Читать книгу On the Old Athabaska Trail - Lawrence J. Burpee - Страница 6

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One afternoon, late in August, I sat on an inter-provincial boundary monument at the summit of Athabaska Pass, with one leg dangling in Alberta and the other in British Columbia. Before me lay a diminutive lake, whose curiously oval form perhaps suggested the odd name given to it a hundred years ago by fur-traders—the Committee's Punchbowl. On the other side of the lake towered a gigantic cone once known as M'Gillivray's Rock, and behind me rose a series of terraces, culminating in the peak which David Douglas the botanist named Mount Brown. From either end of the Committee's Punchbowl ran a tiny stream. One ultimately found its way to the Arctic by way of the Mackenzie, and the other to the Pacific through the Columbia.

As I sat there, enjoying the view and cursing the mosquitoes, my mind ran back over the history of this once-famous thoroughfare, and I thought of the men who had travelled the Old Athabaska Trail since the days of David Thompson—fur-traders, voyageurs and Indians, scientists, missionaries and travellers—a few remembered because of their books, a few more identified because mentioned in those books, and a thousand whose only record is the ancient trail through the woods below the pass and the deep, overgrown blazes in the trees along the trail.

My friend the Warden and I had left Jasper three days before, with our saddle-horses and a couple of pack-animals, and had made our way in leisurely fashion up the Athabaska and the Whirlpool to the pass. As far as the summit this was all in Jasper Park, but lay somewhat off the beaten track. For the most part of the way the only trails were the half-obliterated tracks of the fur-traders, for the Athabaska route was abandoned many years ago, and in recent times has been used only by an occasional trapper or a still more occasional traveller or alpine climber. Where the trail ran through heavy timber it was easily followed, but there were times when it petered out in a meadow or river-flat, and could only be picked up again after an exhaustive search.

The Warden's purpose in making the trip was to study the possibilities of the Whirlpool as a route for tourists into this remote corner of the park. My own was to follow the footsteps of David Thompson, and those who came after him, from the Athabaska up to the pass. I had already been over the old trail from Jasper down to the site of Jasper House and the two peaks that guard the entrance to the park, Roche à Perdrix and Boule Roche.

We camped the first night in an old cabin, a few miles up the Whirlpool, and got away early the following morning. The trail led for some time through virgin forest, where in some of the larger spruce we found old blazes almost buried in the growth of the tree, mute witnesses to days long past, cut perhaps by fur-traders in the early days of the last century. Here also we encountered that most pestiferous and bloodthirsty scourge of the mountains, the “bulldog,” most aptly named, for he (or she, for aught I know) bites with all the viciousness and tenacity of a fighting pup. And between, behind, and before the “bulldogs” came companies and battalions of mosquitoes. But, after all, every human journey worth the trial must have some compensating disadvantages and discomforts.

It was while we were packing the horses after lunch that day that the Warden took me by surprise. He was usually the most mild-mannered of men, too even-tempered and philosophical to allow the ordinary annoyances of camp-life to disturb him. Indeed, he had roughed it in so many different quarters of the world that most of the things that irritate the pampered man of the town when he gets out in the wild made no impression upon him. It was a hot day, the horses were unusually restless, and the Warden, after three unsuccessful attempts to get the pack on one of them, had just managed to make everything secure and was completing the last stage of a diamond-hitch, pulling on the rope with both hands and bracing himself against the animal's rump, when an evilly inspired “bulldog” lighted on his upper lip.

I saw it coming, from the other side of the pack, too far away to be of any help. Anyhow, what could one do under the circumstances? It is infra dig. to slap another man on the mouth, even to rid him of a “bulldog,” and no less forcible measures would have had any effect on that pertinacious insect. The Warden himself was so absorbed in his task that for a moment he was not conscious of the attack. When the fact was made painfully evident he gritted his teeth and hung on to the rope, pulling savagely to complete the hitch, determined that no mere fly should force him to yield.

