Читать книгу New Rivers of the North: The Yarn of Two Amateur Explorers - Footner Hulbert - Страница 20

The greater part of the next day was spent in crossing Moose Lake. "Mile 17" at its head is the terminus of the tote road. It was reputed to be a much wickeder place than the Summit, but we did not stop to see. It is only ten miles across the lake, but we had a strong head wind, which kicked up a nasty sea and held back the clumsy Blunderbuss as if the giant hand which assisted us the day before was now turned against us. It was very discouraging. We finally landed and let the wind blow itself out.

Moose Lake offered another series of pictures that stagger description. The great snow-capped mountains press together, squeezing the lake between. The range to the north is known as the Rainbow mountains from the striking outcrop of red and yellow rocks near the summits. It was an awful beauty rather than pleasing, for the mountain-sides were burnt over long ago, and the forests are only of haggard gray sticks. Between stretches the cold green lake, making one feel that it is thousands of feet deep. But when we got to the westerly end of the lake and looked back, the towering ranges sweeping away into the distance all drenched in the late sunshine made a sight of unforgettable loveliness.

The tote road recommences at the foot of the lake—they traverse the gap in barges—and we inquired here as to the means of further transport. We knew that within the next twenty miles or so old Lady Fraser romped down a thousand foot flight of stairs. The result of our inquiries was discouraging. It appeared that at this end of the road there were no "Gyppos" or "wheel-barrow outfits," as they call the independent freighters, and the contractors, we were told, refused to carry a pound that was not of their own.

This night, July 11th, there was a heavy frost. We awoke in our camp at the "cache" covered with rime, and the tea we had left in our unwashed cups was frozen solid. At the same time in all the great cities of the country the people were dying from the heat by the score.

Under the circumstances we decided to push on down the river as far as we could, and then if nothing better turned up, carry our stuff on our backs the rest of the way to Tête Jaune cache. Hereafter we took the precaution to land at the head of each rapid to look it over, and it was well that we did so. We had gone about three miles when we were stopped by one of the usual swift places on a bend. We had to climb a bold promontory to get a look at the river beyond, and as we rounded it a hoarse roar smote our ears, and a gorge opened at our feet with a tumbling cascade in the bottom that made the worst rapids we had descended above look like riffles. We could see nearly half a mile of it, growing worse and worse as it descended, and then it roared out of sight away below. It was no place for the Blunderbuss.

The tote road proved to be half a mile from the river at this point, and we were obliged to put our stuff on our inexperienced backs and clamber up hill. It was cruel hard work, and the half mile effectually destroyed our enthusiasm for walking the rest of the twenty. We went into camp beside the road, and I walked back to the "cache" at Mile 27 to see what could be done. Two of "Foley's" teams were pulling out for the cache next morning, and I found it was possible with discretion to make a private arrangement with the drivers. They couldn't have taken us on at the cache, but down the road it was all right, so that our little trip down the river was not wasted.

These two carried out their bargain to the letter, and moreover proved to be highly entertaining companions. I regret that I cannot for obvious reasons sketch their portraits.

For the rest of the way the tote road followed the river more or less closely. We were never out of sound of its deep voice, and we had frequent glimpses of its wild, white plunges, its quiet, green pools, and its extraordinary barricades of drift-logs. But the great event of this part of the journey was the view of Mount Robson, 13,700 feet, the highest known peak in British North America.

To the traveler bound westward as we were its first appearance is arranged with matchless dramatic effect. It lies about eleven miles north of the Fraser, blocking the valley of the Grand Forks, and the whole mass of it is visible to its base. It bursts on the beholder as he rounds a hill, complete in its magnificence. Our freighters had prepared us for the sight, and our anticipation was keyed up to the highest pitch, nevertheless we were stunned with astonishment. There was no question of its supremacy. It dominated the whole world thereabouts, and the Heavens too, and the mountains that had been filling us with awe a moment before became pygmies. It opened up to us a brand new conception of nobility and loveliness. Its dazzling, far-flung peak of ice against the delicate blue of the sky was like a symbol of the highest aspirations in the breast of man.

We set off in a bee-line pell-mell through the down timber to gain some vantage point from which we might see still more of the beautiful monster and take his picture. It was very hard going, and we found that the higher we climbed and the nearer we approached, only the more obstructions rose between. Finally from a ridge about seven miles distant we got a couple of pictures. We then scrambled down to the level of the Grand Forks River where we got a completer view. We found a trail by the river and came within about three miles of the base of Mount Robson where we took our last picture. By this time the sun had swung away round to the west, and the valley was dark at our feet.

