been a peaceful nation.

When I was a boy at school in England, I was fascinated by all things associated with Canada, particularly its Native populations. Images of healthy braves riding furiously after stampeding buffalo were part of my childish introduction to Canada’s history. Perhaps part of the attraction for me was due to a relative, my great-uncle, who roamed Canada in the early 1900s. He had lived in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, at a time when the prairie regions were still in the evolutionary stage between wilderness and farmland. I’m sure he must have had many opportunities to meet and learn about the Native Canadians. Sadly he died long before I was born. I would love to have heard his tales of adventure.

Raymond Beaumont, author of a brief history of Norway House, opened his work with: “Long before Norway House existed, there was only a river and a lake, part of a waterway that started in the mountains far to the west and ended at the great salt water sea to the north. All around, as far as the eye could see, stretched forest, marsh, and muskeg with patches of bare rock here and there. It was a place untouched by human hands.”¹⁰

Standing alone on the shores of Playgreen Lake later that afternoon, with my back to the settlement, the Norway House area really did not look so different to me. I stood on a flat rock, bare except for some patches of lichen.There was still the river and the lake. We were surrounded by woodlands and I knew there were marshes and muskeg not far away. I could see why the early hunters and gatherers came to this place. It was an idyllic setting with game and fish in abundance.

In summer, the watery highway of the Hayes River system reached from Hudson Bay to this natural crossroads. The operational season, however, was too short for the fur traders in London. In the early nineteenth century, the Hudson’s Bay Company made plans to build a winter road from the site of present-day Norway House to York Factory. Standing on the shores of Playgreen Lake that day, I was reminded of a tenuous link between me, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s ships, and the seasonal track.

On May 29, 1814, the HBC’s Prince of Wales¹¹ set sail from the English port of Gravesend, on the Thames River, as Nonsuch had done 146 years before. She was bound across the north Atlantic, through the tidal turmoil of Hudson Strait, and into Hudson Bay. Her destination, as usual for many westbound Company ships, was York Factory. Eight Norwegians and one Swede joined the vessel before she slipped her moorings at Gravesend. The Norwegians had been hired to work at a variety of locations along the proposed winter road. The ninth member of the party, a Swedish naval officer, Lieutenant Enner Holte,¹² was the supervisor and interpreter.

One hundred and twenty-six years later, as the dreadful conflict in Europe escalated toward the Battle of Britain, I was born in an upstairs bedroom of a semi-detached house in Gravesend. Fifty-four years after that, I got ready to travel the river running through the land the Scandinavians had been sent to clear.

Prince of Wales, which was to carry Lieutenant John Franklin’s overland expedition to York Factory five years later, dropped anchor at Five Fathom Hole on September 3, 1814. The anchorage, a few kilometres from York Factory, was as far as the ship could go. All the men and cargo were ferried ashore in company schooners and other smaller boats. Once the passengers were on shore, the HBC factor, or head man, issued Holte with his instructions and advised him of the plans. He and his party were to travel inland, up the Hayes River to the first specified site for the winter road. Being skilled with long-handled axes, the Norwegians were to clear up to sixty acres of land and plant potatoes. From there they were to move to White Falls, also known as Robinson Falls, fell the trees and plant rye.

The project was far from successful. On September 10, the Swede, the Norwegians, a Company clerk, and a handful of Irishmen left York Factory in two boats. At the end of the first day the Irishmen turned back for York Factory, apparently because they disliked eating pemmican,¹³ and shipped out for the Emerald Isle.

The Swede and the Norwegians continued upriver. Holte had great difficulty in imposing his will on the unruly and hard-drinking Norwegians. The eight were difficult to handle. They fought with each other and they complained constantly about the food. By July the next year the troublesome team had only cleared about one acre of land on the initial site and erected two small buildings.

It was a start, nothing more. The site they cleared has become known, for obvious reasons, as Norway House. There is no record, or evidence, that the labourers ever did clear any land at White Falls. The winter road project had not progressed as planned. Canada would become a nation before an iron bridge spanned a rapid on a future winter road. Enner Holte, the Swedish naval officer, was destined for only a short sojourn in the new land: he was killed in May 1816 at Seven Oaks in a skirmish between Hudson’s Bay Company personnel and the rival North West Company.¹⁴

Although its beginnings were inauspicious, for the next few years the population of Norway House gradually increased. Most residents were either employees of the Company or their families. When the Hudson’s Bay Company and the North West Company put aside their differences in late 1820 and joined forces under the HBC¹⁵ banner, Norway House began to come into its own. By the summer of 1821 it had become a major distribution centre for the now extremely powerful fur-trading giant. More than forty boats¹⁶ (an estimated twenty-four York boats and thirteen canoes) came into Norway House from the west and south in June of that year, all heading for York Factory. Many more of each were to follow through July, August, and September.

Over the next decade, Norway House quickly grew in importance as a trans-shipment centre for the Company. Most of the original buildings were rebuilt in the mid 1830s and by 1843 the settlement was well established. In that year, Augustus Peers, a young HBC clerk, observed: “The fort, which is built of wood, is enclosed with high stockades. The houses are all of one storey high and being whitewashed present a very neat and pleasing appearance. In front is a green enclosure, intersected by platforms, the main one leading down to the river through the principal store.”¹⁷

Norway House would maintain that comfortable appearance for over a century.

When I returned there was no one at the workshop and the door was padlocked, so I walked part of the shoreline near the old church. I whiled away some time by photographing the scenery and the orange and green lichen decorating the rocks lining Playgreen Lake. The early afternoon sun felt comfortably warm on my bare head. Its rays heated up a granite ledge beside the water where I stood. The flat rocks looked clean and inviting. For a while I stretched out on their warmth, thinking about the coming journey; absorbing the northern sun and listening to the water lapping against the shore.

Later, I sat silently in one of the church pews and thought about the forthcoming adventure. I’m not a particularly religious man but my thoughts felt similar to prayers.

In the middle of the afternoon I went back to see if anyone was at the workshop and to offer my help. I needed to get to know the men I would soon be travelling with. Outside, a couple of the Cree rowers painted their names in red on a white background on their individual oar blades. One smiled in recognition and the other said hello. I went inside and, finding a large broom in a corner, used it to sweep out the mix of dust and shavings in order to clean the building up a bit. Other oars were all over the place; lying on trestles inside, leaning against the eaves outside, and against a fence. There were a couple as yet unpainted. With the sweeping finished and the floor tidy, I painted the remaining oars.

As an outsider, at this stage, I didn’t have an oar. Technically, I didn’t need one. Once on the river, I was only expected to help out on the benches occasionally to spell one of the others. Looking back, the afternoon was really quite boring, but a useful introduction to the crew, the remainder of whom wandered in at intervals over the next hour. As with most expeditions, the mundane tasks to be done before, during, and after the project are as important as the adventure itself.

Ken breezed in soon after I arrived. He had a few words with Charlie, nodded a greeting to me, and went out again. Later, while I was helping tidy up, I found a heavy cardboard poster tube on Ken’s desk. On close inspection I discovered it held tightly rolled maps. I pulled the thick roll out and flattened the topographical charts on the table. The up-to-date maps, on a scale of 1:250,000, covered the route we would be following all the way to York Factory. Maps are one of my passions. I studied the first part of our journey, mentally calculating the distances from one hazard to the next. There were numerous rapids and a couple of obvious long portages. I wondered how much experience the various individual members of the crew had behind them. Did they know how to read whitewater? Did they know how to run rapids safely? Had any of them ever attempted a task such as this before? Wayne came over and joined me. After a few minutes of watching me, he asked if I knew how to read the maps. I nodded and showed him the various geographical features along the Hayes River.

“That’s good,” he said and started a conversation in Cree with the others crew members. They smiled and nodded in understanding: the outsider could read maps. That was one piece of knowledge in my favour. None of them had much to say to me, however, their natural shyness being partly responsible. No one seemed to be sure what was going on or what the timetable was. It was generally felt that we would leave sometime the following day, probably in the early afternoon.

For a while I sat outside in the sun studying the maps one after the other, looking for major problems and making notes about possible portage routes. Later, having stowed the maps in their tube and replaced them on Ken’s desk, I went for a walk in the nearby cemetery. It sits on a small hill behind Ken’s expedition headquarters looking over Playgreen Lake.

Graveyards represent an important aspect of the history of a community, with the markers making for some interesting reading. I was saddened by the number of infant deaths and concerned by the number of deaths due to drowning. Was it just chance that had caused so many able-bodied men to die while out on the rivers and lakes? Or was there some other reason? Most of the Cree know how to handle a small boat with paddle and outboard motor. Most of those I met knew how to swim: at least they could splash around close to shore. I suspected the problem was simply one of a lack of understanding of basic safety procedures. Many of the Cree go out in boats without taking a floatation cushion or a life jacket with them. I never did see a Cree wear one. When it was too late to do anything about it, I found we did not have anything remotely like a life jacket on the York boat.

A little later, Ken came back and announced a meeting of the crew that evening. I was not invited; not being officially part of the team. Charlie drove me back to the motel and promised to have me picked up in the morning. With much on my mind, I spent a thoughtful evening in solitude. For a couple of hours I walked alone along the banks of the Nelson River. Happy with my own company, having many solo wilderness journeys behind me, I was well content to spend time by myself. I am used to being alone in strange places. That long walk was, as far as I knew, the last such opportunity I would have for some weeks.

Stretched out on a hard single bed after my exercise, I tried to see into the future. I knew my own temperament and had no illusions about my strengths and weaknesses. With so many years of experience to draw from, there was little possibility of encountering insurmountable physical challenges in the days ahead. The biggest problem, as I saw it, was that I knew nothing about the individuals who would spend the next few weeks around me. Even their culture was strange to me.

I had to admit to myself, my knowledge of Canada’s Native peoples was embarrassingly flimsy. I knew that our First Nations are the descendants of the diverse tribes who inhabited North America before the earliest Europeans arrived on the scene. That was, in effect, the extent of my general knowledge. My knowledge of the Cree in particular was limited to a few facts. I knew they were an Algonquian people and, as such, one of the largest Native language groups in Canada. In a mid-seventeenth-century Jesuit report, the Cree were spoken of as Kiristinon. Later they were also known as Kristinaux and other similar-sounding names by early Europeans venturing into the hinterland. Eventually the longer names became simplified to Cree.¹⁸ A goal for the future would be to learn as much as I could about my adopted country’s first inhabitants. For the moment, I needed to concentrate on the coming journey.

There were moments that evening in Norway House when I don’t think I have ever felt less confident about my role in an expedition or adventure of any kind. My background role in the York boat expedition would be a completely new experience for me.

Sleep is a great cure for many ailments, mental as well as physical. In the morning I had a hot shower followed by a large, unhealthy breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and strong black coffee. Outside the day was cool and clear, with only a few puffy white clouds drifting across the deep blue sky.

Norway House from Swan River Rock in 1878. Four York boats are moored in front of the settlement.

As promised, I was collected and taken back to the base. Albert Tait was there again keeping everyone amused with his stories. Ken was nowhere to be seen. The radio in a corner was turned up loud, with many of the crew and a few other guys hanging around it. Someone called for quiet. For a few minutes we listened carefully while Ken was interviewed by a reporter, her clear, confident voice contrasting with Ken’s nervous tones. He acquitted himself well enough and answered the questions in a reasonably professional manner.After a little prompting from the interviewer he even admitted there was one non-Cree among the expedition team, although he seemed to have trouble remembering my name and where I came from.