Over the pack I watched the horrible conflict, the battle of wills, with fascinated interest. One moment I felt that the “bulldog” must win, the next it became certain from the way the Warden's teeth were clenched that it was a case of “No surrender.” He would complete the hitch at all costs. He glared down his nose. Sweat poured off his face. The “bulldog” was digging in his forceps with savage energy. One could almost see him bracing his feet for the effort. Finally the rope was made tight, and the Warden swung the first free hand around against his own mouth. The “bulldog” died in his moment of triumph, but surely none of his tribe ever had such a whole-hearted imprecation hurled at his departing spirit. The silent Warden was for the moment inspired. And his audience could do nothing but look on with mute sympathy and understanding.

During the afternoon we crossed one or two branches of the Whirlpool, and nearly came to grief on a very steep and insecure slope of rock and shale, that finally brought us down to the main stream again, which here flows for several miles in a number of winding channels through a wide flat of pebbles and small boulders. We rode upstream, crossing and re-crossing the river, which even here lives pretty well up to its name. On our right was the ridge that divided the main stream from the Middle Whirlpool. To the left rose a number of fine peaks, Ross Cox, Scott, and Evans, with the impressive Scott glacier coming down from what is known as the Hooker Icefield.

Leaving the river-flat, we picked up the trail after half an hour's hunt, and climbed up over a ridge through the bush. In the distance we could hear the music of a small waterfall. We kept on hour after hour, hunting for feed for the horses. Finally a little meadow on the left bank of the river tempted us to make camp, under the shoulder of Mount Evans. Here for some reason we were comparatively free from both flies and mosquitoes, and, having turned the horses loose, pitched the tent, and eaten our supper, we lighted our pipes and made ourselves comfortable in front of the camp-fire.

It was very restful, after a long day's pull over rough trails, to lie on the ground and listen to the wind in the pines, and the grinding of boulders in the Whirlpool beside us, sometimes like voices in drowsy conversation, sometimes like the distant growling of bears, making an odd undercurrent of sound beneath the soft monotone of the running water. Every little while the music of wind and water would be punctuated by the muffled roar of some distant avalanche, one of the most awe-inspiring sounds that one hears in the heart of the mountains.

“Speaking of bears,” I said, “do you see many grizzlies in the park?”

“We weren't speaking of them,” replied the Warden. “However, we do run across them occasionally, and occasionally they run across us. One of our fellows had a queer experience last spring. He was working in the corner of his cabin with his back to the door. Heard the door open and slam to. He called 'Hello!' thinking it was one of the men. Getting no answer, he glanced over his shoulder—and made a quick grab for his gun. A grizzly had pushed in through the door, which shut to after him. The bear could see no way out, felt he was trapped, and turned savagely toward the man. The man was in a devil of a scrape. The bear was between him and the door, and he knew that if he tried to wriggle through the window the bear would certainly get him. Fortunately he was a good shot, and kept his head. The skin made a fine floor-mat.”

“That reminds me,” I said, “of a story Ross Cox tells in his Adventures on the Columbia. It appears that in the spring of 1816 a party of fur-traders had been sent down the Flathead River. One evening while they were quietly sitting around a blazing fire eating a hearty dinner of deer, a large, half-famished bear cautiously approached the group from behind a large tree, and, before they were aware of his presence, he sprang across the fire, seized one of the men round the waist with his two forepaws, and ran about fifty yards with him on his hind legs before he stopped.

“The man's comrades were so thunderstruck that for some time they lost all presence of mind, and ran to and fro in a state of fear and confusion, each expecting in his turn to be kidnapped. At length a half-breed hunter, Baptiste Le Blanc, seized his gun, and was in the act of firing at the bear, but was stopped by some of the others, who told him he would certainly kill their friend in the position in which he was then placed.

