Wild North Land, The Story of a Winter Journey with Dogs across Northern North America

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</h2></div> <div class="blockquot inhead short"> <p>Mr. Rufus Sylvester.—The Untiring developes a new sphere of usefulness.—Mansen.—A last landmark.</p> </div> <p class="in0"><span class="firstword">On</span> the evening of my arrival at Germansen Mr. Rufus Sylvester appeared from the south, carrying the mail for the camp. Eleven days earlier he had started from Quesnelle on the Frazer River; the trail was, he said, in a very bad state; snow yet lay five feet deep on the Bald, and Nation River Mountains; the rivers and streams were running bank-high; he had swum his horses eleven times, and finally left them on the south side of the Bald Mountains, coming on on foot to his destination. The distance to Quesnelle was about 330 miles. Such was a summary of his report.</p> <p>The prospect was not encouraging; but where movement is desired, if people wait until prospects become encouraging, they will be likely to rest stationary a long time. My plan of movement to the south was this: I would dispense with everything save those articles absolutely necessary to travel; food and clothing would be brought to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">305</span> the lowest limits, and then, with our goods on our shoulders, and with Cerf-vola carrying on his back a load of dry meat sufficient to fill his stomach during ten days, we would set out on foot to cross the Bald Mountains. Thirty miles from the mining Camp, at the south side of the mountain range, Rufus Sylvester had left a horse and a mule; we would recover them again, and, packing our goods upon them, make our way to Fort St. James on the wild shores of Stuart’s Lake—midway on our journey to where, on the bend of the Frazer River, the first vestige of civilization would greet us at the city called Quesnelle.</p> <p>It was the 25th of May when, having loaded my goods upon the back of a Hydah Indian from the coast, and giving Kalder a lighter load to carry, I set off with Cerf-vola for the south. Idleness during the past three weeks had produced a considerable change in the person of the Untiring. He had grown fat and round, and it was no easy matter to strap his bag of dry meat upon his back so as to prevent it performing the feat known, in the case of a saddle on a horse’s back, by the term “turning.” It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to the Untiring whether the meat destined for his stomach was carried beneath that portion of his body or above his back; he pursued the even tenour of his way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">306</span> in either case, but a disposition on his part to “squat” in every pool of water or patch of mud along the trail, perfectly regardless of the position of his ten days’ rations, had the effect of quickly changing its nature, when it was underneath him, from dry meat to very wet meat, and making the bag which held it a kind of water-cart for the drier portions of the trail.</p> <p>Twelve miles from Germansen Creek stood the other mining camp of Mansen. More ditches, more drains, more miners, more drinking; two or three larger saloons; more sixes and sevens of diamonds and debilitated looking kings and queens of spades littering the dusty street; the wrecks of “faro” and “poker” and “seven up” and “three-card monti;” more Chinamen and Hydah squaws than Germansen could boast of; and Mansen lay the same miserable-looking place that its older rival had already appeared to me. Yet every person was kind and obliging. Mr. Grahame, postmaster, dealer in gold-dust, and general merchant, cooked with his own hands a most excellent repast, the discussion of which was followed by further introductions to mining celebrities. Prominent among many Joes and Davises and Petes and Bills, I recollect one well-known name; it was the name of Smith. We have all known, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">307</span> presume, some person of that name. We have also known innumerable prefixes to it, such as Sydney, Washington, Buckingham, &amp;c., &amp;c., but here at Mansen dwelt a completely new Smith. No hero of ancient or modern times had been called on to supply a prefix or a second name, but in the person of Mr. Peace River Smith I recognized a new title for the old and familiar family.</p> <p>Mr. Stirling’s saloon at Mansen was a very fair representation of what, in this country, we would call a “public-house,” but in some respects the saloon and the public differ widely. The American saloon is eminently patriotic. Western America, and indeed America generally, takes its “cocktails” in the presence of soul-stirring mementoes; from above the lemons, the coloured wine-glass, the bunch of mint, and the many alcoholic mixtures which stand behind the bar—General Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and President Grant look placidly upon the tippling miner; but though Mr. Stirling’s saloon could boast its card-tables, its patriotic pictures, and its many “slings” and “juleps,” in one important respect it fell far short of the ideal mining paradise. It was not a hurdy-house; music and dancing were both wanting. It was a serious drawback, but it was explained to me that Mansen had become too<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">308</span> much “played out” to afford to pay the piper, and hurdies had never penetrated to the fastnesses of the Peace River mines.</p> <p>When the last mining hero had departed, I lay down in Mr. Grahame’s sanctum, to snatch a few hours’ sleep ere the first dawn would call us to the march. I lay on the postmaster’s bed while that functionary got together his little bags of gold-dust, his few letters and mail matters for my companion, Rufus Sylvester the express man. This work occupied him until shortly before dawn, when he abandoned it to again resume the duties of cook in preparing my breakfast. Day was just breaking over the pine-clad hills as we bade adieu to this kind host, and with rapid strides set out through the sleeping camp. Kalder, the Hydah Indian, and the Untiring, had preceded us on the previous evening, and I was alone with the express man, Mr. Rufus Sylvester. He carried on his back a small, compact, but heavy load, some 600 ounces of gold-dust being the weightiest item; but, nevertheless, he crossed with rapid steps over the frozen ground. We carried in our hands snow-shoes for the mountain range still lying some eight miles away. The trail led o’er hill and through valley, gradually ascending for the first six miles, until through breaks in the pines I could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">309</span> discern the snowy ridges towards which we were tending. Soon the white patches lay around us in the forest, but the frost was severe, and the surface was hard under our mocassins. Finding the snow-crust was sufficient to bear our weight, we <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">cachéd</i> the snow-shoes and held our course up the mountain. Deeper grew the snow; thinner and smaller became the pines—dwarf things that hung wisps of blue-grey moss from their shrunken limbs. At last they ceased to be around us, and the summit-ridges of the Bald Mountain spread out under the low-hung clouds. The big white ptarmigan <em>bleated</em> like sheep in the thin frosty air. We crossed the topmost ridge, where snow ever dwells, and saw beneath a far-stretching valley. I turned to take a last look to the north; the clouds had lifted, the sun had risen some time; away over an ocean of peaks lay the lofty ridge I had named Galty More a fortnight earlier, when emerging from the Black Cañon. He rose above us then the monarch of the range; now he lay far behind, one of the last landmarks of the Wild North Land.</p> <p>We began to descend; again the sparse trees were around us; the snow gradually lessened; and after five hours of incessant and rapid walking we reached a patch of dry grass, where Kalder, the English miner, and the Indians with the horses were awaiting us.</p> <hr /> <div id="toclink_310" class="chapter"> <p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">310</span></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />