Читать книгу Journeys to the Far North - Olaus J. Murie - Страница 9

HUDSON BAY AND LABRADOR

Up to Great Whale River

The great opportunity came not long after my graduation from Pacific University, while I was working for the Oregon state naturalist William Finley. An expedition was going into the Far North—country where there were still blank spaces on the map. My friend Stanley Jewett had been asked to go but could not, and this gave me the opportunity to apply for his position as assistant.

In 1914 many of us young people were reading avidly about exploration in little-known regions and looking to the north for adventure. We often heard of the “jumping-off place,” where you left behind established means of living and went off to explore unknown country. I began packing my gear in Oregon with this exciting phrase running through my mind.

On this occasion Carnegie Museum of Pittsburgh was sending another expedition to Hudson Bay under the leadership of the veteran ornithologist W. E. Clyde Todd. I was to be his assistant and collect museum specimens—I, only a novice in preparing specimens, although I had practiced it informally for several years. Here was my chance to go north, to see, to learn, to find out!

Late in May we arrived in Cochrane, Ontario, the end of train travel and the other mechanics of civilization. There we met our two Ojibway Indian guides, Paul Commanda and Jack. When I saw them walking taciturn and expressionless in the village of Cochrane, the white man’s domain, they did not seem impressive. Were these two to take us to the Far North?

After a few days we made our start. We and our equipment were taken out to the bank of the Bell River, where the eighteen-foot Peterborough freight canoe was waiting. Here in their own domain, the Indians came alive. Paul, the chief guide, slim and athletic, took charge of the loading. Jack (whom we somehow called “Jocko”), tall and capable, was equally efficient.

I looked around. We were on the bank of a river thickly flanked by spruce forest as far as one could see. This was our “jumping-off place!” Before us, stretching far into the north, lay the unknown.

The canoe loaded, we got in—Paul in the bow, Jocko in the stern, and Mr. Todd and I in the center. All we two had to do was paddle; the Indians would guide the canoe.

From now through all the summer months, the canoe would be our home, along with the simple camp we would make each night. As I look back now to that memorable first trip, I tend to ignore the scientific data we gathered, the specimens we collected, important as these were. There lingers much more clearly the remembrance of those many days of canoe travel— the lakes we crossed, the rivers we went down, the water, the rapids, the inviting shorelines. Added to this was the thrill of noting and collecting birds along the way. Each night I also put out mouse traps, and altogether we made a collection of data and skins that would add to the fund of such knowledge in the museum. But aside from the necessary work for which expeditions are sent out, there are impressions one gets which seem aimless at the time but which add much to the personal value of a remembered journey.

I remember I found out something about myself that first day—a surprise to me. I had thought I was an expert with the canoe. That was at least one thing I could feel familiar with, for I had had years of experience on the Red River in Minnesota. We boys had even built our own canoe, using barrel hoops for ribs, with a covering of sturdy wheat sacks, which were in common use at that time. But here on the Bell River I soon saw something different. We had a long way to travel, and our Indian guides were really going places. Their paddle strokes were quick and powerful, and we all had to keep the fast rhythm set by Paul in the bow. How different from the lazy Sunday-afternoon kind of canoeing! Nothing was said. The Indians set the pace, and in time we got used to it. This was canoe travel in wilderness. The canoe was an Indian invention and these Indians knew how to use it.

As we slid rapidly down that river, I kept looking at the forest along the banks. What was it like in there? We had glimpses of birds, little ones, like certain flycatchers and sparrows which live in the north woods, and larger ones like the ravens. As we camped, I explored back from the river and collected specimens. That was my job, and I was eager to make good on this my first expedition. I remember when I brought in the first specimen, a ruffed grouse; how embarrassed I was as Mr. Todd watched me skin the bird! After all, he had only my word that I could do these things. On the other hand, he won my admiration when I noticed that he could identify every little sound a bird made. Certainly his notes were eminently authentic. Once in a while, whenever I had a few spare moments, I would make a sketch of a bird, in black and white or in color. Today these sketches mean a great deal to me.

We traveled along, got acquainted, found something to admire in one another. We were all different. I became very interested in the Indians, their skills and their characters. And they taught me much about canoe travel. The endless stream of water going down the river channel in varied country is not always placid. There are rough places filled with boulders and, downhill, the river rapids. All this was new to me.

When we approached and looked down on the watery turmoil ahead, I thought: “Are we going down through that in the canoe?”

Yes, we were. There was some conversation in Ojibway between the two guides, evidently over planning the route. Then down we went. I was grateful that the Indians were in charge. I just sat there paddling hard when they told me to and trembling with fear as our big canoe bounced around like a feather among the rocks, where water was pouring over, whitened by the speed and turmoil; we would bounce off a swell, meet another one, and ride over. Right away I learned to do what the Indians told me. We had to reach a speed greater than the rushing water in order to go where we wanted; otherwise we would drift onto the rocks, smash over, and the river would have its way with us. So, contrary to my instinct to hold my breath and hope for the best as a rocky lump in the water rushed toward us, I would paddle hard for greater speed, and we would glide by at one side. Time seems long in an emergency, but we were going fast, and it must have been a very short time before we would glide into a quiet pool below the rapids. It was over, and we were still afloat!

Our route was not all river travel. Sometimes we portaged across to a lake or another stream. I was glad the Indians knew where we were going and how to get there. All I had to do was paddle, carry a load over the portages, collect specimens on shore, write notes in my diary about birds seen along the way, and enjoy the passing Canadian scene.

In the diary I find the following notation for June 8:

“In the evening olive-backed thrushes, water thrushes, and a white-throated sparrow were singing, nighthawks were swooping, and an occasional chirp of some other bird was heard, making a pleasing combination with the twilight.”

What a varied life—adventuring on river and lake, seeking scientific knowledge, and enjoying beauty!

The lakes also taught me something, for I had always canoed on rivers. On the large lakes, where winds had the say of things when they came, we found it necessary to calculate carefully before starting across. Sometimes we had to stay in camp a whole day while the wind whipped up big whitecaps. Sometimes we would start traveling as late as four o’clock in the afternoon, whenever the weather would let us. But these periods ashore gave me an opportunity to explore the woods, prepare museum specimens, and sometimes make another drawing.

Those woods! In there were down logs, bushes and many kinds of plants, birds, signs of rodents—all that goes with a coniferous forest environment. Here was a forest exhibiting the true balance of nature’s process. Aside from the aesthetic quality of such a place, it had great scientific value in the emerging phases of ecology.

We had not been many days on our trip when I became aware that this northern wilderness was populated. This, I found, was canoe and Indian country. All travel in summer was by canoe, and the travelers were Indians and a few fur traders, with occasional inquisitive scientific parties like our own.

This was brought home to me vividly one evening. We had made our camp on the shore of a big lake. All was quiet, and dusk was approaching when I heard a rhythmic sound. I looked out in the direction it came from, and there appeared a long canoe with at least seven Indians crossing the lake. Their paddles all dipped in unison, and all the bodies leaned forward with each stroke, the sounds coming across the still water with strong, repeated emphasis. There, in the twilight on a smooth lake, was a beautiful symbol of Indian life in this north country, with the canoe and its inventor in one appropriate setting.

A few days later we arrived at a Revillon Frères trading post on the shore of another lake, with an Indian camp as part of it. The post surprised me, but I was to learn that these adventurous fur traders had gone into many far places in the north. We stopped there to camp.

After a while I paddled out on the lake with our empty canoe to photograph the shore. I had given little attention to an offshore wind until I wanted to return to camp. Then I was in trouble. The canoe bow rose high in the air; sitting in the stern, with the wind swinging it one way and then another, I found I had a real problem. Just then I noticed a row of Indian women standing on the shore watching this inexperienced white man trying to make the canoe do what he wanted it to. This scene did not help my morale. I was sure the stern of a canoe was the proper place from which to steer it. Struggling desperately, I finally managed to make long slants with the wind on the quarter and eventually reached shore. Paul waited there to help me beach the canoe. He used one of the nicknames he and Jocko had given me as he said quietly: “Baptiste, next time just get in the bow, kneel down, and paddle right in to shore.”

Each day was different. One day I wrote in my journal: “Painted a violet.” Another time: “Sketched a nighthawk.”