All the pictures of course are very disappointing. It is nothing less than sacrilege to attempt to reduce a king among mountain peaks to the limits of a three by five plate. Mount Robson cannot be conveyed by any means. You must go to it. It was a long time before we could tear ourselves away. We relinquished our supper rather. I understand we were particularly fortunate in our day. The mountain does not often choose to reveal itself fully to mortals, but on this afternoon the clouds were floating even higher than the peak, and every line of its face was revealed in the glory of the sunshine. We went back to camp with our heads over our shoulder watching the mountain turn rose-color in the failing light.

When one describes it as a mass of gray rock fantastically cleft and terraced and piled; every ledge heaped with snow, and the gorges choked with pale green ice, it conveys nothing. Our reason told us we were looking at staggering cliffs, at great gulfs of snow and ice, and at far-flung waterfalls, but the effect on the inner sense was of something tender and unreal. It was as far removed from our ken as the sky, against which it floated. The mountain was enwrapped in its own loveliness like a mantle. It seemed not like a real mountain, but a dream that was bound to recede as it was approached.

Early next day we came within striking distance of Tête Jaune cache, and we took to the water again, to save our friends the embarrassment of bringing us into camp. There were some rapids between, but nothing to put us about. Tête Jaune cache is at the western gateway to the Rocky Mountains, at the head of possible navigation on the Fraser. This was as far as the railway construction had been carried at that time. Tête Jaune has its history; the Indians of British Columbia and the Indians of the plains once met here annually to exchange salmon for leather. The pass and the cache get their name from an early trader here whose blonde locks made a great impression on the Indians, but while the name of the pass has been rendered into English, the cache keeps the old French form.

We were disappointed in the place we had heard so much about along the line. There was nothing to be seen but a wretched stopping-house in a tent, a small store which was closed in the absence of the proprietor on a berry-picking expedition, and a camp of degenerate Indians on the south bank. Try as we would, we were unable to acquire any definite information about the river below. A roving traveler who had arrived before us was anxious to join forces with our party, but the twelve-foot Blunderbuss would not stand the strain.

The Indians at Tête Jaune were a little less sophisticated than their cousins at Mile 88. This is a small community of the Beavers who have strayed from the main tribe along the Peace. There is a trail connecting the headwaters of the Big Smoky (the largest tributary of the Peace) with the Fraser. These Indians lived in tepees, and alongside they had built picturesque summer shelters of leaves. They are fishermen, and they reap their harvest when the salmon come up the Fraser in August.

We visited the tepees in search of moccasins. There were only women in evidence, and communications proved difficult. At our efforts to make ourselves understood they only squirmed and tittered in spasms of embarrassment. The great size of our feet was a bar for one thing, moreover there is a widespread joke about buying moccasins that we did not know then. It is not the kind of joke that is told in Sunday-school so I am unable to impart it generally. I will merely say that in buying moccasins it is more discreet to apply to the lady's husband.

We found a man at last, and he ordered his wife to make a pair of moccasins and to repair our old ones. This man had a few words of English, but it was vain to try to get any information about the river from him. He did tell us, however, what fish there were and how to catch them. We took a photograph of this family. Their greatest treasure in the world was a phonograph. It was "broke," but they were none the less proud of it. The man insisted on having the horn show in the picture, and here it is.

I had the advantage of overhearing a frank opinion of our outfit at Tête Jaune. It was very hot, and I was lying under the shade of some bushes on the bank. My partner was still among the tepees waiting for his moccasins. Two men sat down on the bank above my head; the Blunderbuss was drawn up on the beach below them, but they could not see me.

"Well, that's a H— of a lookin' boat!" said one voice. They both laughed uproariously.

"Looks like a piece of cheese-cloth and a few barrel-hoops!" the same voice went on. "And going to beard old Lady Fraser in a contraption like that! Gosh! the first time they hit a snag the whole outfit'll crumple up!" Again they laughed.

"Who are they?" asked the other voice.

"Oh, I dunno. Two smart young guys from the East. You can't tell them nothin'."

"Nine men drowned in the river this spring," remarked the second speaker. He went on to fill in the harrowing details, which I will omit.

"Well, take it from me, there's goin' to be two more!" said the other. At that they both roared with laughter again as if they would never stop.

I jumped up in great indignation—not because they had prognosticated our taking-off, but because they considered it such a rich joke. It was a white man and a breed. They looked rather foolish at the sight of me.

"Do you know anything about the river?" I demanded of the white man.

"No," he said, "nor I don't want to!"

"Do you?" I asked of the breed.

He shook his head. "Only forty mile down," he said.

I made a suitable rejoinder and walked with great dignity to the Blunderbuss. But the white man continued to laugh.