There was a mood of excitement all around. It looked as though the expedition was about to become a reality. Ken came back and rattled off a series of orders in Cree, none of which I understood. Albert offered to take me for a drive around the community, and finish up at the Northern store (a grocery store chain operated by the North West Company that caters to remote northern Canadian communities) where last-minute food purchases would be made. Ken’s orders, I soon learned, were to help him get the food supplies.

As we roamed the narrow paved roads sheltered by trees, Albert talked of The Creator. Albert, who admits he used to be a powerful drinking man, (his words, not mine) is a thoughtful born-again Christian in his late thirties. He gave me a braid of sweetgrass¹⁹ that he had woven for me the night before.

“Take this with you. It is sacred. It will keep you safe. And think of The Creator each day,” he told me. I put the pleasantly scented braid in my pocket and hoped he was right. Thanks to Albert’s kindness I felt a little more confidence in the coming adventure. To this day, that braid of sweetgrass hangs in the cabin of my sailboat within arm’s reach of the chart table. Each time I see it I am reminded of Albert; his kindness to me and his wonderful sense of humour.

Albert told me the Métis, his people, are products of the fur-trade era. Sometimes rudely referred to as half-breeds, the Métis are a relatively new people who sprang from the coming together of Native women — usually Cree, and the male fur traders — mostly French Canadian voyageurs, plus some Scots. In 1994, the year of the Norway House Hayes River York boat expedition, the Métis were still campaigning for their rights as status, or treaty, Indians.²⁰

In 1819 Norway House was a tidy settlement surrounded by a palisade.

At the Northern store we loaded our supplies onto a couple of pickup trucks and took them to the dock. Tubs of lard, a couple of sides of bacon, scores of eggs, loaves of white bread, packages of wieners and hamburger patties, dozens of cans of soft drinks, and more, were all piled into the plastic ice chests. We wouldn’t starve, but we certainly weren’t planning to eat healthily for the next while.

Four of the crew departed in a small motorboat to tow the York boat from its mooring near Charlie’s home. The rest of us began the task of moving mounds of equipment and food from the expedition warehouse and dumping them unceremoniously on the dock. When the York arrived, nearly an hour later, Wayne commented that they had had to bail a heck of a lot of water out of it and offered the opinion that a recent rainstorm was responsible. I hoped he was right.

Two men spread a large, blue, heavy-duty plastic tarpaulin in the boat. Big enough to fold over, it would serve to protect our personal baggage from water. Rain would be a potential problem in an open boat; the rivers and their associated dangers would create another form of damp. Other crew members sorted the food supplies properly in the ice chests and placed them in accessible positions in the boat. Two of the chests became foot rests for the rowers. Everything else was stowed under the bow and stern decks.

I asked about a tight roll of commercial firehose pushed far up under the stern deck. Everyone was too busy to answer me. I couldn’t imagine what it was for. Without a pump it certainly wouldn’t put out any fires.

A few kids watched as we loaded. Some older men came to sit and offer advice and encouragement. A canoe with an old battered outboard motor pulled up on the opposite side of the dock. That, I soon learned, was our support vessel. The expedition cook, Ken Ormand Sr., would be in charge of the canoe. Once on the river, Ken Ormand proved to be an excellent wilderness cook, even if he did use too many cholesterol-laden foods for my liking. Never did we go hungry under his culinary care.

Ben Paul, a quiet and shy man, came over and introduced himself. He was going home to Oxford House and had persuaded Ken McKay to let him travel in the canoe. He would help out with camp chores and assist on the portages. Later, when we got closer to Oxford House Reserve, his knowledge of the river would prove useful.

In total the expedition would number thirteen of us. Eight rowers on the York boat, plus Ken McKay on steering oar and John Wesley on bow watch. Ken Ormand and Ben would be in the canoe and I would switch between the two boats, depending on my photographic needs.