We found nests of ravens. One day’s notation: “Camped on Sugar Loaf portage. An Indian camp there—two women, three children, and some dogs. The men were off after supplies.”

One day we were going down through the tumbling waters and big waves of another rapids. We were having a lot of experience with white water, and I was getting used to it, but I was still apprehensive each time we went into it. We were paddling hard in this one, and I watched each wave closely as it approached us. Then I heard Jocko’s quiet but urgent voice behind me:

“Baptiste! Give me your paddle!”

Without looking I reached my paddle back and felt his hand take it. I just sat there, watching the white water around us. Soon we were safe in the quiet water below, and we all relaxed. The others had been so intent on the canoe problem before us that they had not heard Jocko’s request. Now we learned that halfway down his paddle had broken in two—and he in the important position in the canoe! I was glad I had passed my paddle very quickly in response to his quiet request.

One day Paul surprised me. I don’t remember exactly what our conversation was—possibly I was making a confession to him, with whom I had become pretty chummy, but I remember not wanting the others to know how scared I was in rapids. Paul made the statement, “I never go through a rapids without being scared. I know just how little it takes!” Paul, of all people—our chief guide, who made his living running rapids! I have often remembered his words, especially when, years later, I was climbing a high mountain in the Rockies with an experienced climber and guide, who admitted his fear when he negotiated narrow ledges with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. At any rate, my own fear of the rapids seemed more reasonable after Paul’s remark.

We had been about a month on the way when, on June 26, we reached Rupert House, a prominent Hudson Bay fur trading post on James Bay. We were through the forested canoe country and had reached salt water. Now new plans had to be made. There were Indians at this post, some white people, dogs, buildings—something different in this great expanse of wild country. But here, too, while others were preparing for our further trip, I kept busy collecting specimens. I found pet birds and a pet fox living with the Indians, and many sled dogs. Truly we had reached the north country.

I find in my notes for July 2:

“In the muskeg I heard a fine, long-drawn, ‘squeaky’ cheep and followed it up. When I finally found the bird, it proved to be a hermit thrush. In the evening I went out again and found one singing in the top of a spruce—one of the finest songs I have heard. Everything else was still, with only the muskeg all around and the softening glow of the sunset. The bird itself stood out boldly against the sky, as if it intended to have an audience.”

Little beautiful things—big plans—but here was human living in the wilderness. Before us, to the north, was Hudson Bay country.

At Rupert House we had to make new plans. Our chief guide, Paul, with whom I had become very friendly, was not feeling well. He had a chance to go to Charlton Island, in James Bay, where there was a small community with a doctor. We hated to have Paul leave us but agreed that he ought to go. To take his place, we obtained the services of William Morrison, who had been a guide in Labrador and was experienced. On the advice of local people, we also obtained a larger canoe, twenty-one feet long.

In the few days at Rupert House I saw a way of life all new to me. The Cree Indians lived here in colorful tipis; I could not resist making a watercolor sketch of one, with an Indian woman entering it. There were sled dogs, including some small ones said to be the original type of “Indian dogs.” I never had a chance to investigate this further, but I did see an Indian family that had a captive fox. It aroused a kindred feeling, for once as a boy in Minnesota I had kept a fox in a cage. Did these Indians have the habit of keeping pets? I wondered.

On the day of departure—July 3—we set out in our twenty-one-foot seagoing canoe. This was different. Gone was the intimacy of rivers and lakes, and even the rapids which I had enjoyed being frightened in. Now, stretching out before us to the far horizon in the north, was salt water, the biggest “lake” we had yet ventured out upon. What would it be like up there?

The weather treated us well, but we had our share of rolling waves to contend with. Occasionally, when we had a fair wind, we put up a sail. A sail on a canoe! That was also new to me—another instance of my inexperience. In the evening we went ashore to camp. That, at least, was familiar routine, and a woodsy environment that was homelike. Each night found us camped at the edge of the forest, after a day on the open sea.

In a few days we reached East Main, another Hudson Bay trading post up the coast. We stayed over for a day there, while Mr. Todd and I identified birds and put up specimens. There was always a crowd of Indians watching us stuff the small birds. What would the white men think of next! But here, for some reason, the Indian girls were very shy. One group I met fled back to their village. Were they afraid of me? A number of us were gathered one day in one of the houses where there happened to be several Indian girls. They crowded into a corner like frightened wild creatures and would not even look up. Was I beginning to learn about the Cree Indians?

Again we packed into our canoe and continued on up the coast. My journal says little about this day—July 10—but it has become a spectacular day in my Hudson Bay memories. The day had seemed long and monotonous. We were continually paddling against a head wind and fighting moderate waves, one after another, hour after hour. Willie, who must have known where to go, told us we were far from the usual route of travel. But he thought this was the best way, and the rest of us relied on his judgment.

Eventually we saw ahead of us a small island. When we reached the lee of this little bit of land, we decided to go ashore to rest a bit, for we were tired from our long battle with the waves. As always, we took the paddles with us when we stepped out, and I took with me the skinning outfit, including a coil of wire.

It took me only a few minutes to explore this little treeless bit of land, as we all scattered to stretch our legs. I saw one pair of willow ptarmigan, but there was not much else. To make use of the spare time ashore, Mr. Todd and I settled down to prepare some specimens. There were always some waiting to be taken care of, and we had to make use of all the time when we were not traveling.

A little later, as we sat there busy with the specimens, I happened to look up. “Look there!” I exclaimed.

There went our canoe, drifting serenely away! For a moment I was fascinated by that widening gap of water. Then suddenly the thought struck me—it was I who must act, for I was the only swimmer in the party.

I jumped up and called the guides, who came rushing up, shouting in their own tongue. Once I was on the move, the brief moment of consternation was gone. I felt relieved, almost joyous, for that should not be much of a swim. I quickly took off my clothes. As I see it now, I may have made a mistake there. Short as the delay was, by the time I trotted down to the water’s edge the canoe had drifted considerably and was moving at an alarming rate.

I plunged into the water—and received an icy shock which left me gasping for breath. I quickly reached swimming depth, still struggling for breath. Little waves dashed water in my face, and in my unsettled state I was unable to keep from swallowing gulp after gulp of bitter salt water. In a few moments the first cold shock had passed; I regained my breath and attended strictly to the business of swimming.

By this time the canoe was far enough out to catch the full sweep of the wind against the mast and furled sail, and was making good progress. Already it seemed far away. I pushed on with all my strength—I simply had to catch that canoe!

How long did I swim? I don’t know. One does not think of time in an emergency. I was working hard, but I could see that the canoe was gaining.

Then something else was happening. I began to feel a numbing sensation at the small of my back, seeming to reach inward to quench the source of all my activity. I must hurry even more, for I realized then that our lives were at stake—and certainly my own life was precious to me. But a deadly chill was creeping over me as I floundered in the icy water. The power had gone from my strokes, and a sense of disaster crept into my heart. Cold and low in spirit, I struggled on, stupidly wondering why the canoe grew small and indistinct. When I felt a cramp in one leg, I knew I had lost the race; and as I looked back at the island, now far away also, a panic came over me. Land, any piece of land, seemed so good. I headed back for the island. Could I make it?

I can’t remember much about that return swim—I moved more and more slowly. But one does not give up easily when life is immediately at stake—and I am here now telling about it! I do remember finally touching bottom and stumbling up the beach. I was so numb I could hardly feel the gravel under my feet. Mr. Todd was there reaching for me and helped me over to a lively fire he had built. How gratefully I leaned over and practically embraced those flames!

I was so concerned with my own immediate needs that I was unaware of what was going on. But when I was a little warmed and still alive, I looked out toward the canoe. Out in the water I saw another craft, and Mr. Todd explained to me:

When Willie and Jocko had seen that I was losing the race, they found a few small drift logs and lashed them together with my coil of wire to make a crude, makeshift raft. They climbed aboard, fore and aft, took their paddles, and began the long, slow journey. When I looked, standing naked beside the warm fire, they were already small in the distance. Then Mr. Todd and I saw something else. Far out there was another small island whose windward beach would stop the drift of the fugitive canoe. The two Indians paddled on. It was no longer a race—they only had to reach the stranded canoe. When they boarded it with paddles, all was under control once more.