“Meanwhile the bear had relaxed his grip of the captive, whom he kept securely under him, and very leisurely began picking a bone which the latter had dropped. Once or twice Louisson attempted to escape, which only caused the grizzly to watch him more closely; but, on his making another attempt, he again seized Louisson round the waist, and commenced giving him one of those infernal embraces which generally end in death.

“The poor fellow was now in great agony, and gave voice to the most frightful screams. Seeing Baptiste with his gun ready, he cried out, 'Tire! tire! mon cher frère, si tu m'aimes. Tire, pour l'amour du bon Dieu! À la tête! À la tête!' This was enough for Le Blanc, who instantly let fly, and hit the bear over the right temple. He fell, and at the same moment dropped Louisson, but gave him an ugly scratch with his claws across the face, which for some time afterward spoiled his beauty. After the shot Le Blanc darted to his comrade's assistance, and with his hunting-knife quickly finished the bear, and pulled Louisson out from under him, pretty thoroughly frightened, but otherwise not much the worse for his experience, barring the scratch.”

“Humph!” grunted the Warden. “Where d'you say you got that yarn?”

“Ross Cox,” I replied, “the old fur-trader after whom that peak above the flats was named. He came through here in 1817, going east, and wrote a pretty good book on the fur trade. More human than some of them. Don't you believe the bear story?”

“Oh, may be,” said the Warden cautiously. “A bear might do that sort of thing if he was starving. Usually they keep away from a fire. Of course rum things sometimes happen. There was a trapper who had a narrow escape last year. He had had a heavy day, found himself a long way from camp at sundown, and slept behind a log. He was tired, and slept later than usual. Finally a noise woke him, and he found himself looking up into the gaping jaws of a huge grizzly, which was straddled over him.

“He knew that if he made any sudden movement he was done for. His gun was beside him, but the chances of using it were mighty slim. However, he must make the attempt. It was that or nothing. Very slowly and cautiously he drew it into position, freezing into rigidity whenever the bear grew suspicious. Finally he let fly, and pretty near blew the old fellow's head off. By great good luck he kept clear of the claws, but pretty nearly had the life crushed out of him when the heavy body came down on top. Managed to pull himself clear finally, more dead than alive, and an awful sight.”

The Warden refilled his pipe, lighted it with a burning twig, and remarked, “Bears certainly are queer cattle. There was Pete, now, over on the Miette. He walked into his cabin one morning an' found a bear lying on his bed. Pete slammed the door after him and ran round to the front, only to meet the bear coming through the window. He yelled and the bear growled, and they both beat it in different directions.”

I glanced at the Warden reproachfully. “Whose leg do you think you're pulling?” I asked.

The Warden got up, stretched himself, knocked the dottle out of his pipe and put it in his pocket. “A man,” said he disgustedly, “can tell lies by the yard, and get away with it; but when he's telling nothin' but God's unvarnished truth some tenderfoot is sure to doubt his word.” And he vanished into the tent.

We took our time the third day, knowing that, barring accidents, we could make the summit easily before nightfall. We stopped for lunch in a beautiful meadow, where the horses had a good feed. The Whirlpool, now reduced to a mere creek, rushed down through the middle of the meadow. We found a pool, and, as the day was hot, enjoyed a plunge into its depths.

The trail again managed to lose itself, and took a good deal of finding. Eventually we stumbled across it, up among the rocks on the hillside. We rode on toward the summit, the timber getting smaller as we advanced. Marmots whistled their peculiarly mournful note, and one particularly fat old chap sat on top of a boulder watching us superciliously as we went by. The trail ran through a meadow, full of alpine flowers, and an occasional patch of snow. Finally we surmounted a little hillock and saw before us three little lakes, one in Alberta, one in British Columbia, and the middle one, the Committee's Punchbowl, straddling the summit, half in one province and half in the other.

THE OLD ATHABASKA TRAIL From a water-colour in the Canadian Archives by Captain Warre

We rode on and pitched our tent beside the third lake, in British Columbia, facing M'Gillivray's Rock and Kane Glacier, with the peak that has been named Mount Hooker in the background. The four horses, Highbrow and Bill, the saddle-horses, and Rastus and Ginger, the pack animals, were turned loose to try the merits of British Columbian grass. For some time we saw nothing of them, as they were feeding in a meadow beyond the lake and behind some trees. They were too hungry to think of mischief. Finally, however, the maddening attentions of clouds of mosquitoes and “bulldogs” overcame all other considerations, and, under the leadership of Highbrow, they started back along the trail for Jasper. Fortunately I caught a glimpse of the leader as he rounded the end of the lake, and by sprinting along the hillside just managed to head them off.

The following morning we moved camp up to the Punchbowl. This historic spot was covered with the remains of previous camps, ancient and modern, from the old days of the fur trade down to the recent inter-provincial boundary surveys. Before lunch I tried a swim in the Punchbowl, and found a wonderful spot to dive from—a rock covered half a foot deep with moss, and the moss almost hidden under a softly glowing mass of pink heather. The water was deliciously clear and cold, but one had to hustle into one's clothes, with only a most perfunctory attempt at drying, to escape being eaten alive.

In the afternoon, thinking to get some pictures of the pass and the peaks on either side, I climbed up the rocks to the first terrace, only to find that the next terrace offered an even finer prospect. Leaving the camera here, on an exposed rock, I clambered up one terrace after another, gaining an ever wider and more glorious view of the mountains. Finally I thought I might have time to get up to the summit of Mount Brown, but the declining sun and an imminent storm made it wise to turn back. As it was, I could not find the camera in the failing light, and had to climb up for it the next morning. But there was compensation in some wonderful effects of low-lying clouds swirling down the pass into Alberta. And when the storm finally broke, and one great peak after another was blotted out, one stood spellbound by the splendid pageantry, as the royal reverberations crashed up and down the pass. It was worth a wetting.

The fifth morning we started back down the Whirlpool, making a long day of it to reach a good camping ground—that is to say, ground with good feed for the horses, for, after all, if one travels on horseback that must be the first consideration. We passed on the way an old trail to Canoe Pass, which the Warden promised himself to look into at some future time. The pack-horses, by the way, offered an unfailing source of amusement by their transparent attempts to excite sympathy whenever the loads were put on their backs. It mattered not what you started with, light or heavy, they immediately began a heart-breaking moan, and kept it up until the pack was finally roped. It sounded as much as anything else like a decrepit foghorn, and was pure bunkum, as both Rastus and Ginger knew perfectly well, and probably knew that we knew, but kept it up either from force of habit or on the very off-chance that they might fool us some day.

After the tent had been pitched and everything made snug, I wandered up a little tributary of the Whirlpool looking for rainbow trout, but without much success. The fish were there, but they were not hungry, or were otherwise engaged. However, there was compensation in sitting on a mossy bank at the edge of the stream after sundown, and enjoying the always gorgeous panorama of the mountains. I remember one peculiarly effective picture—an extraordinarily jagged peak with a woolly cloud poised on its very summit, and immediately above it the evening star. Then one turned to earth, and found wonderful shadowy vistas down long aisles of pine, with somewhere in the distance the wild note of the whiskey-jack. That night, too, we were awakened about midnight by coyotes shrieking in chorus like a band of lost souls. About as uncomfortable a sound to listen to in the depth of the night as can well be imagined.

The following day we were unlucky. Rode all morning through one shower after another until we were pretty well soaked. The trail ran through heavy brush, all of it saturated and dripping; the footing was bad for the horses, boggy ground with boulders underneath, and a good many fallen trees. Altogether we had a rather uncomfortable time. Also we were worried about the ford at the West Branch, which was bad enough at any time, and decidedly dangerous at high water.

We got there about noon, and, as the rain had temporarily stopped, decided to unpack the horses and give them a rest, and get some lunch ourselves. With some difficulty we managed to coax fire out of the very unsatisfactory fuel at hand, and made a pot of tea. Only just in time, too, as the rain came down again harder than ever. Hastily packing the horses, we rode down to the river. It looked bad, and under ordinary circumstances we would not have thought of attempting it. But we had had several hours' rain, and there was every reason to believe that it had been coming down hard up in the pass. The river was rising very rapidly, and, if we did not attempt the ford now, we would probably have to camp in that very uncomfortable spot, with practically no feed for the horses, for two or three days. That was out of the question, so we made up our minds to get across somehow.

The packs were given an additional tightening, and we made sure that everything was snug both on them and the saddle-horses. Then the two pack-animals were roped together, and, the Warden leading, we started across. It is always difficult to realise, until you are actually in it, the extraordinary force of water running down a narrow, tortuous channel at a very steep slope. This little stream, never anything but boisterous, was now a roaring torrent. Its bed was of large round boulders, and, with such footing and the terrific force of the current, it seemed almost inconceivable that any horse could manage to keep on his feet.

The Warden, coaxing his own horse along, and dragging the pack-animals after him, gradually edged his way across, and finally reached the opposite bank. As he did so, however, the first pack-horse was struggling through the worst part of the ford, and the little one behind was for a moment or two swept completely off his feet. It was a nervous moment, as if the animal should be rolled over by the current he would be done for; the heavy pack would keep his head under, and probably the first horse would be pulled down with him.

Fortunately the gallant Highbrow stood the strain nobly, the first pack-horse kept his feet, and finally the Warden succeeded in getting all three ashore, with no worse damage than a little water in the provisions. Meanwhile I had watched the performance from the other bank, unable to give any practical assistance. My own horse did not like the situation at all, and only entered the stream with great reluctance. When finally we got out to the middle, he stood shivering, looking wildly to one bank and the other. No amount of coaxing would induce him to move forward another step, so that I had to let him turn back. After a little rest, I persuaded him to try it again. When we reached the middle Bill decided that he might as well make the best of a bad job, and with a wild scramble we finally made the bank, wet but contented. One felt more for the horse than oneself, while the current was swirling wildly past, and Bill groped for a footing on the tops of slippery boulders several feet under water; but after I got safely ashore, it suddenly struck me that, if Bill had got adrift, my chances of coming out alive would have been too slight to be worth reckoning.

Fortunately for us the rain stopped soon after we crossed the West Branch, and, although we were now thoroughly soaked between the rain and the river, we were so relieved to have come out of the affair with everything intact that this seemed a negligible discomfort, and we rode on quite contentedly to an early camp, where a big fire soon dried our clothes and restored our tempers.

This was our last evening in camp, and, as we sat around the fire, talking over the events of the trip up to the Committee's Punchbowl, the Warden said, “They tell me that a chap named Thompson was the first man that went through Athabaska Pass.” I was deeply interested in David Thompson and his work as a geographer and explorer, as well as in the history of Athabaska Pass, and had stuffed a lot of notes into my bag when I left home so that I might study certain doubtful points on the spot. Consequently I was better armed than a man usually is to answer the question.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “Thompson is the first man who left any narrative of his journey through the pass, or, at any rate, his is the only account that has survived or of which we have any record. But he is not the first man who travelled through the pass. His own narrative shows that on his famous journey of 1810-11 he took as a guide one Thomas, an Iroquois, who, of course, must have gone that way before or he could not have acted as guide. Also Thompson's contemporary in the fur trade, Alexander Henry, who met Thompson as he was starting out on his journey, mentions in his journal that a party of Nipissing Indians and 'freemen' (that is to say, fur-traders who were not connected with any of the trading companies, but hunted on their own) had followed the same route over the mountains some years before, and Thompson found traces of this party when he himself went through. Also Gabriel Franchère, another fur-trader, who went through Athabaska Pass in 1814, makes the positive statement that 'J. Henry first discovered the pass.' He probably means William Henry, who built Henry House near the mouth of the Miette.