We took our places in the boats without any fanfare. With volunteer rowers at a couple of oars, we moved the York over to Church Point. A large crowd had gathered to see us off: friends, relatives, and the curious. Some stood and some sat on the grass. All were there to attend a short religious service on our behalf and to say goodbye. No doubt there were those who wondered if any of us would be seen again.

The rowers pulled the York and canoe close to the rocks and stepped ashore. With caps off and heads bowed, we listened to the minister’s strong voice as he intoned the prayers. As discreetly as possible, I took a few photographs to record the solemn scene. Two guitarists tuned up and led us all in a couple of hymns, with enthusiastic help from the open-air congregation.The Lord’s Prayer completed the service and the minister wished us a safe voyage.

As a final gesture, Charlie rolled our red square of sail out on the grass and invited the onlookers to sign their names with a black felt marker pen. Many did so while the others milled around, shaking hands with all of us. Quiet farewells were said by mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, brothers, and children. It was hard not to feel like a gate crasher at a private event. Even so, I was not ignored. Many people grasped my hand, patted me on the shoulder and wished me safe travels. Those few emotional moments as we prepared to embark would stay with us throughout our journey.

“Let’s go, boys!” Ken McKay signalled our departure by boarding the York first. Behind him, the rowers took their assigned places. I seated myself on the foredeck and John Wesley joined me there. Ken Ormand and Ben moved off in the canoe.

Ken McKay, town councillor, furniture manufacturer, boat-builder, and adventurer, called out the words we would soon know so well:

“Aha, boys! Oho, boys! Come on, boys! Let’s go, boys!”

The eight long oars dipped simultaneously into the lake, forcing us to back away from the shore. Ken swung the steering sweep to one side; the oars cut into the water again and the boat moved forward. The Norway House Cree Home Guards’ York boat expedition, from Norway House to York Factory, was under way at last. The time was 1:40 p.m. on August 17, 1994. From the shore a voice came over a loud hailer on the roof of a truck, “Good luck, guys. You will be in our prayers each day.”

For the first hour and twenty minutes there was little talk. The rowers, all well-practised after the recent York boat races on Playgreen Lake,²¹ dropped into an easy rhythm. On the steering oar, Ken McKay beamed happily. His dream of many years — to re-enact a traditional York boat voyage from Norway House to York Factory, just as his forefathers had done so many times — was at last coming true.

Off to our right and slightly ahead, the canoe puttered along steadily. A motorboat, with the minister and another man on board, caught us up and prompted our first tea break of the expedition. Obviously there was no particular urgency on this day.

For the next stage I joined Ken Ormand and Ben in the canoe to take photographs of the York from a different perspective. She was a stirring sight. Many of the rowers wore sweatbands around their heads. With their black hair, quite long on some of them, dark skin, and solid builds they looked every inch a crew of traditional Cree York boat tripmen. Only their modern, casual clothes told a different story. As we couldn’t see into the boat from our lowly position, they could just as easily have been carrying a load of furs for transshipment on Hudson’s Bay Company ships to England.

Tripmen, the York boat crews of the last century, were so called because they were paid by the trip.²² Normally they were paid half their wages at the beginning of the journey and the other half if they completed it alive. They rowed the boats. They portaged the freight and their York boats overland to avoid the worst of the rapids. They lowered the boats on handlines down some cascades and ran others with all on board. Unlike the tripmen of old, none of this crew was getting paid, before or after the voyage. Except for that difference, our experiences would reflect closely those of the long-dead heroes of this and other wilderness rivers in Canada.

The Cree, in particular the Swampy Cree, were considered by the HBC to be at least as reliable as their own European servants at hauling freight on the rivers.

“The Indian trippers invariably deliver their goods here in better condition than the Red River freemen,” Governor Simpson reported.²³ Simpson acknowledged to the London office that the Natives were more honest than the Company’s own European and Canadian servants. As a consequence of their reliability and credibility, the Norway House York Boat Brigade crews travelled without company officers.