It is interesting, at a time of more leisure, to appraise such an experience. At one moment all seemed against us—we must fail. But I did get back to the island alive. More important, we had taken paddles with us ashore, there happened to be a few driftwood logs on the beach, I had taken ashore a coil of wire, and above all, our guides had seen the possibilities and used their ingenuity to save our lives. All these details had worked to effect our rescue. How can one understand such things?

For several days that little island was home, this time with the canoe well up on the beach. I was in bed, recovering from all the seawater I had swallowed, until on the second day Mr. Todd brought me a big cup of cocoa. That settled my system, and next day we continued our journey northward, once more taking note of bird life and looking forward to normal adventures.

How different things can be! A few days later we camped on a rocky shore, and I see in my diary that at this camp I was painting flowers. That evening I wrote:

“The sun was setting behind the island as we landed; the little dark, stunted trees were outlined against the colored sky. A flock of ducks flew by and with the gleam of the rich light on the water made a beautiful picture. As we came ashore, a robin was singing—a welcome sound up here. We also heard some white-crowned sparrows.”

We were now traveling in what ornithologists call the Hudsonian Life Zone, next below what they have named the Arctic Zone. At this place we found bear skulls hung in the trees by Indians, but I did not learn the full story about this until later. Also, in these waters I saw my first white whale— an animal I was to know better as time went on.

On July 22 we reached Fort George, another Hudson’s Bay Company trading post. Again we had the hospitality of the place and another glimpse of human life in such a wilderness outpost. Two days later, on Sunday, the missionary Reverend Walton held services. We all went to church, where were assembled all the Indians and white people of the village.

Here at Fort George we also heard of a tragedy. At Cape Jones an Eskimo with two boys had been out from shore, presumably in a kayak, when a heavy squall struck, and they disappeared.

We ourselves had to round Cape Jones, and a few days later we reached the scene of the tragedy. Here is another occasion vivid in memory. There was a northerly wind, and as we came up in the lee of the cape the water was smooth. We moved along easily, but out beyond the point we could see white water.

“Pretty rough water out there,” Jocko warned from the stern. No one made any decision to stop here to camp. Jocko didn’t feel that he was boss, and only made that mild suggestion. But when we got around the point, we realized what Jocko had meant. We really were in for it!

We were suddenly confronted by huge sea rollers. We couldn’t turn; we had to go ahead and hope to make it to a bay farther on. Each wave as it came on us was a problem. I earnestly hoped our guides had the skill to cope with it. I glanced over to the land, and there on the skyline of Cape Jones stood a row of Eskimos, no doubt watching to see if we would make it. It didn’t make me feel a bit better. Up high, then down low in the trough, then up again. How long could we keep this up? I was scared, but I kept on with my methodical paddling. Mr. Todd and I had nothing to do with managing the canoe. Then a human voice broke into my thoughts. It was Jocko, in the stern behind me.

“Pretty big swell, hey Shogenosh?” I heard him chuckle. When we kidded each other, he always called me Shogenosh (“white man”) and I called him Ishinabe (“Indian”). Apparently he saw how scared the head of the expedition was, but how could he chuckle at a time like this? This was serious, no question about it—but I felt better. I imbibed some of the confidence of my friend in the stern. And after a struggle which seemed hours long but was actually less than an hour, we reached the haven of the little bay we had seen in the distance and, with enormous relief, made camp for the night.

So it went—observing and collecting birds, writing our notes, plunging into situations where our lives were in danger, and at other times seeing only the beauty around us. We are not always the same, are we? The night before this emergency, encamped on an island, I had enthusiastically recorded in my diary:

“There was a beautiful aurora tonight, extending across the sky overhead from horizon to horizon. It made a lovely scene as I watched the glow of the tents in the distance, the wide stretch of the barren island, and the aurora overhead.”

There was something vital to the purpose of the expedition about Cape Jones. No matter in what direction we go over the globe, we find something different. Natural forces are constantly at work on our planet, shaping the character of different parts of it. One of the most fascinating aspects of our life experience is to try to understand these natural influences. We had just succeeded in getting around this cape, and when Mr. Todd and I had time to look around, we were both impressed by what we saw.

In the first place this high ground was treeless. Wandering over it, I saw an arctic hare in the distance; up to now we had seen only snowshoe rabbits in vast wooded areas. To the north of us we could see forests in the distance along the main line of the coast. We knew the arctic hare would not be found there. But here on this cape were a few birds and plants which were characteristic of the Far North. And here were Eskimos in their favorite environment of open country, living off the sea. In short, Cape Jones, jutting out into the sea between James and Hudson Bays, was a little piece of the true Arctic. Here was a piece of land reaching far enough into the sea to be influenced by oceanic climate and far enough north to display a little bit of true Arctic environment. Later I was to learn that islands farther out to sea—yet far south of Cape Jones—are also treeless and have an Arctic character. Such is the influence of the oceanic climate on islands far south of the normal limit of trees.

On a trip such as ours there are days and days of busy work. It was not a pleasure trip, but we had pleasures—frequent, unexpected, interspersed with the routine work.

We worked up the coast of true Hudson Bay, north of Cape Jones. A strong wind at our back sent us up the coast at a rapid rate. On the afternoon of August 6, we arrived at Great Whale River, the goal which had been set for that summer’s expedition. The whole Indian population stood on the bank watching our approach. As we stepped ashore we shook hands with every one of them. We were given a warm welcome by the trader, Mr. Maver, and were soon comfortably encamped.

There were the typical few buildings of a Hudson’s Bay Company trading post, including the small dwellings of the permanent assistants at the post. Here we were to stay until the little steamer Inenew arrived to take us south to Moose Factory. Our northward canoe trip was over. At Moose Factory we would begin another 180 miles of canoe travel upstream to Cochrane, Ontario—and then home!

But we spent some days exploring the backcountry at Great Whale River, coming on lakes, bluffs, and the varied fauna in each setting. And we got acquainted with the Indians. The Inenew finally arrived on August 24. The unloading was interesting to watch. Every Indian pitched in, carrying flour bags, boxes, and kegs. Little boys tugged and tussled with bags, or two of them together would roll little kegs up the walk. And so the ship was unloaded.

At this point in my story I should mention something about myself. At that age, only a couple of years out of college, I thought I knew everything. I found myself arguing with Mr. Todd about little, unimportant matters. He carried in his hind pocket a huge telescope. When he saw an interesting bird, he would reach back for the telescope in order to identify the bird properly. Each time I would tell him what the bird was before he could bring his telescope to bear, and I would feel very superior!

One day we saw a bird in the distance on a beach. “Greater yellow-legs,” I announced—but then wished I could retract my words.

“Hudsonian godwit!” he exclaimed excitedly when he got the telescope focused. This was a rare bird for us.

Mr. Todd made no reference to my mistaken identification, but he made me feel a little better when he suggested that I go get the bird, which I did.

At another time we were on a small island. Mr. Todd found a brood of ducks, shot the female, and wounded one of the downy young. Holding the wriggling youngster in his hand, he called across to me, “Won’t you come here and kill this wounded bird? I don’t have the heart to do it.”

I hurried over, squeezed the sides of the body over the heart, and it died immediately. Then I burst out: “You were willing to let those other ducklings go without a parent, but you are unwilling to kill this wounded duckling in a humane way!”

As usual, I was unaware of certain human attitudes—that it is sometimes hard for a person to appear cruel to himself in order to perform a humane act. But on the whole, Mr. Todd and I got on very well, and I am sure all members of the party really got much pleasure out of the trip.

We had a hard time getting south on the Inenew. We started out against some big swells and had not gone far when I began to feel sick. As the boat pitched and rolled more and more violently, I became seasick in earnest. There were three little husky pups on the deck. One began wailing piteously, trying to keep its feet on the deck; its mouth frothed, it hung its head, and looked very miserable indeed. I sympathized with that pup—I was not the only sick one. Soon our guide Willie succumbed, then husky Bill’s son. I gave up, went below, and found a bunk. When I awoke, it was quiet; we were back at Great Whale River—too rough!

We waited for a day of much better weather to start southward again. Stopping along the way at various places, it took us several days to reach Charlton Island. There we learned that there was a war in Europe!

A Winter in Eskimo Land

All summer we had traveled together—down rivers, across lakes, up the east coast of James Bay into Hudson Bay—taking notes on animal life and collecting specimens for Carnegie Museum. Now we were back down at Moose Factory, at the southernmost part of James Bay. Here we went out on the tide flats where blue geese and other waterbirds congregate for a month each fall before continuing their migration south. Paul Commanda, well now, had again joined our party. One hundred eighty miles of upriver canoe travel separated us from the “jumping-off place” at Cochrane.

The north had appealed to me—its freedom and its beauty. I had given much thought to it. I didn’t have definite plans but I just wanted to be there. I wanted more.

Finally I talked to Mr. Todd: “Couldn’t I be up here another year? I am sure I could add to your ornithological information by studying the winter life here.”

Mr. Todd was sympathetic. He wanted scientific winter notes from this country and winter specimens for the museum. But he said, “I am sorry; I don’t have the authority to keep you on salary.”

He went as far as he could. “The only thing I can say is that I am sure we of the museum can help you sell any specimens you are able to get up here, and I can arrange a letter of credit with the Hudson’s Bay Company at Montreal, in the amount of your summer’s salary. [I think I was getting one hundred dollars per month, or slightly more.] But you will have to be on your own.”

I was elated by his cooperation and made arrangements to stay in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Moore, employees of the company, there at Moose Factory.

Next morning I said good-bye to my summer’s companions and stood on the bank, watching them paddle up the broad Moose River toward civilization. I turned to face a year of a far different way of life—to spend a winter in this far country.

Not all travelers had yet left the country. Robert Flaherty and a companion had been up on Baffin Island, where Flaherty had been getting material for his famous film Nanook of the North. I was thrilled by his account of experiences up there. I wanted to get farther north too!

One day at Moose Factory I came up to him as he sat on the porch of the store. In the course of our talk he shook his head and exclaimed, “I would like to go over there and strike that Kaiser!” and I could understand. The war had begun, and all legitimate or high-minded civilian aspirations were secondary.

In a little while only permanent residents remained at my new home, Moose Factory (now called Moosonee). This village, the center of the Hudson’s Bay Company fur trade for the whole Hudson Bay area, occupies an island near the mouth of Moose River. A long line of buildings extended down the shore of the island—an imposing array in comparison with the small cluster of houses I found at the more northern trading posts. There was a big store where goods were traded to the Indians, the residence of the district manager, a church and parsonage, various storehouses, and a number of small dwellings. These were the homes of the Hudson’s Bay Company “servants,” as they were called, and a few Indian families. At certain seasons the place would be enlivened with Indian tipis along the edge of the woods bordering the little hay meadow behind the post. Enough hay was raised here to feed a few head of stock and enough potatoes to supply this post and some others farther north.

Across the river was the post of the rival “French Company,” Revillon Frères. In the following weeks I learned that the Hudson’s Bay Company people referred to the other as “The Opposition,” and the Indians called them Opsheeshun.

I soon got acquainted with the Moores, my hosts for the winter, and felt lucky. They were friendly, honest, considerate folk.

It was still autumn, October, and while everyone felt that winter was imminent, we still had some good weather. On October 20 I witnessed an important preparation for winter. On this day they hauled up on the bank the little Inenew (meaning “Indian”) steamer that visited the various fur trading posts, and on which we had come down from Great Whale River. To do this they used every bit of strength in the village, human and animal. In front of one of the buildings was a capstan with a great heavy cable reaching down to the ship. Skids had been laid on the beach for the ship to slide on.

When all was ready everyone—Scotchmen, Indians, a horse, and an ox, pushed and hauled on the spokes of the capstan, round and round, until the boat was safely lodged in its winter berth above the water.

After this important job they all celebrated with whiskey (except the horse and the ox). I find in my journal for the next day the comment: “They were a sadder-looking lot when they went to work this morning.”

My life that winter was varied. I became better acquainted with the Cree Indians. Many of them came to visit the Moores, with whom they seemed to have friendly relations. But one day an Indian woman came to vent her wrath on Mrs. Moore. It seemed that kindly Mrs. Moore had given an Indian boy some meat to eat. Here was that boy’s mother, greatly perturbed. Among the Indians, an animal was always divided into “woman’s meat” and “man’s meat.” Mrs. Moore had unknowingly given the boy woman’s meat.

“Now, dat boy have sore back when he get big!”

This was only one of the many superstitions the Cree Indians had. Several times an Indian would bring Mr. Moore a beaver to eat. Later the Indian would return to get the bones, which he tied in a bundle and hung above the ground in a willow.

Then I learned about their behavior toward the bear. If an Indian came upon a bear while hunting, he would first make a little speech, which I cannot give verbatim, but which was essentially an apology to the bear for the necessary killing. When the bear was killed, its body was carried in on a blanket. The cleaned skull was decorated with black and red bands painted across the forehead and hung in a tree. Such were the bear skulls I had noted along the east coast during the summer. One white man in the village smiled at this custom of making a speech before shooting a bear. But does not this represent a stage in human appreciation of our associated environment, which has widespread expression as Albert Schweitzer’s thought of “reverence for life”?

These Indians appealed to me in many ways. One evening a group of us went out to a flat island to hunt ducks. We left our canoes at the shore and went far inland on our hunt. It was dark when we turned back, but we stumbled along, following a couple of Indians who were leading. Presently one of the other white men turned to me and asked, “Where do you think our canoes are?”

The land was flat; we could only see dimly a little way around us. I pointed in a direction that seemed right to me, but I didn’t really know. The Indians chuckled, and we trudged along in silence. Then suddenly, there were the canoes! How did those Indians know?

While writing this account of experiences with Indians in the Hudson Bay country back in 1914, I am interested now, in 1962, by the necessity of examining critically some bills currently in Congress aimed at laying waste some of the beauty of our outdoors—with huge appropriations for the purpose. And I wonder: can we compare the hectic, unethical motivation in our vast effort to change the face of the earth, with the simple, honest motivation shown by those Indians facing coexistence with fellow creatures in their environment? Which is the more worthy, from the standpoint of human, spiritual progress—those of us who blindly use machinery and kill polar bears in the Arctic from airplanes, or those who many years ago felt humbly apologetic in shooting down a bear? We can smile at primitive beliefs, but it is the human motivation behind them that counts.

As the season went on at Moose Factory I collected specimens, for I had the zeal to add to our scientific knowledge and to add specimens to the museum collections somewhere. But, also I could not help being aware of the culture I was living in. There were, of course, the alcoholic sprees found anywhere. Here they occurred on special occasions, to celebrate something. On the other hand, my blacksmith-landlord, Mr. Moore, often sat reading the Bible of an evening.

There were other activities. During the whole snow-free autumn the snow buntings and especially the horned larks were about in flocks. Two boys with whom I often associated would hunt them with bow and arrow. One of the boys was the Moores’ son Harry; I don’t recall the name of the other. Most of the white people here, the “servants” of the Company as they were called, were Scottish. I used the American way of pronouncing words, and so pronounced Harry’s name in this soft manner. One day the other boy undertook to correct me: “Not Harry—Hah-rry!” And he rolled the r delightfully.

I have always had a strong feeling for color, whether in the sky or in the earthy landscape. It was still autumn weather on October 30, when I wrote in my notes an account of what I saw at Moose Factory, apart from anything human:

“This evening was perfect. The water was smooth, reflecting the dull, deep gold of the nearer islands, the deep blues of the more distant spruce woods, and in the west one little daub of coppery red gleaming through the dark trees where the sun had gone down. The clouds were tinted a dull purplish, deepening in the eastern sky. Along the shores is a narrow edging of ice, drifted upriver by the tide, tinted a delicate purplish pink with blue shadows. It was a rare, peaceful scene, a fine northern autumn evening, which makes one glad to be alive and makes indoor work seem unbearable.”

Two days later, on November 1, I looked out to see snow falling quietly, whitening everything. Later in the day it grew colder and blew hard from the northeast, drifting the snow. The trees were whitened by the moist snow, and the river looked dark in contrast. A few snow buntings went whirling by among the snowflakes.