“Excuse these very learned remarks,” I said, “which don't amount to much after all. Thompson was the real discoverer of the pass, because he is the first man to have left any account of his journey.”

The Warden grunted, and got up to replenish the fire. “Since you know so much about it,” he remarked ungraciously, “who was Thompson, anyway?”

“But,” I said modestly, “I'm afraid I am only boring you.”

“Even if you are,” he retorted, “it's too early to turn in yet. Go ahead. I might as well suffer in the interests of posterity. You're probably trying this stuff on me before putting it in a book. Who was Thompson?”

“David Thompson,” I said, “was born in Westminster, England, in 1770. He was a Welshman by origin. Got his education at the Grey Coat School, and entered the service of the Hudson's Bay Company at the age of fourteen. He sailed from London in the Company's ship Prince Rupert, and reached Fort Churchill, on Hudson Bay, in the autumn of 1784. He spent the winter under Samuel Hearne, the famous explorer, and was then sent down the coast to York Factory. In July, 1786, he says in his journal that he was sent inland equipped with a trunk, a handkerchief, shoes, shirts, a gun and powder, and a tin cup, as one of a party to establish trading-posts on the Saskatchewan. He had picked up a little mathematics at the Grey Coat School, and later learned practical astronomy and surveying under Philip Turnor at Cumberland House.

“Thompson was really a very extraordinary man. He remained with the Hudson's Bay Company for thirteen years, doing his duty faithfully as a trader, but all the time travelling to and fro throughout the unexplored and partly explored regions of the west, making careful surveys of the country, and never missing a chance to take astronomical observations and fix the positions of trading-posts and other definite points. One of these was Cumberland House. Listen to what J. B. Tyrrell, himself an eminent surveyor and explorer, has to say about his work at that particular place: 'At that time there were very few other points on this whole continent of America whose positions on the earth's surface were as accurately known as this remote trading-post on the Saskatchewan. On the maps of Canada its position has been changed many times, but the latest surveys have brought it back to the place to which it was assigned by this young astronomer one hundred and twenty-five years ago.'

“At the end of thirteen years Thompson became convinced that the Hudson's Bay Company was not interested in exploration, and decided to transfer his services to its great rival, the North West Company. He remained with the latter company until 1812, and while with them carried out some of his most important work as an explorer and surveyor. In fact, even to-day much of the information on the maps of Western Canada and the north-western part of the United States was obtained originally from David Thompson.

“He is said to have resembled John Bunyan in appearance, to have been bold and fearless both physically and morally, and to have had an extraordinary capacity for hard work. One who knew him in his latter years says he had a very powerful mind and a singular faculty for picture-making. 'He can create a wilderness and people it with warring savages, or climb the Rocky Mountains with you in a snowstorm, so clearly and palpably, that only shut your eyes and you hear the crack of the rifle, or feel snow-flakes on your cheeks as he talks.'

“Thompson seems to have been one of the first of Canadian prohibitionists. He tells this story in his journal: 'I was obliged to take two kegs of alcohol (in his expedition to the Columbia valley in 1808) overruled by my partners, for I had made it a law to myself that no alcohol should pass the mountains in my company, and thus be clear of the sad sight of drunkenness and its many evils; but these gentlemen insisted upon alcohol being the most profitable article that could be taken for the Indian trade. In this I knew they had miscalculated; accordingly when we came to the defiles of the mountains I placed the two kegs of alcohol on a vicious horse, and by noon the kegs were empty and in pieces, the horse rubbing his load against the rocks to get rid of it. I wrote to my partners what I had done, and that I would do the same to every keg of alcohol, and for the next six years I had charge of the fur trade on the west side of the mountains no further attempt was made to introduce spirituous liquors.'”

“Well, that's that,” said the Warden. “But I wish we had a little of his liquor here to-night.”