We, of course, were just tenderfeet, my chum and myself and two others, but as Matchett and Green used to tell me, “having been a sailor the trail will never worry you” and they were right. We remained in camp in Edmonton with a temperature anything down to 40° below Zero, or 72° below freezing point, whilst we gathered together an outfit of stores and horses. Many a chuckle I had over the thought “if only some of my shipmates saw me now.”
Soon we had things licked into shape — or what we considered shape, and launched ourselves out into that wild Nor’-West mid winter, rivers still frozen and bearing. We struck away with lots of confidence and little sense over muskegs and jamb piles; no tenderfeet us! we would cut our own way. The only wonder is that we did not break our horses’ legs, and our own necks before we had gone a score of miles. Horses up to their bellies in snow, stumbling over fallen trees, making a bare mile an hour. This went on for three days until by sheer accident, we stumbled on a perfectly good road, which had been running parallel with us, all the way to Prince Albert, and along which we might have comfortably journeyed had we not been so pig-headed in our determination to make our own trail and not admit our ignorance.
The party, as I have said, consisted of four, my chum and myself, and two fellows from the Black Hills. My chum was also a sailor, and by this time we had come to the conclusion that as far as wood-craft in the Canadian North-West went, our feet were very tender indeed. Not so the two other chaps, who, like so many others from the great U.S.A., were never willing to admit their limitations; in fact, a frequent expression of these two otherwide splendid fellows was “We’re from the Black Hills; we ain’t no dog gone tenderfeet.” That might have been quite true, but it is a solid fact, which were very soon to find out, that their experience did not run on all fours with their self-confidence; in fact, it was amusing at times to see how quickly their views changed, and with child-like simplicity they would say “what in hell do we do now?” If it is a river, they were perfectly frank that they had not the first idea how to get across, but even in the depths of our first three days’ trek, when we became tied up between two chains of lakes, it was really comical at times to see how jumpy these two would be “old timers” from the Black Hills, became.
On one occasion we were startled by a steady thump or beat; with the closest resemblance imaginable to a pit-head pump, a sort of steady thud, thud, thud, and then a pause, like the usual gas engine. Our Black Hills companions were the first to give voice to the general uneasiness by an abrupt enquiry, “Say, bo, what in hell’s that?”
As a matter of fact, I had heard it for some time and was turning over in my mind the possibility of a pit engine or quartz stamp with the limits of hearing. At the same time one had to take into consideration the way in which sound carries in the vast trackless regions of the North-West.
One speaks, rather loosely, of “perfect silence.” The Canadian Nor’-West, in winter, is one of the few places where one can experience it; where the snap of a bough, bursting through frost, a common enough occurrence in a temperature 40 degrees below, echoes like a pistol shot, and carries for three or four miles. It is easy to be deceived both as regards sound and sight, where the silence is so absolute and visibility so perfect.
Days went on, and at odd times we could hear this mysterious thudding. One day, after it had been particularly noticeable, our Black Hills pals suggested a night watch, in view of the possibility of Indians. (I firmly believe they thought it was Indians signaling.) My chum and I were quite in agreement with them as to the possibility, in view of the number of tepee poles, and evidence of wigwams we came across. At the same time, Bill and I were quite resigned to the fact that we were tenderfeet and would, therefore, stand little chance of anticipating the approach of Indians, whether asleep or awake. All the questionable joys of standing a night watch, after a day’s work, were only too familiar to both of us, and frankly, we preferred to take the chance and have the blankets. On this point at least, Bill was luridly emphatic, so that ended all talk of keeping watch. Our Black Hills boys were none too pleased, but since Bill told them they could keep the first two watches, and give us a call if they liked, and then turn in. “Yes, but are you going to turn out?” they asked. Bill replied, in the most convincing language that we were not.
The thudding was still going on at intervals, and we were certainly very mystified by it; until one day, whilst leading the trail, I suddenly heard the sound quite close on my left. Throwing an arm up for the whole pack train to stop, I dropped the lariat to the ground, which would stop the leader in his tracks, then throwing my rifle from my shoulder, where one carries it at all times by the sling, I dropped on my stomach, and commenced to worm my way towards the sound. When the sound stopped I stopped; when it went on I went on, until after scuffling along for twenty or thirty yards, I poked my head into an open glade and peered around. There I stayed for some little time, every now and then hearing the drumming. Then suddenly I saw the cause of all our uneasiness. Sitting on a fallen tree was an old cock partridge drumming with his wings, calling to his mate! We put the cause of all our anxious hours into the pot, and cooked him for the next meal.
That sound must at times have carried for miles with absolute distinctness. After that, any circumstances we could not explain was always classified as “another partridge,” for the benefit of our U.S.A. boys. They certainly never suggested another night watch.
The natural difficulties of the country come under the headings of muskegs, jamb-piles and rivers. The former are just swamps without bottom. You have your pack train plodding steadily along, the ground commences to get moist, then damp, then wet, and finally soft. The horses, commence to pick their way from tuft to tuft, at last one slips, and down he goes, right up to the belly in pure swamp. This means timber has to be cut, and laid alongside of him, whilst a couple of chaps sit astride the logs, unload the 250 lb. pack from the saddle and pass it back piecemeal to the dry land. Having done this, one fore leg is pulled out of the mire and rested on a log, then the other fore leg ditto. Next his tail is seized, and then, with a terrific yell, and altogether, with a sucking squelch, he comes out. (That is, if the horse does his part, otherwise you try again.) This operation a dozen times a day, wet through and covered with mud, is included in the joys of gold prospecting in the north-west.
Then rivers. Such rivers! When they do break in Spring, it’s a sight to be remembered. Crossing them is easy enough up to this point, but after they break, then apart from the cold, one has to contend with literal icebergs tearing down out of the mountains with a torrent of melted snow, grinding and crashing together with thousands of tons of pressure behind them. Of course, you’ve got to realise that after the rivers break the crossing in the first instance had to be made with a horse, and by sheer good hard swimming. At the same time a line must be taken, and the drag from it always feels like a ton weight in the water; with a river only just broken this is of course quite impossible.
First you must travel up stream, until a suitable spot is found for taking off, and, what is more important still, a suitable spot is located lower down on the opposite, when a landing can be made. If you don’t make your landing, it’s a thousand to one you cannot get back again.