The significance of all this came to me that evening. Just before dark I heard excited voices outside. When I hurried out, I heard someone call, “The wavies are going!”

At first there was only a babel of voices in the darkening snowfall, but soon I made out dim lines of birds flying by in the distance. They were the “wavies,” the blue geese, and a few white ones, all going up the river, flock after flock. Winter had come to this southern outpost of Hudson Bay, and the birds knew it was time to leave.

In the spring and summer these geese had nested on Baffin Island and in other parts of the Arctic north of Hudson Bay; they had come down to spend a month in the autumn on the lush tidal flats of James Bay. Now their delightful feeding vacation was over and, in response to long racial experience, they set off in the first real snowstorm on the next long journey to the southland, near the Gulf of Mexico. They knew! The next day more flocks were passing over.

A strange feeling came over me as I listened to those bird voices. My companions and others had gone by canoe back to civilization, the horned lark flocks had gone, and now the geese were leaving. Winter had come to the northland, and I was entering a new life experience. But in spite of these thoughts, I was looking forward to it. What would a Hudson Bay winter be like?

When the last flock of geese had gone, we felt indeed that winter was with us. Only a few kinds of birds now remained—the chickadees and red-polls, the warmly feathered owls, and some other hardy northerners. The ice on the river gained in volume and strength until it reached clear across. And it snowed until the landscape shone in purest white.

But I was not the only newcomer staying on in the north. Among the buildings were some English sparrows, virile explorers who, I was told, had first come to Moose Factory about five years before to make it their home. The sparrows occasionally met disaster, as we all do. One day I found one hung by the neck in a fork of a tree, the work of the shrike or “butcher bird” who hangs up such carcasses until it needs them for food.

This brings up something about the language of the Cree Indians. The gray or Canada jay they called wiska-zhon-shish. It means, as it was explained to me, “the little one that works at a fire,” referring to the fact that these jays come intimately to a campfire for any food they can find. Undoubtedly, here is where we got our name “whiskey jack” for this friendly bird. My friend Mr. Moore, the blacksmith, the Indians called wiskazhon, because he worked at a forge. He was a big burly man, so they left off the final diminutive syllable shish.

As for the shrike, the bird that had hung up the sparrow, they called him weethigo wiskazhonshish—the “bad spirit Canada jay.” Of course, when we translate from one language to another we can only approximate.

Wiska-zhon-shish! As usual the Indian name is most appropriate, for normally in the north whiskey jacks are at hand when a campfire is built, looking for scraps of food. No sooner does the thin smoke of a campfire begin to rise than the feathered visitors appear. Little gray shadows float into the limbs of the trees about you, and hopping from branch to branch, the silent birds draw as near as they dare. They eye you cautiously and cock their heads at the fire, carefully sizing up the situation. Just show your hospitality by tossing them a few crumbs, and how confiding they become!

To the lone traveler the whiskey jack (or gray jay, as he is now called) is a companion. He comes to share the fire built for the noonday or evening meal and brings a sense of fellowship, a bit of life in the silent forest. Familiar and companionable as he is, he is also a bird of mystery. He can easily remain invisible among the trees when he wants to, especially in the nesting season. He does not wait for warm spring weather but builds his nest in March, while the snow is still deep. So quiet and secretive is he at this season that the nest is very difficult to locate.

Far north, among people and a culture strange to me—here was a way of life I had only read about, and I was in it! One cannot enumerate all the activities of such a winter, but some things stand out which have meant much to me in the years since. I learned that a stream valley nearby, called Maidman Creek, had no Indian trappers claiming it, so I took that as my hunting and trapping ground for museum specimens.

I can’t remember how my hosts adjusted to my way of doing things. In the first place, they thought I should have a thermos of hot coffee in my pack when I was away all day up Maidman Creek. “No thanks,” I assured them. “All I need is a sandwich for lunch. When I get thirsty I just chop a hole in the ice.” They couldn’t understand that but saw that I meant it.

There are memories of Maidman Creek! One day I watched three otters having a fine time. One after another they coasted down a high, snowy bank, sliding on their bellies. At the bottom was an opening in the ice, so they slid right into the water at the foot of the slide. They came up through another hole, clambered out on the ice and up the bank for another slide. Over and over they did this, seemingly in pure joy.

On other days I found otter tracks in the snow showing places where they had taken a great forward leap, sliding a few feet on the snow. Surely they were having a playful, happy life here in the snow country.

One night I was sitting on a bank in the moonlight. I heard a slight, mysterious tapping sound in the snow behind me. I sat still, but very slowly turned my head, just in time to see a weasel coming hippety-hop to investigate me. The weasel is curious and vigorous in its movements. This one came right up to me, nosing about to see and to understand about me before he pattered off over the snow, disappearing in the woods like a dim moonlight shadow.

Once I came upon an open space in the creek. There must have been a warm spring there to keep this bit of water from freezing. A small group of mallard ducks apparently knew this pool would remain open and were taking a chance on spending the winter there. In later years in Alaska I found similar open places, some even north of the Arctic Circle, occupied by ducks and by water ouzels. This little sprite, the ouzel, or dipper, takes advantage of such open places in the snowy winter and exhibits the virility of its little life by singing through the winter!

These were some of the glimpses of life on Maidman Creek. There were other things, too—such as a literary adventure that did not require snowshoes or lunch. One Sunday I remained in my room most of the day reading The Silent Places by Stewart Edward White. What a treat it was to see how such a sensitive person could tell about living in just this kind of country—a varied country, with streams, forests, tamarack swamps—“the silent places.”

Then came Christmas! At home in Minnesota we had always had a Christmas tree and all the usual domestic trimmings that go with that day. What would it be like up here?

About the middle of December a “packet” came up from Cochrane, eight days by dogteam. In the mail were letters from home, a Christmas box, and the book The Man Without a Country. Here was I, too, in a far country. It was especially warming to get word from home, the first in a long time.

Christmas is celebrated variously in different countries, many of the activities being the result of tradition. Here at Moose Factory the Indians took advantage of some of the white man’s tradition. It was the custom for some of them to bring a stocking or a little bag to the houses to be hung up, and on Christmas day they would come calling for them, hopefully.

The highlight of the day for me was being invited to attend Christmas dinner in the evening at the home of Mr. Wilson, the head of the Hudson’s Bay Company for all of Hudson Bay. I felt a little strange among these very British folk because of their speech and their way of doing things, but it was a wonderful meal. At dessert time came another tradition I had only read about. Through a door of the living room where we were assembled came Mr. Wilson’s daughter, carrying a plum pudding aflame with brandy, the ceremonious climax of our Christmas dinner.

As I became better acquainted and entered into the life of this little community, I gained an impression which was strengthened by later experience. There was an atmosphere of the remote past. Oxen were still used to haul wood. There was an apparent lack of hurry in all activities, as if the powerful trading company, with a tradition and history dating back to 1670, need not join in the modern rush of the business world. Perhaps rush and hurry were not necessary in dealing with the northern Indians and Eskimos.

There were other things that had also come down in history—the long Indian history before any white men had come. The Hudson’s Bay Company initials were sometimes interpreted as “Here Before Christ.” It is true they had been there a long time; but the Indians had been there long before that, and the white people at Moose Factory had I learned some of the unwritten Indian history and mythology. One day Mr. Moore told me an Indian “yarn,” as he called it. Some Great Spirit—I don’t know what he was called— portioned out to the animals the fat they were to have on their bodies. One by one they were dipped in a lake of grease. The rabbit got anxious and jumped into the lake before his turn came. The Great Spirit was displeased with this selfish action, so to punish the rabbit he took him up and pulled him through his hand, wiping off the grease. For his disobedience the rabbit was to go without his share. But between the shoulders, in the little cavity back of the neck, a small portion was left after he was wiped off. To this day that is the only place where the rabbit has any fat.

Truly, the Indian is a close observer; and like all of us, he has tried his best to interpret observed facts. What shall we think of our attitudes and feelings about the world about us? Beauty is present in all parts of the world, but my being in what was then considered the Far North may have conditioned some of my reactions. In my diary for December 27 I find the following, written for myself:

“Sunday. I read all morning and in the afternoon went across to the “French Company” to a gathering to sing. I enjoyed it more than the church service here, for there was such an evident feeling of sincerity. As I was coming back with Willie Moore (the Moores’ older son), the moon came out, and I saw it was going to be a rare night. It has been mild today with snow falling most of the time.