“Indian trippers are by far the cheapest we can employ,” claimed another Company man.²⁴ No doubt the last was especially true; although the Company did accept the obligation of partly feeding the tripmens’ families while the men were on the rivers.

Flotillas of York boats, manned by Cree tripmen, frequently left Norway House in the summer months to make the downriver trip to York Factory. Those miniature armadas became known as the Hayes River Indian Brigades.²⁵ Travelling as a group gave them the opportunity of helping one another over the more difficult portages. The more manpower available to move a boat, the faster the job got done.

The Hayes River freight route had been in use, in some form or other, since at least the late seventeenth century. It wasn’t until the 1820s, however, that the Hayes River Indian Brigades began to become a serious work force on the river. By 1865, when the freight traffic on the Hayes River was at its zenith, the Hudson’s Bay Company employed 146 Indians (mostly Cree) fromYork Factory and Oxford House.²⁶ Norway House contributed a further forty-eight. Collectively they annually moved forty-eight York boat loads,²⁷ or a hefty 135 tons (137.16 metric tonnes), of freight from the remote post close to the shores of Hudson Bay to the waters of Lake Winnipeg.

On the first day of the 1994 expedition we travelled north down the Nelson River. Like the Hayes and the Churchill, the Nelson also flows north and east to Hudson Bay. In fact, it joins the bay only a few kilometres north of the Hayes. It is, however, a much wider and shallower river that was never a serious contender for the busy transportation route from the bay to the Red River Settlement. The route had been tried, but was dropped in favour of the Hayes River.

Each of the three virtually parallel rivers flows over the ancient rock of the Precambrian Shield. Dating back to the Archeozoic period, the rock formations are well in excess of 1,300 million years old.²⁸ They were there when the first algae appeared; the first signs of life. And long before the first homo sapiens. We, the latest step in the human evolutionary chain, would travel where a relatively limited number of our kind had journeyed.

Global warming, regularly in the news today, is not a new phenomenon. Global warming ended each of the ice ages. As the land warmed up and the glaciers of the last ice age began to melt and retreat 11,500 years ago, a huge lake was formed. Stretching across Manitoba, from Hudson Bay to well south of the 49th parallel, and from central Saskatchewan deep into northern Ontario, Lake Agassiz²⁹ was once the largest glacial lake in North America. As the lake has slowly subsided and the land returned, the rivers have continued their uninterrupted flow. Those rivers have been carving and fashioning this track since the last ice age ended. Today, as always, they have the ultimate control over this route and its travellers.

Although we had left Norway House early in the afternoon, with only half a day in which to travel, we were confident of reaching beyond the first rapids before nightfall. Hour after hour the rowers kept their pace. Occasionally one would call for water and a tin mug was passed forward or back as the need arose. Drinking water was simply scooped from the river without stopping the boats. In fact, the only water we ever used came from the river or from the lake beside us.

For the initial thirty kilometres or so from Norway House the river is peaceful. The rowers settled in to an easy rhythm, driving the boat north on a smooth, wide waterway. At Sea River Falls the river’s attitude changes dramatically. From one bank to the other, the Nelson River is nearly half a kilometre wide. Stretching the width of the river is a messy set of rapids running over a sharp ledge, and a wicked assortment of rocks staggered over varying horizontal distances. The total vertical drop is not much more than about three metres. It was still far more than the York boat could handle.

I was well aware that Sea River Falls was a dangerous rapid. A stone monument³⁰ in Norway House bears the inscription:“Erected by the Commissioned Officers of the Hudson’s Bay Company In Memory of Horace Belanger, Chief Factor, who was drowned near here on the 1st October, 1892 and of Stanley Simpson, Clerk, who was drowned at the same time in trying to save the life of his master and friend.”

That drowning took place at Sea River Falls when Belanger’s canoe overturned.