“After tea I put on my warm cap and deerskin mittens, and went out for a walk. I believe I enjoyed some of the best moments of my life. I went along the ‘Northwest Path.’ The trees stood around me—masses of spruce, a rich, soft black, the spire tops outlined against the bright, moonlit sky and here and there silvered over with a coating of snow. As I walked, I looked through openings or lanes among the trees, where the soft but clear moon-shadows stretched across, and rounded snow mounds and snow-covered logs were outlined by their delicate shadows. On the level snow and over the snow sprinkled trees sparkled the ‘diamonds,’ and over all, high in the sky, shone a clear moon. I walked along the path, here gazing up at the wonderful moonlit trees, there looking in among the trunks into a little opening flooded with light, or along a lane where the delicate shadows mingled wonderfully. Small bushes seemed frosted over and sparkled. Everything seemed crystalline, yet strangely mellow. There was a feeling of purity about the whole thing, as if I were in a holy place—so much so that when I heard someone shout to his dogs in the distance it felt painful, like a discordant note in music.

“I finally came to the river bank out at the back of the island, and here was another scene. The wide, smooth expanse of the river was bounded by the distant, dark shores of the islands. I crossed over to Charles Island and wandered about on a diminutive lake, and finally turned back as a thin, cloudy haze began to dim the shadows and obscure the wonderful purity of the moonlight. In such surroundings a man feels elated, no task seems too big, and all evil thoughts disappear.”

One day in late January I went through some swamps to “Mi Lord’s Ridge.” I was crossing one of these snowy “plains,” head down against a wind, when I became aware that grouse were running around me, in all directions. These proved to be a flock of about eighteen sharp-tailed grouse, feeding among the scattered dwarf birches and paying little heed to me. The birds would run quickly, then stop abruptly at a little bush, picking away vigorously at the seeds or buds for a moment, only to scurry off to another bush. From time to time one or two of the hindmost would fly along and alight near the front of the band. They appeared very busy, although at times one or two would crouch awhile in the snow, possibly because of my presence. They all carried their tails straight up, and there was a low conversational “whistling” as they fed.

In such snow-covered “muskegs” I found a border of tamaracks, the small deciduous cone-bearing tree common to these places. Years later I found a few sharp-tailed grouse living in a limited tamarack woods in Interior Alaska. Apparently the muskeg-tamarack environment is an agreeable home for the sharptail in the north country.

On the way back on this January day, as I plodded along on snowshoes, I came on the place where these grouse had spent the night under the snow. Each one had tucked itself away underneath, and the snow which had fallen that night and drifted had covered it nicely. In the morning they all had simply pushed up and out and begun feeding. This made me recall boyhood days in Minnesota, when very often prairie chickens would burst out of the snow at my feet when disturbed by my approach to their snug retreat. Willie Moore told me that the sharp-tailed and spruce grouse do not sleep under the snow in springtime when crusts form. But the ruffed grouse continues to do so, and some get frozen in by a strong crust. These birds have learned, as many outdoor people have, that in the cold of midwinter it is warmer under the snow blanket.

So many things to learn about during this first winter in the north! I knew, of course, that the snowshoe rabbit has a more or less regular “population cycle,” a building up of numbers for ten or eleven years to a “high,” followed by a “crash” in numbers. In the winter of 1914–15, these rabbits were at a high, then as the season went on they began to die. There were rabbits everywhere. I got all I wanted in a snare line. At one of the stores frozen rabbits were piled up like cordwood. I bought a rabbit-skin sleeping bag from an Indian for fifteen dollars. The skins had each been cut spirally in a long narrow strip and then woven—one hundred and eighty skins in that one blanket. I made a sleeping bag out of it and used it in various parts of the north for many years.

I was told that when a dogteam made a trip anywhere that winter, the dogs were easily fed by the dead rabbits found along the way.

Stories of dogteam trips were working on my imagination. I had vaguely planned to go on north sometime, but now my plans began to take shape. I decided I must leave the friendly people of Moose Factory and go northward—whenever the opportunity came along.

In the late afternoon of January 27, a bitterly cold day, I was working on some specimens in my room when I heard a shout outside: “The Rupert House dogs have come!”

I hurried out. There in front of the store was the mail packet, a team of ten dogs. The dogs lay resting on the snow, and beside the sled stood the driver, the same Willie Morrison who had been our guide in our summer canoe travel. Willie was trembling with cold, and black patches on his frostbitten face suggested what he had been through. He was waiting for his partner Charlie Hester to find out where they were to put the dogs. When Charlie came out of the store, they quickly unharnessed the dogs and tied them to the palings of a nearby fence. Someone from the store brought out a bundle of frozen rabbits and chopped them apart with an axe. At the sight of food the dogs leaped to their feet, tugging at their chains and howling in chorus. They kept it up until the men had tossed a couple of chunks to each dog. They seized the frozen carcasses and gulped them down in an unbelievably short time—then looked for more. But when they realized that no more was coming, they calmly curled up to sleep in the snow. The sun was setting by now; it was growing dark.

I had run out thinly clad and was feeling the bite of the cold. The sight of Willie shivering there and the dogs’ frozen repast sent a chill through me, and I was glad to run back into Mrs. Moore’s warm kitchen. My enthusiasm for a dogsled trip north cooled.

But plans had been made, and on the morning of January 30, when the mail team was ready to go back to Rupert House, 100 miles east, I was ready, too. This would be my first experience with dog-sledding. As we were saying good-bye, with a group assembled beside the flat fourteen-foot sled, I realized more keenly than ever what my stay with the kindly people at Moose Factory had meant to me. It was like leaving home again. Mrs. Moore had carefully wrapped a cake for my birthday in March. To the last minute she was looking out for my welfare, even braiding a pair of garters for my moleskin leggings while the dogs were being harnessed!

With a shout from Willie and a shove to loosen the runners, we were off on the long trail. The familiar landscape of Moose Factory drew away; the line of buildings grew smaller. We passed island after island where I had hunted—Pilgrim, Middleborough, and finally Ship Sands. The river widened; the north shore became a faint blue line in the distance. Then we were fairly out on “the coast,” where the white expanse of James Bay spread to the horizon. Here the storm-driven snow was packed hard and the pulling was easier for the dogs. We went through Cabbage Willows and past Blackberry Point; then one of the landmarks of this region, Sherrick’s Mount, loomed up blue and white in the winter landscape.

We trotted along beside the loaded sled, the two guides in front to steady the load in rough places. Occasionally one of us would hop on for a ride to rest a bit, but not for long. The sled was heavily loaded, and furthermore we had to run to keep warm.

That first day runs in my memory as a pleasant dream. The novelty of this new kind of travel was fascinating. We pitched the tent that night at the edge of the woods, ate a hearty meal of fried moose meat, biscuits and tea, and rolled into our rabbit-skin blankets—what greater comfort could one wish?

Now, in retrospect, I want to be back again, with a loaded sled creaking its way over rough ice or running smoothly and quietly over level places, with a good team of dogs trotting steadily in front, muzzles low, tails waving high—and the snow stretching away until broken by the blue line of woods where we might camp for the night.

I never tired of watching the husky dogs at work. Hitherto I had only seen them loafing about camps in summer, filthy, mangy-looking beasts, kicked and beaten at every turn. They certainly seemed like unpromising creatures. As winter came they improved in appearance, but I had never seen them at work until this trip. Just as I had admired the Indians in their performance in the rapids, so now I admired the huskies. It is well to withhold judgment of anyone until you have seen him at his best. These dogs—wellfurred, tireless, efficient—were at their best in harness, on the winter trail.

As we traveled on, each day seemed colder than the last. There was always a wind. Finally, as we struggled along, wild thoughts would shoot through my mind: “Can we keep this up long enough? Will that flimsy tent be protection enough against this furious weather?”

We had no thermometer, but I learned later that on at least one night it had been forty degrees below zero. The guides complained very little, yet they were not dressed as warmly as I, who had a couple of layers of warm woolen clothing topped by a parka and leggings of Hudson Bay moleskin cloth. Charlie, the silent one, had an ordinary winter coat and a small scarf around his throat. His face was bare to the wind, but he didn’t get a single frostbite. Willie, who wore a hood over his head Eskimo style, was frequently frostbitten, further disfiguring his misshapen face. But he also seemed indifferent to it all. In all my days with Willie, I could not see that he was ever moved either by pleasure or pain.

It was a great sight when, on the fourth day, we made out the snow-covered roofs of Rupert House in the distance. In a little while the guides began to adjust their caps and clothing, and to check that the load was all lashed in neatly. The arrival of the mail packet was an important event at these northern posts, and the guides were preparing for their dashing entry into the village. The dogs understood, too, and increased their speed until we could hardly keep up with the sled. With a dash we started up the bank below the store—and the sled tipped over. “Hell!” was the silent one’s comment as we all hurried to right the heavy sled.

The hospitality shown me at this trading post, the comfortable evening meal with Mr. Nicholson the trader in his warm living quarter—only someone who has had a similar experience can imagine these pleasures. But the visit here was brief. The dogteam from East Main had been there for several days awaiting the mail from the south and would start back in the morning. The guides agreed to let me go along, and I was eager to get as far north as I could.

Next morning we were again speeding over the sea ice, the two Indians from East Main and I. In such open-surface sledding the dogteam is harnessed to the sled in a far different way than in wooded country. Each dog had a towline tied to a central point on the sled. Each line was of a different length, the leader having the longest one, so he could be out in front. The whole arrangement was fan-shaped, so the dogs with the shortest traces were far out to the sides. From time to time some of the dogs would change position, crossing from one side to the other, passing under or over the other traces. Thus the traces would become tangled, forming a sort of braid next to the sled which little by little worked forward. Twice on this day we tried to stop the team to undo this tangle, but the dogs were wild to keep moving, so we let them go. This team was by far the liveliest of my whole trip.

My knowledge of Cree was very limited, and the two Indians knew very little English. I wanted to get acquainted, so I tried to ask one of the drivers what he called the porcupine in his language. Mustering what little Cree I knew and using signs, I said: “Peyuk mistik—mitsu, mitsu, mitsu” (“One tree—eat, eat, eat”). I was trying to tell him that this animal often spends days in one tree, eating the inner bark. The driver knew porcupine habits so well that he broke into a big smile, told me the Indian name, gave me to understand that there were some porcupines back in the forest. At least we had communicated!

East Main is only seventy miles from Rupert House, and we arrived on the second day. Now I had a long wait, for no dogteam was going north for many days. But I had a profitable and restful time in the quarters of the friendly trader, Mr. Jobson. He had been in the service for about forty years, and I learned from him a good deal about the life of the Indians. I was surprised to learn of several cases of cannibalism among them. In a few instances, when a family was starving back in the “bush,” one member— generally the husband—had attempted to kill some of the others to allay his own hunger. In most cases, some or all escaped from the cannibal and eventually reached the nearest trading post, nearly dead with fatigue and starvation. Then I remembered a comment Mr. Wilson of Moose Factory had made as he pointed out a passing Indian: “He had a snack off his wife last winter.”

These cases are rare, but hunger is not rare, particularly farther north. The Cree Indians were primarily hunters and had not learned to hoard or lay up for the future. This was not so much the fault of the Indian as of circumstances. The Crees depended on hunting, directly or indirectly, for both food and clothing. The depleted game supply of the Labrador Peninsula is a variable quantity, unreliable and deceiving. The food that the Indian bought at the trading post, with the winter’s fur catch, was often used up before the next winter’s trapping began.

One of the most astonishing natural history notes I got from Mr. Jobson was his account of the passenger pigeon, now gone forever. He said “wild pigeons” had been common in the 1860s. He saw them on Albany River, Moose River, and one at Woswanapi as late as 1884. His description certainly fit the passenger pigeon: bluish, with a reddish breast, long tail, and “small feet.” They flew about in flocks and fed on berries. Mr. Jobson had even seen them in burned woods; sometimes they alighted on houses.

It was not until February 17 that I could press northward again. Then there were several teams going toward Fort George.

One night in an Indian camp stands out in my memories of this part of my journey north. Running through a spruce forest, we came to a large wigwam. I could see that it was made of upright poles set close together and apparently covered with moss, but the details of its architecture were not clear since it was coated with snow. It seemed very large for a wigwam, but still I did not guess there were as many Indians living in it as we saw when we stepped inside. In the center were two roaring stoves. Around the edge, bordering the wall, ten families found room to spread their blankets and stack their belongings, each family appropriating a certain space. A place was cleared for my sleeping bag, and my grub box was carried in and put beside it.

I had wondered about the Crees, with their ill-fitting “civilized” store clothes, in this wilderness environment. But this camp was something different, some of it dating far back in their history. The floor of the wigwam was covered thickly with spruce tips, wonderfully smooth and level. Most of the men were away somewhere, but the women were busy. At one side of the door a young woman was industriously weaving a rabbit-skin blanket. With slender brown fingers she deftly handled the furry white strips. Another woman was cleaning fish. Several others, in a group by themselves, were busy picking cones off spruce boughs and dropping them into a kettle. I wondered what kind of brew that was to be. Above them hung an arctic fox, recently trapped. It was a picturesque bit of Indian household activity.

After a little warming by one of the stoves I went outside to look around. A small group of children, dressed in rabbit-skin clothes, were coasting down a little slope on a small toboggan. Like children farther south, these youngsters enjoyed a frolic in the snow, but they were also unconsciously training themselves for the work of grownups. In his winter travels in the forest, the Indian uses a small, slender toboggan such as these children were using. Now several more women came into camp, each hauling a log through the snow for firewood. A good supply had been cut and piled neatly in front of the wigwam. A little later the men came in, one by one. I gathered that they had been tending their fish nets, set under the ice.

Here was the winter home of the Indians. I appreciated their hospitality, but it was a restless night. Children cried and complained continuously. Some were evidently sickly, others just hungry. During the evening I had from time to time given a biscuit to some complaining youngster until, before I realized it, my supply was very low.

At other camps, too, I heard the hungry crying of children, and I kept giving away my food. The birthday cake went, and I ended up eating dog food. My Indian companion on this part of the trip was surprised that a white man would do this; and I, in my ignorance, was surprised that he was surprised. What was the custom of this northern country?

My visit at this camp impressed on me more than ever the uncertainties of the Indian’s life. He was never many meals ahead and depended largely on hunting, in a land where game is never plentiful.

After several days’ travel on the coastal sea ice, my Indian companion and I arrived at Fort George, another typical Hudson’s Bay Company village and post, several buildings at the edge of the coastal forest.

That evening in the house of the trader, where several white people of the post had gathered, I had an embarrassing moment. I had spent so much time with Indians in these past weeks that I had begun to speak like them.

The Crees on the Labrador side of James Bay had a very vigorous way of speaking. Their word for “yes” is eh-heh, pronounced quickly and vigorously. When I meant to say yes to a question that evening at Fort George, I heard myself saying, “eh-heh”—not at all the smooth “uh-huh” of a white man.

Here at Fort George I heard another story of cannibalism. In the store an Indian woman was pointed out to me. “She and her husband were camped back there in the woods,” the trader told me, “and they ran out of food. As they were starving, she sensed that her husband was planning to eat her. So she somehow escaped from the camp and made it in to this post.” I wondered what happened to the husband.

My visit at Fort George was very brief. Mr. Maver, the trader from Great Whale River, was there and was returning north the next morning. I was invited to go with him.

After we had said our good-byes in the crisp wintry air, the team started off. As I ran forward to keep up with the sled, I stumbled and fell flat in the snow. I remember the trader’s laughing voice calling after me as I picked myself up, “That’s a bad start you made, young man!”

This lap of the journey took five days of dog travel, with Mr. Maver, his Eskimo dog driver, and his fine team. (No white man ever drove dogteams in this part of the world.) I soon realized how fortunate I was to be traveling with Mr. Maver, who was friendly, outgoing, and helpful. I knew that he was liked by everyone on the entire coast and that he was very able. He held the key post of the region, one aspired to by all beginners in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Most of the time we all three trotted beside the sled—riding was too cold. But I knew that when the chief factor made an inspection trip of trading posts up the coast, he lay on the sled all the way, wrapped in many blankets and robes.

We spent one night with an Eskimo family in their tent. The atmosphere in that family group was cheerful and warm, although I later learned that for two days they had been without food—no seals.

I learned another thing on this coastal trip. The Eskimos, who had lived here for numerous generations, had observed and come to understand the physical factors affecting winter travel. As usual the undersides of the sled runners were covered with steel bands. But for the colder part of winter the Eskimos had improved on this. They applied a warm, wet mixture of mud to the bottom of the runner over the steel, shaping it like a round, mud tire. The mud quickly froze solid in the extreme cold. After smoothing the surface, they applied warm water, which quickly froze into a perfectly smooth coating of ice. Runners so treated slid smoothly over the winter landscape. I was told that at Moose Factory they sometimes used soft cattle manure instead of mud.

When the ice coating wore down, the driver would heat some water and apply a wet coating over the surface again with a rag. This froze at once, and we again had a glass-smooth runner to glide over the snow.

Before we reached Great Whale River there came a day when our driver tipped the sled over on its side and knocked off all the mud. “He must feel that the colder part of the winter is over,” said Mr. Maver. “From now on there will be some thawing, and for this the steel runners are better.”

A little after noon on February 27, we saw ahead of us a group of snow-covered buildings. In the bright blaze of February sunshine, the world appeared white and dazzling—the season of dusk and dark was over for that year, and we were arriving at Great Whale River! Slowly we drew nearer to those buildings, and finally we clambered up the steep bank, to the village, the post, and Mr. Maver’s home. Several Eskimos came hurrying to help the driver with the dogs and the unloading. I followed Mr. Maver through a snow porch, a sort of short tunnel about seven feet high, built to keep the snow from drifting against the door.

I had reached the goal of my winter journey—the real beginning of Eskimo land.

The region about Great Whale River in Quebec is broken and rocky—wooded in the valleys, bare and rugged on the hilltops. Of all the posts I visited, this proved the most interesting. It was really an overlapping of the more northern forests and the true Arctic, for a few Eskimos in coastal environments lived south of here, and some Indians lived north of the post, where there was still some forest. Each cultural group sought the surroundings their history had taught them to harmonize with; here at Great Whale River both Indians and Eskimos came to trade their fur. Even the Eskimos out on the Belcher Islands, about seventy miles off the coast, came over the winter ice to trade. On those treeless islands they had found the true Arctic—the Eskimo environment.

The same overlapping applied to the wildlife. Arctic forms appeared south of here; southern forms extended far to the north. Some species, such as the arctic hare, like the Eskimo, sought the open country. The varying hare, or snowshoe rabbit, like the Indian, preferred the forest. Each kind sought the habitat it had learned to survive in.

One day, as I was crossing the top of a rocky hill, I spied several rock ptarmigan squatting in the snow. I opened the Graflex camera and approached the nearest one. The image on the ground glass grew larger and larger, and finally I released the shutter. Still the bird did not move. Again I moved forward, and this time came so near I could hardly focus. I released the shutter. The bird was still sitting there! When I again drew nearer, the ptarmigan finally began to walk off in the snow. How tame could a wild bird be!

Another day I was tramping over the backcountry on snowshoes when I came across a fox track. A wild animal’s trail always fascinated me, so I followed it a way. I just wanted to see what the fox had been doing, and the trail in the snow would tell me.

That evening I told the folks at the trading post what I had seen. Harold, a Scandinavian who was one of the hired help at the post, showed an eager interest in my story and wanted to know where the track was. I wondered about his keen interest in natural history. Next morning he went out for a few hours—and came back with a silver fox! Thus I learned about the perseverance and skill of these hunters. However, I got something out of my fox trail, too: Harold was glad to have me make a sketch of his fox before he skinned it.

How different Great Whale River seemed from the last time I had been here, in another season. Mr. Maver and his assistant, Mr. Renouf, assisted my work in many ways. I spent the time busily, making short excursions into the backcountry, getting a few specimens, painting watercolor pictures of birds, and—the happiest experience of all—getting acquainted with the people.

A new variation in my sojourn came when, with Mr. Maver’s help, I took two Eskimo boys up the river a few miles for a five-day camping trip. By this time I had learned some Eskimo words and could carry on a little conversation. But we didn’t need to talk. As we went snowshoeing off from the post, I on the long, slender type called “gillies” and the boys on their little round ones, they were striding along with big smiles on their young faces. There are times when we don’t need words.

Leaving the camp we established, we came upon many rock ptarmigan, crossed weasel and lemming tracks, and discovered where an otter had been playing in the snow. It impressed me that in the summer, when I was on salary, I had felt an obligation to the museum, and with some exceptions my journal consisted largely of factual, scientific observations. Now, when I was on my own, I recorded more of my impressions and reactions to the events of this big natural world. While in this camp, on April 3, I made the following attempt to express some of my feelings:

“We met a sociable pair of Hudsonian chickadees, who came up close to us when I chirped. One of them would occasionally give vent to his cheerfulness with a little song-like trill. Surely spring is coming in earnest now! A little farther on we saw two pine grosbeaks flying off, and four redpolls; then three Canada jays. These are perfect days, living a free and easy camp life amid perfect surroundings—and spring is coming on!”

In a few days the boys and I were back at the trading post. At the store I asked them what they wanted for helping me in camp. One chose a mouth organ, the other a jumping jack.

Still, not all was pleasant at Great Whale River. One day I learned how desperate life up north can be. A young Indian staggered into the trading post, nearly dead from starvation. His family, camped far back in the forest, had run out of food, and he and his brother had started out for the trading post. His brother was carrying a muzzle-loading gun in hope of getting some ptarmigan along the way, but he accidentally lost the contents of the powder horn, so he could shoot nothing. Yet they struggled on, hoping to make it to the post or find someone. Finally the brother could go no farther, and this young one went on alone. His brother was out there about a mile, he thought.

People from the village hurried out and found the Indian, but he was dead. The other boy finally recovered, but I never did learn what happened to the family back in the woods.

This was a hungry country. I learned to eat hawks, owls, seabirds— anything that had meat on it. The Indians up here lived a most rugged life; yet they somehow had a kind view of nature, like the hunters who begged the bear’s pardon before shooting it. They were a humble people.

One day an Indian brought us a big chunk of meat. Someone had been lucky enough to kill a caribou. It had evidently been brought a long way, for it smelled terrible from decay. But Mr. Maver, who was accustomed to such problems, trimmed away the smelly outside, and in the center was enough wholesome meat for a nice roast, which we all enjoyed.

I had one little difficulty of another kind. I had bought an arctic fox from an Eskimo, paying him the price he would get at the post. Someone higher up heard about this and felt I should pay to the Eskimo the price the Hudson’s Bay Company would get in London. Apparently someone suspected I was going into fur-buying, in opposition to the company. But I could not afford that kind of business. That was the only fur I bought, and I finally won the argument.

Following some instructions given me by Mr. Renouf, I learned one day about another Indian custom. Out on the beach I found a simple heap of boulders. Being curious, and rather bold I suppose, I pushed away the larger of the boulders and there found the remains of an Indian baby, tightly sewed into a coarse fabric. There was no marker of any kind. So this was the way they disposed of human remains! I carefully replaced every boulder just as I had found it.

One day in March some Eskimos came over the ice from the Belcher Islands to trade their furs, and another group arrived from up north somewhere. I began to see more Eskimos in the village, and my thoughts went longingly northward. One morning I watched an Eskimo family loading their dogsled to go back up north. There was a little child bundled up safely on top of the load. The mother pulled up a few plants of heather, or crowberry, which carries its black berries through the winter. These she placed on the load in front of the little child, so there would be something to eat as they traveled along. Would I see these people again? As they moved away out onto the ice, I thought more than ever about going on north.

On March 20, my brother Martin’s birthday, my thoughts went southward, to our home in Minnesota—to another world. How was my family getting along? Here I was, on a long adventure with no income, and I wondered how my younger brother was doing, supporting the household. That home, so far away, was close and dear in my thoughts. But there could be no turning back in this far country. I was spending a year on my own and planning to get still farther north